Chapter II: Part 2

The English commander sent another envoy, with a flag of truce, to Fort Amsterdam, carrying a letter which stated that if Manhattan Island was surrendered to him the Dutch settlers might keep all the lands and buildings they possessed. Stuyvesant received the letter, and read it to his council. The council insisted that the letter should be read to the people. Stuyvesant refused, saying that he, and not the people, was the best judge as to what New Amsterdam should do. The council continued to argue and threaten, until Stuyvesant tore up the letter and trampled it under his feet to settle the matter.

The citizens, however, had heard that such a letter had come with a flag of truce, and they sent three men to demand the message from Peter Stuyvesant. These men told him bluntly that the people did not intend to resist the English, that resistance to such a large force was madness, and that they would mutiny unless he let them see the letter Colonel Nicholls had sent.

Again Governor Stuyvesant was forced to yield to pressure. A copy was made of the letter from its torn pieces, and this was read to the turbulent citizens. When they had heard it they declared that they were ready to surrender. But the governor hated the notion of giving up his province of New Netherland without a struggle; of yielding to highway robbers, as he regarded the English fleet. So he sent a ship secretly from Fort Amsterdam by night, bearing a message to the directors of the Dutch Company in Europe. The message was short. "Long Island is gone and lost. The capitol cannot hold out long," was what it said.

Then he sat down and wrote an answer to the letter of Colonel Nicholls. It was a fair-spoken answer, pointing out that this land belonged to the Dutch by right of discovery and settlement and purchase from the Indians. He said that he was sure the king of England would agree with the Dutch claims if they were presented to him. This was the end of his letter: "In case you will act by force of arms, we protest before God and man that you will perform an act of unjust violence. You will violate the articles of peace solemnly ratified by His Majesty of England, and my Lords the States-General. Again for the prevention of the spilling of innocent blood, not only here but in Europe, we offer you a treaty by our deputies. As regards your threats we have no answer to make, only that we fear nothing but what God may lay upon us. All things are at His disposal, and we can be preserved by Him with small forces as well as by a great army."

The only answer the English commander saw fit to make to the Dutch governor's letter was to order his soldiers to prepare to land from the frigates.

III

Soldiers, both foot and cavalry, were landed on Long Island from the English fleet, and marched double-quick through the forest toward the small cluster of houses that stood along the shore where the city of Brooklyn now rises. They met with no resistance; for the most part these woods and shores were as empty of men as the day when Henryk Hudson first sailed up the river that bears his name.

The fleet meanwhile went up through the Narrows, and two frigates landed more soldiers a short distance below Brooklyn, to support those that were marching down the island. Two other frigates, one of thirty-six guns, the second of thirty, under full sail, passed directly within range of Stuyvesant's little fort, and anchored between the fort and Governor's Island. The English fleet meant to show their contempt for the Dutch claims.

What was Peter Stuyvesant doing as the frigates so insolently sailed past under his very eyes? He was a fighter by nature and by trade, as peppery as some of the sauces he had brought with him from the West Indies. The cannon of his fort were loaded, and the gunners stood ready with their burning matches. A word, a nod, a wave of the hand from Stuyvesant, and the cannon would roar their answer to the insolent fleet. And what would happen then? Fort Amsterdam had only twenty guns; and the two frigates sailing by had sixty-six, and the two other frigates, almost within sight, had twenty-eight more. Stuyvesant bit his lips as his gunners waited. The first roar of his cannon would almost certainly mean the ruin of every house in New Amsterdam.

Yet could the governor see the flag of his beloved New Netherland flouted in this fashion? Raging with anger, the word to fire trembling on his lips, Stuyvesant turned to listen to the advice of two Dutch clergymen who had hurried up to him. They begged him not to be the first to shed blood in a fight that could only end in their utter defeat. They were outnumbered, outmatched in every way. The governor knew this was so; no one in the colony indeed knew it better than he. "I won't open fire," he said, bitter rage in his heart, but he shook his fist at the white sails of the frigates.

Stuyvesant left the rampart, leaving fifty men to defend the fort, and took the rest of the garrison, one hundred soldiers, down to the shore, to repel the English if they should try to land. He still had a faint hope that the English commander would make some terms with him that would allow him to keep the flag of Holland flying over New Amsterdam.

With this faint hope he sent four of his chief officers with a flag of truce to Colonel Nicholls. They carried this message from Peter Stuyvesant: "I feel obliged to defend the city, in obedience to orders. It is inevitable that much blood will be shed on the occurrence of the assault. Cannot some accommodation yet be agreed upon? Friends will be welcome if they come in a friendly manner."

So spoke the Dutch governor, trying to be patient and reasonable, no matter how hard such a course might be for him. Colonel Nicholls, sure of his greater power in men and guns, cared not a whit to be either reasonable or patient. He sent back a determined answer. "I have nothing to do but to execute my mission," he said. "To accomplish that I hope to have further conversation with you on the morrow, at the Manhattans. You say that friends will be welcome, if they come in a friendly manner. I shall come with ships and soldiers. And he will be bold indeed who will dare to come on board my ships, to demand an answer or to solicit terms. What then is to be done? Hoist the white flag of surrender, and then something may be considered."

This haughty answer spread through New Amsterdam, and men and women rushed to the governor to beg him to surrender. Bombardment by the fleet would destroy all they owned, and doubtless kill many of them. Stuyvesant would have fought until his flag fell over a heap of ruins, but he knew that his people would not stand behind him. "I had rather," he told the men and women as they thronged about him, "be carried a corpse to my grave than to surrender the city!"

The people went to the City Hall, and drew up a paper of protest to their governor. The protest said that the people could only see misery, sorrow, and fire in resistance, the ruin of fifteen hundred innocent men, women and children, only two hundred and fifty of whom were capable of bearing arms.

The words of the protest were true. "You are aware," it said, "that four of the English king's frigates are now in the roadstead, with six hundred soldiers on board. They have also commissions to all the governors of New England, a populous and thickly inhabited country, to impress troops, in addition to the forces already on board, for the purpose of reducing New Netherland to His Majesty's obedience.

"These threats we would not have regarded, could we expect the smallest aid. But, God help us, where shall we turn for assistance, to the north or to the south, to the east or to the west? 'Tis all in vain. On all sides we are encompassed and hemmed in by our enemies." Ninety-four of the chief men of New Amsterdam signed this protest, one of them being Stuyvesant's own son. In front of the governor were the guns of the English fleet, behind him was the mutiny of his own people.

New Amsterdam, only a cluster of some three hundred houses at the southern end of Manhattan Island, was entirely open to attack from either the East or the North River. An old palisade, built to protect the houses from Indian attacks, stretched from river to river on the north, and in front of this palisade were the remains of an old breastwork, three feet high and two feet wide. These might be of use against the Indians, but hardly against well-trained white soldiers.

Fort Amsterdam itself had only been built to withstand Indians, not white men. An earthen rampart, ten feet high and four feet thick, surrounded it, but there were no ditches or palisades. At its back, where the crowds of Broadway now daily pass, were a number of low wooded hills, with Indian trails leading through them. These hills, if held by an enemy, could easily command the fort. The little Dutch garrison hadn't five hundred pounds of powder on hand. The store of provisions was equally small, and there was not a single well of water within the fortifications. To cap the climax, the garrison itself couldn't be trusted; it was largely made up of the lowest class of the settlers, unfit to do any other work than shoulder a gun.

So Peter Stuyvesant saw that he must yield. He chose six of his men to meet with six of the English at his own bouwery on the morning of August 27th. There was little for the Dutchmen to do but agree to the terms their enemies offered them. The terms were that the province of New Netherland should belong to the English. The Dutch settlers might keep their own property or might leave the country if they chose. They might have any form of religion they pleased. Their officers, to be chosen at the next election, would have to take the oath of allegiance to the king of England.

Peter Stuyvesant only yielded because he saw that he must. He pulled down his flag that was flying above the ramparts, and "the fort and town called New Amsterdam, upon the island of Manhatoes," as the treaty called it, passed from the ownership of the Dutch to that of the English. The officers and soldiers of the fort were allowed to march out with their arms, their drums beating and their colors flying. Most of the soldiers, many of the settlers, cared little what flag flew above their colony, so long as they were permitted a peaceful living, but at least one Dutchman, the governor, "Wooden-Legged Peter," cared much when he saw the flag of the Netherlands come fluttering down.

The English Colonel Nicholls and his men marched into the fort and took possession of the government. They changed the name of the little settlement from New Amsterdam to New York, in honor of the Duke of York, who was the brother of the king of England. The fort was christened Fort James, the name of the Duke of York. Then Colonel Nicholls sent troops up the Hudson to take possession of the Dutch settlement of Fort Orange, and other troops to the Delaware River to raise the English flag over the small Dutch colony of New Amstel. The name of Fort Orange was changed to Fort Albany, the second title of the king's brother, the Duke of York. The settlers there were well treated, and given the same liberty as was given the people on Manhattan Island. But those at New Amstel, on the Delaware, did not fare so well. Peter Stuyvesant indignantly reported that "At New Amstel, on the South River, notwithstanding they offered no resistance, but demanded good treatment, which however they did not obtain, they were invaded, stript bare, plundered, and many of them sold as slaves in Virginia."

The flag of England now flew where the flag of the Netherlands had waved for half a century. There was no excuse for this seizing of the Dutch colony by the English. The Dutch were peaceful neighbors, fair in their dealings with the other colonies. But while the Dutch had not greatly increased the number of their settlers in the New World, the English had. New England was growing fast, so was Virginia, and in between these two English settlements lay the small Dutch one, at the mouth of a great river, and with the finest harbor of the whole seacoast. The English had cast envious eyes upon Manhattan Island. They wanted to own the whole seacoast; and so, being strong enough, they took it. And the Dutch, like the Indians before them, had to bow to the stronger force.

The Dutch Government in Europe called Peter Stuyvesant there to explain why he had surrendered his colony. He went to Holland and made his acts so clear to the States-General that they held him guiltless of every charge against him. Then he returned to New York and settled down at his bouwery, where he lived comfortably and well, like most of his Dutch neighbors, unvexed by the constant troubles he had known when he was the governor.

The colony of New York grew and prospered. The patroons lived on their big estates, rich, hospitable families, much like the wealthy planters of Virginia. The Dutch people in the towns were a thrifty, peaceable lot, glad to welcome new settlers, no matter from where they came. Most of the settlers came now from England, very few from the Netherlands; and in time there were more English than Dutch in the province. By the time of the Revolution the people of the two nations were practically one in their ideas and aims. Dutch and English fought side by side in that war, and helped to make the great state of New York. But the Dutch blood and the Dutch virtues persisted, and many of the greatest men of the new state bore old Dutch names. And so, though Peter Stuyvesant and his neighbors had to haul down their flag from their primitive ramparts at Fort Amsterdam, they and their descendants left their stamp upon that part of the New World they had been the first to settle.

III

WHEN GOVERNOR ANDROSS CAME TO CONNECTICUT

(_Connecticut, 1675_)

One of the most interesting stories in the history of the American colonies is that of the adventures of the judges who voted for the execution of King Charles I of England and who fled across the water when his son came to the throne as Charles II. They were known as the regicides, a name given to them because they were held to be responsible for the king's death. When Charles II came back to England as king, after the days when Oliver Cromwell was the Lord Protector, he pardoned many of the men who had taken sides against his father, but his friends urged him not to be so generous in his treatment of the judges. So he issued a proclamation, stating that such of the judges of King Charles I as did not surrender themselves as prisoners within fourteen days should receive no pardon. The regicides and their friends were greatly alarmed. Nineteen surrendered to the king's officers; some fled across the ocean; and others were arrested as they tried to escape. Ten of them were executed. Two, Edward Whalley and William Goffe, reached Boston Harbor in July, 1660. Another, John Dixwell, came afterward.

Governor Endicott and the leading men of Boston, not knowing how King Charles intended to treat the judges, welcomed them as men who had held posts of honor in England. They were entertained most hospitably in the little town, and they went about quite freely, making no attempt to conceal from any one who they were.

Then word came to Boston that the king regarded the escaped judges as traitors. Immediately many of those who had been friendly to the regicides slunk away from them, avoiding them as if they had the plague. The judges heard, moreover, that now Governor Endicott had called a court of magistrates to order them seized and turned over to the executioner. So, as they had fled from England before, the hunted regicides now fled from the colony of Massachusetts Bay.

At the settlement of New Haven there were many who had been friends and followers of Oliver Cromwell, and the regicides turned in that direction. They reached that town in March, 1661, and found a haven in the home of John Davenport, a prominent minister. Here they were among friends, and here they went about as freely as they had done at first in Boston; and everybody liked them, for they were fine, honorable men, who had done their duty as they saw it when they had decreed the execution of King Charles I.

There came a royal order to Massachusetts, requiring the governor to arrest the fugitives. The governor and his officers were anxious to show their zeal in carrying out all the wishes of the new king, and so they gave a commission to two zealous young royalists, Thomas Kellond and Thomas Kirk, authorizing them to hunt through the colonies as far south as Manhattan Island for the missing judges and to bring them back to Boston.

The searchers set out at once, and went first to Governor Winthrop at Hartford. He gave them permission to arrest the regicides anywhere in the colony of Connecticut, but he assured them that he understood that the judges were not in his colony, but had gone on to the colony of New Haven. So they set forth again, and next day reached the town of Guilford, where they stopped to procure a warrant from Governor Leete, who lived there.

Governor Leete appeared to be very much surprised at the news the two men brought. He said that he didn't think the regicides were in New Haven. He took the papers bearing the orders of Governor Winthrop and read them in so loud a voice that the two men begged him to keep the matter more quiet, lest some traitors should overhear. Then he delayed furnishing them with fresh horses, and, the next day being Sunday, the pursuers were forced to wait over an extra day before they could continue their hunt.

In the meantime an Indian messenger was sent to New Haven in the night, to give warning of the pursuers. Then Governor Leete refused either to give the pursuers a warrant or to send men with them to arrest the regicides until he should have had a chance to consult with the magistrates, which meant that he himself would have to go to New Haven. The upshot of all this was that the pursuers stayed chafing in Guilford while the men they were hunting had plenty of time to escape.

John Davenport, the minister at New Haven, preached that Sunday morning to a congregation that had heard the news of the pursuit of the English judges. Davenport knew that the king of England had ordered the capture of the judges and that this colony of New Haven was part of the English realm. Yet, for the sake of mercy and justice, he urged his hearers to protect the fugitives who had taken refuge among them. Not in so many words did he urge it, but his hearers knew what he meant, for the text of his sermon, taken from the sixteenth chapter of Isaiah, read: "Take counsel, execute judgment, make thy shadow as the night in the midst of noonday; hide the outcasts, bewray not him that wandereth. Let mine outcasts dwell with thee; Moab, be thou a covert to them from the face of the spoiler." The congregation understood his meaning.

Early Monday morning Kellond and Kirk rode into New Haven, where the people met them with surly faces. They had to wait until Governor Leete arrived, and when he did he refused to take any steps in the matter until he had called the freemen together. The two pursuers, now growing angry, told the governor flatly that it looked to them as if he wanted the regicides to escape. Spurred on by this the governor called the magistrates together, but their decision was that they would have to call a meeting of the general court.

More exasperated than ever, the two hunters spoke plainly to Governor Leete. They pointed out that he was not behaving as loyally as the governors of Massachusetts and Connecticut had; they warned him against giving aid to traitors, and then they flatly asked whether he meant to obey King Charles or not.

"We honor His Majesty," answered Governor Leete, "but we have tender consciences."

The pursuers lodged at a little inn in New Haven. There the governor went that evening, and taking one of them by the hand, said, "I wish I had been a plowman, and had never been in office, since I find it so weighty."

"Will you own His Majesty or no?" demanded the two men from Massachusetts.

"We would first know whether His Majesty would own us," was the governor's guarded answer.

The officers of New Haven would not help them, the people were openly hostile, and so Kellond and Kirk left the colony, without having dared to search a single house. They went south to Manhattan Island, where the Dutch Governor Stuyvesant received them very politely, and promised to help them arrest the fugitives if the latter came to New Netherland. Then they went back to Boston, baffled of their quarry.

Now when the Indian messenger had come to New Haven the fugitive judges had fled from the town and spent the night at a mill two miles away. Then they went to a place called "Hatchet Harbor," where they stayed a couple of days, and from there to a cave upon a mountain that they called Providence Hill. This cave, ever since known as the "Judges' Cave," was a splendid hiding place. On the top of the mountain stood a group of pillars of trap rock, like a grove of trees. These rocks slanted inwards and so formed a room, the door of which could be hidden with boughs. Here the regicides hid for almost a month. A friend named Sperry, who lived in the neighborhood, brought them food. Sometimes he sent the provisions by his small son, who left the basket on the stump of a tree near the top of the mountain. The boy couldn't understand what became of the food and how it happened that he always found the basket empty when he returned for it the next day. The only answer the cautious father would give him was, "There's somebody at work in the woods who wants the food."

That part of the country near the "Judges' Cave" was full of wild animals. One night the regicides were visited by a panther that thrust its head in at the door of their cave and roared at them. One of the judges fled down the mountain to Sperry's house and gave the alarm, and the farmer and the fugitives hunted the panther the rest of the night.

After a while the fugitives decided that it would be better for their friends in the colony, and particularly for Mr. Davenport, if they should give themselves up in obedience to the command of King Charles. They left their cave and went to Guilford to see Governor Leete. But the governor and the other officers did not want to surrender them to the king. The judges hid in the governor's cellar, and were fed from his table, while he considered the best course to adopt. The colony of New Haven decided that it would not arrest them, and so the fugitives moved to the house of a Mr. Tompkins in Milford, where they stayed in hiding for two years.

The people of Milford did not know that the fugitives were there. One day a girl came to the house and happened to sing a ballad lately come from England, that made sport of the fugitive regicides. She sang the song in a room just above the one where the fugitives were, and they were so amused by the words that they asked Mr. Tompkins to have her come again and again and sing to her unseen audience.

Officers came out from England in 1664, charged, among other duties, with the arrest of the fugitive judges, and the friends of the regicides thought it best that they should leave Milford for some new hiding place. So in October they set out for the small town of Hadley, on the frontier of Massachusetts, a hundred miles from Milford, and so distant from Boston, Hartford and New Haven that it was thought that no one could trace them there. They traveled only at night, lying hidden in the woods by day. The places where they stopped they called Harbors, and the name still remains attached to one of them, now the flourishing town of Meriden, which bears the title of Pilgrim's Harbor. They reached Hadley in safety, and were taken in at the house of John Russell, a clergyman. He gave them room in his house, and there they spent the rest of their lives, safe from royal agents and spies in the small frontier settlement. So three of the men, who, doing their duty as they saw it, had voted for the execution of King Charles I, found a refuge in the American wilderness from the pursuit of his son, King Charles II.

Ten years later a very different sort of man came to the colony of Connecticut. King Charles I had made large grants in America to his brother the Duke of York, and among other territory that which had belonged to the Dutch, called New Netherland. The Duke of York made Major Edmund Andross, afterward Sir Edmund Andross, governor of all his territories, and sent him out to New England. With full powers from the Duke, Andross expected to do about as he pleased, and rule like a king in the new world.

By way of making a good start Edmund Andross at once laid claim to all the land that had belonged to the Dutch and also to that part of Connecticut that lay west of the Connecticut River. Unless the settlers in that part of Connecticut consented to his rule he threatened to invade their land with his soldiers. Now the people of Connecticut had received the boundary of their colony in an early grant, and though they already had the prospect of a war with the Indians under King Philip on their hands, their governor and his council determined to resist the cutting in two of their colony.

Word came to Hartford that Andross was about to land at the port of Saybrook and intended to march to Hartford, New Haven and other towns, suppress the colonial government and establish his own. At once colonial soldiers were sent to Saybrook and New London, and Captain Thomas Bull, in command at the former place, strengthened the fortifications there to resist the Duke of York's new governor.

July 9, 1675, the people of Saybrook saw an armed fleet heading for their fort. The men hurried to the fort and put themselves under the command of Captain Bull. Then a letter came from the governor at Hartford telling them what to do. "And if so be those forces on board should endeavor to land at Saybrook," so ran the order, "you are in His Majesty's name to forbid their landing. Yet if they should offer to land, you are to wait their landing and to command them to leave their arms on board; and then you may give them leave to land for necessary refreshing, peaceably, but so that they return on board again in a convenient time."

Major Andross sent a request that he might be allowed to land and meet the officers of Saybrook. The request was granted, and Captain Bull, with the principal men of the town, met the Englishman and his officers on the beach. Captain Bull stated the orders he had received from the governor of Connecticut. Andross, with great haughtiness, waved the orders aside, and told his clerk to read aloud the commission he held from the Duke of York.

But Captain Bull was not easily cowed. He ordered the clerk to stop his reading of the commission. The surprised clerk hesitated a minute, then went on with the reading. "Forbear!" thundered the captain, in a tone that startled even Major Andross.

The major, however, haughty and overbearing though he was, could not help but admire the other man's determined manner. "What is your name?" he asked.

"My name is Bull, sir," was the answer.

"Bull!" said Andross. "It is a pity that your horns are not tipped with silver."

Then, seeing that the captain and his men would not listen to his commission from the Duke of York, Andross returned to his small boat, and a few hours later his fleet sailed away from the harbor.

The colony of Connecticut, like those of Massachusetts and New York, now had a checkered career. Governor John Winthrop, who had done so much for his people, died. False reports of the colony were carried to England, the people were accused of harboring pirates and other outlaws. Finally, in 1686, Andross, now Sir Edmund Andross, was given a royal commission as governor of New England.

Sir Edmund went to Boston, and from there sent a message to the governor of Connecticut saying that he had received an order from the king to require Connecticut to give up its charter as a colony. The governor and council answered that, though they wished to do the king's bidding in all things, they begged that they might keep the original grants of their charter.

Sir Edmund's answer to that was to go to Hartford. October 31, 1687, he entered Hartford, accompanied by several gentlemen of his suite and with a body-guard of some sixty soldiers. He meant to take the charter in spite of all protests.

The governor and council met him with all marks of respect, but it was clear that they were not over-pleased to see him. Andross marched into the hall where the General Assembly was in session, demanded the charter, and declared that their present government was dissolved. Governor Treat protested, and eloquently told of all the early hardships of the colonists, their many wars with the Indians, the privations they had endured. Finally he said that it was like giving up his life to surrender the charter that represented rights and privileges they had so dearly bought and enjoyed for so long a time.

Sir Edmund listened to the governor's speech attentively. Looking about him at the citizens who had gathered in the Assembly Hall he realized that it would be well for him to obtain the charter as quietly as he could, and without waking too much spirit of resentment in the men of Hartford. Governor Treat's speech was long, the sun set, twilight came on, and still the charter of the colony had not been handed over to Sir Edmund.

The governor and the people knew that Sir Edmund meant to have the charter; he himself was prepared to stay there until they should hand the paper over to him. Candles were brought into the hall and their flickering light showed the spirited governor still arguing with the determined, haughty Sir Edmund. More people pressed into the room to hear the governor's words. Sir Edmund Andross glanced at the crowd; now they seemed peaceful people, not of the kind likely to make trouble.

Sir Edmund had listened to Governor Treat long enough. He grew impatient. He slapped his hand on the table in front of him, and stated again that he required the people of Connecticut to hand him over their charter, and that at once. The governor saw that Sir Edmund's patience was at an end, and whispered a word to his secretary. The secretary left the room, and when he returned he brought the precious charter in his hand.

The charter was laid on the table in full view of Sir Edmund and the men of the Assembly and the people who had crowded into the hall. Sir Edmund smiled; he had taught these stubborn Connecticut colonists a well-deserved lesson. He leaned forward in his chair, reaching out his hand for the parchment. At that very instant the candles went out, and the room was in total darkness.

No one spoke, there were no threats of violence, no motion toward Sir Edmund. In silence they waited for the relighting of the candles.

The clerks relighted the candles. Andross looked again at the table. The charter had disappeared. Andross stared at Governor Treat and the governor stared back at him, apparently as much amazed as was Sir Edmund at the disappearance. Then both men began to hunt. They looked in every corner of the room where the charter might have been hidden. But the charter had vanished in the time between the going-out of the candles and their relighting.

Sir Edmund, baffled and indignant, hid his anger as well as he could, and with his gentlemen and soldiers left the Assembly Room. Next day he took over control of the colony, and issued a proclamation that stated that by the king's order the government of the colony of Connecticut was annexed to that of Massachusetts and the other colonies under his rule. The orders he gave were harsh and tyrannical, and the people of the colony had little cause to like him.

What had become of the charter? When Governor Wellys, a former governor of Connecticut, had come to America he had sent his steward, a man named Gibbons, to prepare a country home for him. Gibbons chose a suitable place, and was cutting trees on a hill where the governor's house was to stand when some Indians from the South Meadow came up to him and begged him not to cut down an old oak that was there. "It has been the guide of our ancestors for centuries," said the leader of the Indians, "as to the time of planting our corn. When the leaves are of the size of a mouse's ears, then is the time to put the seed in the ground."

The tree was allowed to stand, and flourished, in spite of a large hole near the base of its trunk.

When the candles had been blown out in the Assembly Hall Captain Wadsworth had seized the charter and stolen away with it. He knew of the oak with the hole that seemed purposely made for concealing things. There he took the charter and hid it, and neither Andross nor his men ever laid hands on it. The tree became famous in history as the Charter Oak.

As long as James II was king of England Andross and other despotic governors like him had their way in the colonies. But when James was driven from his throne by William, the Prince of Orange, conditions changed. William sent a messenger with a statement of his new plans for the government of New England, and when the messenger reached Boston he was welcomed with open arms. Andross, however, had the man arrested and thrown into jail. Then on April 18, 1689, the people of Boston and the neighboring towns rose in rebellion, drove Andross and his fellows from their seats in the government and put back the old officers they had had before. They thought that William III would treat them more justly than James II had done, and they were not disappointed.

Already, in their protection of the regicides and in their saving of their charter, the people of Connecticut had shown that love of liberty that was to burst forth more bravely than ever in the days of the Revolution.

IV

THE STRUGGLE BETWEEN NATHANIEL BACON AND SIR WILLIAM BERKELEY

(_Virginia, 1676_)

I

There was great excitement in that part of the American colony of Virginia where Edmund Porter lived. It was in the month of May, 1676, and the place was the country just below the settlement of Henricus, on the James River, as one went down-stream toward the capital city of Jamestown. The Porters had a plantation not very far from Curles, which was the name of the place where their friend Nathaniel Bacon lived; and Nathaniel Bacon seemed to be the centre of the exciting events that were taking place.

Nathaniel Bacon was a young man, of a good family in England, who had come out to Virginia with his wife, and settled at Curles on the James. He had another estate farther up the river, a place called "Bacon Quarter Branch," where his overseer and servants looked after his affairs, and to which he could easily ride in a morning from his own home, or go in his barge on the James, unless he objected to being rowed seven miles around the peninsula at Dutch Gap. He was popular with his neighbors, and seemed as quiet as any of them until trouble with the Indians in the spring of that year made him declare that he was going to see whether the governor would protect the farms along the river, and if the governor wouldn't, then he had a mind to take the matter into his own hands.

Now Edmund, who was a well-grown boy of sixteen, wanted to be wherever there was excitement, and so spent as much time as he could at Curles. He was out in the meadow back of the house, watching one of the men break in a colt, when a messenger came with news that Indians had attacked Mr. Bacon's other estate; killed his overseer and one of his servants, and were carrying fire and bloodshed along the frontier. The news spread like wild-fire, as news of Indian raids always did, for there was nothing else so fear-inspiring to the white settlers. Edmund jumped on his pony, and rode home as fast as he could to tell his father. Then father and son, each taking a gun, with powder-horn and bullet-pouch, dashed back to Nathaniel Bacon's. Other planters had already gathered there, armed and ready to ride on the track of the Indians. There was much talk and debate; some wanted to know whether Governor Berkeley, down the river at Jamestown, would send soldiers to protect the plantations farther up the James; others wondered whether the governor, who was not very prompt or ready in dealing with the Indians in this far-off part of the colony, would be willing to commission the planters to take the war into their own hands. In the midst of all the talk Bacon himself appeared, and the crowd of horsemen called on him to take command, it being known he had often said openly that he intended to protect Curles and his other farms from the redskins.

Bacon agreed to lead his neighbors, but told them he thought it would be best to send a messenger to Sir William Berkeley, and ask for the governor's commission. A man was sent at once down the river to Jamestown, and the neighbors rode home to wait for the governor's answer. Next afternoon they met again at Curles, and heard the answer Sir William Berkeley sent. It was very polite, and spoke highly of Nathaniel Bacon and his neighbors. It further said that the times were very troubled, that the governor was anxious to keep on good terms with the Indians, and was afraid that the outcome of an attack on them might be dangerous, and urged Mr. Bacon, for his own good interests, not to ride against them. He did not actually refuse the commission that Bacon had asked for, but, what amounted to the same matter, he did not send it.

The horsemen were very angry. Sir William Berkeley, a man seventy years old, and safe at Jamestown, might care little what the Indians did, but the men whose plantations were threatened cared a great deal. Again they urged Bacon to lead them, and he, nothing loath now that he had set the matter fairly before the governor, jumped into his saddle and put himself at the head of the troop. All were armed, some had fought Indians before; in those days such a ride was not uncommon. A few boys rode with their fathers, and among them Edmund Porter.

Bacon's band rode fast, and were marching through the woods of Charles City when a messenger came dashing after them. The company stopped to hear him. He said that he came from Sir William, and that Sir William ordered the band to disperse, on pain of being treated as rebels against his authority. The message made it clear that they would ride on at their peril.

This threat cooled the ardor of some, but not of many. Bacon snapped his fingers at the governor's messenger, and rode on, with fifty-seven other followers. They were not the men to leave their frontiers unguarded, no matter what Sir William might call them.

Bacon led on to the Falls, and there he found the Indians entrenched on a hill. Several white men went forward to parley, but as they advanced an Indian in ambush fired a shot at the rear of the party, and their captain gave the word to attack. Edmund and a few others formed a rear-guard by the river, while the rest waded through a stream; climbed the slope; stormed and set fire to the Indian stockade, and so blew up a great store of powder that the red men had collected. The rout of the marauding Indians was complete, and when the fighting was over one hundred and fifty of them had been killed, with only a loss of three in Bacon's party. Victory had been won, the Indians were driven back to the mountains, leaving the plantations along the James safe, for some time at least. With a train of captives, Bacon and his neighbors rode homeward. The Porters went to their plantation, and the others scattered to their houses farther down the river. Edmund and his father thought the excitement was over, and everybody in the neighborhood had only words of the highest praise for the gallant Nathaniel Bacon.

Sir William Berkeley, however, was very angry, and he was a man of his word. He had sent his messenger to say that if Bacon marched against the Indians he should consider Bacon a rebel and the men who rode with him rebels as well. He meant to be master in Virginia, and therefore as soon as the news of what was called the Battle of Bloody Run came to him he made his plans to teach all rebellious colonists a lesson. He called for a company of officers and horsemen and set out hot foot, in spite of his seventy years, to capture the upstart Bacon and make an example of him.

But Sir William had not ridden far when disquieting news reached him. The people along the coast had heard how Bacon had sent to the governor for a commission and had been refused, and they also knew how he had fought the Indians in spite of the governor's warning. They were proud of him; they liked his dash and determination, and they meant to stand by him, no matter what Sir William might have to say.

The governor, who had always had his own way in Virginia, was thoroughly furious now. There were rebels before him, and rebels behind him, for that was the name he gave to all who dared to dispute his orders. But with the lower country in a blaze he didn't dare attend to Nathaniel Bacon then, so he ordered his troop of horse to countermarch, and galloped back to Jamestown as fast as he could go.

When he reached his capital he found it in a tumult; word came to him that all the counties along the lower James and the York Rivers had rebelled. It looked as if the colony were facing a civil war like the one that had broken out in England thirty years before. Then, realizing that this was no time for anger, but for cool, calm words, Sir William mended his manners. He didn't pour oil on the colonists' fire; instead he met their demands half-way. When the leaders of the colonists protested that the forts on the border were more apt to be a danger to them than a help, Sir William agreed that the forts should be dismantled. When the leaders said that the House of Burgesses, which was the name of the Virginia parliament, no longer represented the people, but in fact defied the people's will, Sir William answered that the House of Burgesses should be dissolved and the people given a chance to send new representatives to it. And the governor kept his word after the angry planters had gone back to their homes. He didn't want such a civil war in Virginia as the one that had cost King Charles the First his throne in England.

Sir William might have forgiven Nathaniel Bacon's disobedience, and forgotten all about it, but the owner of Curles Manor bobbed up into public notice again almost immediately. As soon as orders were sent out through the colony that new elections were to be held for the House of Burgesses, as the governor had promised, Bacon declared that he was a candidate to represent Henrico County. He was so popular now that when the election was held he was chosen by a very large vote. Many men voting for him who had no right to vote at all, according to the law, which said that only freeholders, or men who owned land, should have the right to vote in such a case. So now the man who had been called a rebel by the governor was going to Jamestown to sit in the House of Burgesses and help make laws for the colony. Many a man might have hesitated to do that, but not such a good fighter as Mr. Bacon.

The new burgesses were summoned to meet at Jamestown early that June, and they traveled there through the wilderness in many ways. Some rode on horseback, fording or swimming the numerous streams and rivers, for bridges were few, some came by coach, and some went down the river by barge or by sloop, the easiest way for those who lived near the James. Bacon chose the last way, and on a bright morning in June left his house at Curles, and with thirty neighbors sailed down the river. Mr. Porter and Edmund went with him, for the father had often promised his son to take him to Jamestown, and this seemed a good opportunity.

The voyage started pleasantly, but ended in disaster. Sir William now considered himself doubly flouted by this man from Curles, and vowed that the rebel Bacon should never sit in the new House of Burgesses. As the sloop came quietly sailing down to Jamestown a ship that was lying at anchor in front of the town trained its cannon on the smaller vessel, and the sheriff, who was on board the ship, sent men to the sloop to arrest Bacon and certain of his friends. There was no use in resisting; the cannon could blow the sloop out of the water at a word. Bacon surrendered to the sheriff's men, and he and the others who were wanted were landed and marched up to the State House, while Edmund Porter and the others rowed themselves ashore, wondering what was going to happen to their friend.

Governor Berkeley was at the State House when Bacon was brought in. Each of the two men was quick-tempered and haughty, but they managed to keep their anger out of their words. Sir William said coldly, "Mr. Bacon, have you forgot to be a gentleman?"

Bacon answered in the same tone, "No, may it please your honor."

"Then," said Sir William, "I'll take your parole."

That was all that was said, and Bacon was released on his word as a gentleman that he would do no more mischief. Doubtless the haughty governor would have liked to lodge the other man in jail, but he didn't dare attempt that, for the newly elected burgesses were reaching Jamestown every hour. Further almost all of them were known to side with Bacon, and in addition the town was fast filling with planters from the counties along the river that had revolted against the governor. So for the second time that spring Sir William saw the advantage of bending his stiff pride in order to ride out the storm.

The governor knew, however, that Bacon would be a thorn in his side unless he could be made to bend the knee to his own authority. So Sir William went to Bacon's cousin, a man who was very rich and prominent in the colony, and a member of the governor's council. He urged this man, who was known as Colonel Nathaniel Bacon, Senior, to go to his cousin, Nathaniel, Junior, and try to induce him to yield to Sir William's wishes. Colonel Bacon agreed, and was so successful with his arguments that the younger man, proud and headstrong as he was, at last consented to write out a statement, admitting that he had been in the wrong in disobeying Sir William Berkeley's orders, and to read it on his knees before the members of the Assembly, which was another name for the House of Burgesses. This was a great victory for the governor. Events had followed one another fast. In the space of little more than a week the owner of Curles Plantation had been proclaimed a rebel, had marched against the Indians and beaten them, had been a candidate for the House of Burgesses and been elected, had sailed down to Jamestown, been arrested, and paroled, and was now to admit on his knees that he had indeed been a rebel.

On June 5, 1676, Bacon went to the State House. The governor and his council sat with the burgesses, and Sir William Berkeley spoke to them about recent border fights between Virginians and Indians. He denounced the killing of six Indian chiefs in Maryland, who, he said, had come to treat of peace with white soldiers, and he added, "If they had killed my grandfather and grandmother, my father and mother and all my friends, yet if they had come to treat of peace, they ought to have gone in peace."

Sir William sat down; then after a few minutes stood up again. "If there be joy in the presence of the angels over one sinner that repenteth," said he, with solemn humor, "there is joy now, for we have a penitent sinner come before us. Call Mr. Bacon."

Bacon came in, and knelt down before the governor and his council and his fellow Virginians. He read from a paper he held, confessing that he had been guilty of "unlawful, mutinous, and rebellious practices," and promised that if the governor would pardon him he would act "dutifully, faithfully, and peaceably," under a penalty of two thousand pounds sterling. He pledged his whole estate for his good behavior for one year.

When Bacon had finished, Sir William said, "God forgive you; I forgive you." And to make the words more impressive he repeated them three times.

"And all that were with him," said Colonel Cole, a member of the council, meaning the men who had rebelled with Bacon and fought the Indians.

"Yes, and all that were with him," the governor agreed. Then Sir William added, "Mr. Bacon, if you will live civilly but till next quarter-day,--but till next quarter-day," he repeated the words, "I'll promise to restore you to your place there!" and he pointed to the seat which Bacon had sometimes occupied during meetings of the council.

All was peace again; the black sheep had repented and been allowed to return to the fold. It was generally understood that in return for Bacon's apology the governor would now give him the commission he had asked for before, the commission as "General of the Indian Wars," which would allow him to protect outlying plantations against Indian raids. Sir William pardoned the rebel on Saturday, and "General Bacon," as many people in Jamestown already spoke of him, took up his lodgings at the house of a Mr. Lawrence, there to wait until his expected commission should be sent him early the next week. Mr. Porter and his son, and many of the friends who had come in Bacon's sloop, took rooms at near-by houses, for their leader might be going back to Curles as soon as he had his commission, and they wanted to go with him.