Chapter XIII

In the Green Forest


Seldom has a little girl undertaken entirely alone a more perilous
journey than Abigail had started upon. Salem was not more than fourteen
miles from Boston Town, but the trip invariably occupied a day, owing
to the many patches of spongy ground, quicksands, and streams which
intersected the way. Travellers were often aided by fallen trees and
natural fordways of stone. Abigail was confident of her way, having made
the trip with her father. She soon discovered the original Indian path
which was acquiring some semblance to a public highway. Trees had been
notched, and now and then the government had nailed notices, signifying
the remaining distance to the metropolis of New England. Far more serious
dangers than losing her way threatened Abigail. In the wild woods lurked
savages and wolves, and the wily Frenchman with unbounded influence over
the cruel Indian.

When the sun was high in the heavens, Abigail ate her luncheon. To go
with what she had brought she found some strawberries, the last of the
season, as if they had lingered to give this little guest of the forest a
rare treat, daily acquiring a richer crimson, a finer flavour.

Abigail was obliged to follow a little stream some distance before she
found an available spot to lie down and drink. It was here she missed her
way. Confident that she could at will regain the main path, she walked on
along a ferny lane.

Nightfall found her in the heart of the forest, unwitting which way to
turn. Darkness seemed to rise from the earth, enveloping all, rising,
rising, until only the tops of the trees were still brightly green. Such
a sense of desolation and loneliness came over her that a sob welled up
in her throat. The forest encircled her, dark, impenetrable. She walked
on some distance, and at last caught a glimpse of the white sea-sands.
It looked lighter on the water, the waves yet imprisoning the sunlight.
Her anxious gaze was attracted by a faint column of blue smoke rising
beyond five tall pine trees. So very thin was it that it was indeed
surprising she had observed it. She started forward gladly, but even as
she made her first eager steps she drew back with a low cry of fear.
How did she know but that the fire was kindled by Indians or Frenchmen?
Shivering with fear, she ran back to the forest.

“God save my soul,” she murmured, stopping to catch her breath, “here be
a pretty to-do. Yet perchance it might prove to be woodmen or hunters
cooking their supper, or a party of travellers, belated like myself. I
doubt not ’twould be wisdom for me to go tippy-toe and peek at them.”

She stole back near the trees and crouched behind a clump of
hazel-bushes. It was some time before she summoned sufficient courage to
part the leaves and look through. And her teeth chattered like little
castanets. Softly her two trembling hands parted the foliage, and her
brown eyes stared out.

There just beyond the five pines was a little thatched cottage, very
humble, but all so neat and clean. The roof was covered with moss which,
even in the twilight, gleamed like green velvet. Up one side and over the
corner, trailed the dog-rose with its blush-tinted blossoms, while on
both sides of the pathway flourished the wild lilies and forest ferns. In
the doorway stood a spinning-wheel, a stool beside it.

Abigail wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “Happen like I smell potatoes
frying in the fat o’ good bacon.”

She walked boldly to the threshold and looked in.

An old woman, her back turned to the door, held a smoking skillet over
the red coals on the hearth.

Abigail’s heart leapt in her throat. Frenchmen and Indians—what were
they? This old woman might be a witch.

Quickly she doubled her thumbs in her palms, and hastened to be first
to address the old woman with pleasant words,—these being precautions
advisable to take in dealing with witches.

“The cream o’ the even to ye, goody,” she said, “and I trust ye will have
appetite for your potatoes and fat bacon, for my mother has taught me
unless ye have relish for your food from honest toil, ’twill not nourish
ye.”

The old woman turned. “Ay,” she answered in a cracked voice, “honest
toil, honest toil, but I be old for toil. Who might ye be that comes so
late o’ day?”

As she came forward, something seemed to clutch at the little maid’s
throat, and she could scarcely breathe.

For a single yellow tooth projected on the old woman’s lower lip, and
she had a tuft of hair like a beard on her chin,—unmistakable signs of
witchery.

Yet Abigail was troubled by misgiving, for faded and sunken as the
old woman’s eyes were, they were still blue as if they had once been
beautiful, and they had a kindly light on beholding the little maid.

“Beshrew me, it be a maid,” she cried; “ye have a fair face, sweeting.
How come ye here alone at the twilight hour?”

“I come from Salem, and I be bound for Boston Town,” answered Abigail,
timidly.

“It be good to see a bonny face,” replied the old woman; “take the bucket
and fetch fresh water from the spring back o’ the five pines. Ay, but
it be good to see a human face, to hear a young voice, and the sound o’
young feet. Haste, little one, whilst I cook another flapjack, which ye
shall have wi’ a pouring o’ molasses.”

Abigail proceeded to the spring, joyful at the avenue of escape open to
her. She planned to fill the bucket, leave it by the spring, and run
away. But as she lifted the bucket to the stone ledge, the effort took
all her strength. She could not help but think how like a dead weight it
would seem to the old woman, with her bent back, when, finding that her
guest did not return, she would hobble down to the spring. Strangely
enough, the old woman seemed to her like a witch one moment, and the next
reminded her of her own dear old Granny Brewster. So with a prayer in
her heart, she carried the bucket up and set it down on the stoop, just
without the threshold. There, as she had first seen her, stood the old
woman cooking a flapjack, with her back turned to the door.

“It smells uncommon relishing for a witch-cake,” murmured Abigail,
remembering with distaste the corn-bread in her pocket. She pictured to
herself the old woman’s disappointment, when she should find her guest
stolen away. Although possessed by fear, pity stirred within her breast,
and, moved by a generous impulse, she put her hand in the front of her
dress and drew forth a precious, rose-red ribbon with which she had
intended to adorn herself when she reached Boston Town, and laid it on
the threshold, near the bucket. Then, with an uncontrollable sob at this
sacrifice, she ran swiftly away.

[Illustration: _Copyright, 1898, by Lamson, Wolffe and Company_

_Strangely enough, the old woman seemed like a witch._

_page 194_]

She heard the old woman calling after her to stop. Not daring to turn
around, and ceasing to run, lest doing so should betray her fear, she
doubled her thumbs in her palms and began to sing a psalm. Loudly and
clearly she sang, the while she felt the hair rising on her head, fearing
that she heard the old woman coming up behind her. Desperately she looked
back. Still, very faintly in the deepening dusk, could she see the little
old woman standing in the doorway, while from her hands fluttered the
rose-red ribbon. And as the voice of an angel singing in the wilderness,
Abigail’s singing floated back to her dull ears.

“He gently-leads mee, quiet-waters bye
He dooth retain my soule for His name’s sake
inn paths of justice leads-mee-quietly.
Yea, though I walke inn dale of deadly-shade
He feare none yll, for with mee Thou wilt bee
Thy rod, thy staff, eke they shall comfort mee.”

Abigail walked rapidly, glad to leave the little hut and its lonely
inmate far behind.

The night was upon her. Where could she seek safety? Her anxiety
increased as the shadows deepened.

Alarmed, she looked around her for the safest place in which to pass
the night. At first she thought of sleeping near the sea, on the warm
sands. But she could not find her way out of the woods. Suddenly, on the
edge of a marsh, she spied a deserted Indian wigwam. Near by were the
ashes of recent fires, and a hole in the ground revealed that the store
of corn once buried there had been dug up and used. Into this wigwam
she crept for protection. Terrified, she watched the night descend on
the marsh, which, had she but known it, was a refuge for all gentle and
harmless animals and birds. Fallen trees were covered with moss, the
lovely maiden-hair fern, lichens, and gorgeous fungi. The purple flag,
and the wild crab, and plum trees grew here, as well as the slender red
osiers, out of which the Indian women made baskets. Ere twilight had
entirely vanished, Abigail saw brilliantly plumaged birds flying back
to the marsh for the night. A fox darted into the dusk past the wigwam.
To her, nothing in all this was beautiful. Crouched in the wigwam, she
saw through the opening white birches, like ghosts beckoning her. A wild
yellow canary, with a circling motion, dropped into its nest. Abigail
shuddered and breathed a prayer against witchery. Will-o’-the-wisps
flashed and vanished like breaths of flame, and she thought they were the
lanterns of witches out searching for human souls.

As night now settled in good earnest, a stouter heart than this little
Puritan maiden’s would have quailed. The terrible howling of wolves
arose, mingling with the mournful tu-whit-tu-whoo of the owls and the
croaking of the bull-frogs. She was in constant dread lest she might be
spied upon by Indians, who, according to the Puritan teachings, were the
last of a lost race, brought to America by Satan, that he might rule them
in the wilderness, undisturbed by any Christian endeavours to convert
them.

On the opposite edge of the marsh, a tall hemlock pointed to a star
suspended like a jewel just above it.

When, in after years, Abigail became a dear little old lady, she used to
tell her grandchildren of the strange fancy that came into her mind as
she watched that star. For, as she said, it was so soft and yellow, and
yet withal so bright, that it seemed to be saying as it looked down at
her:—

“Here we are, you and I, all alone in these wild woods; but take courage.
Are we not together?”

A sweet sense of companionship with the star stole over her, and she was
no longer lonely. She found herself smiling back at this comrade, so
bright and merry and courageous. Thus smiling, she passed into the deep
slumber, just recompense of a good heart and honest fatigue.

When she awoke, the sun was shining. Hastily she drew off her shoes and
stockings, which she had worn during the night for warmth. Then as her
eyes, still heavy with sleep, comprehended the beauty of the marsh, she
was filled with delight.

The sun sent shafts of golden light into the cool shade. All the willows
and slender fruit trees glistened with morning dew. The pools of water
and the green rushes rippled in the morning breeze. The transparent wings
of the dragon-fly flashed in the blue air. All the birds twittered and
sang. Beyond, the solemn pines guarded the secret beauties of the marsh.
Thus that which had filled her with terror in the darkness, now gave her
joy in the light.

By the height of the sun she judged she must have slept late and that she
must make all haste to reach Boston Town in time. It was not long before
she struck the main path again.

Great was her astonishment and delight to learn by a sign-board, nailed
to a tall butternut tree, that she was within little over an hour’s walk
from Boston Town.

This sign, printed in black letters on a white board, read as follows:—

Ye path noo Leadeth to ye flowing River & beyonde wich ye Toone
of Boston Lyeth. bye ye distance of 2 mls uppe ye Pleasant Hill.

And below was written in a flowing hand:—

“Oh, stranger, ye wich are Aboute Arriv’d safe at ye End of ye dayes
journey the wich is symbolical of ye Soule’s Pilgrimage onn earth, Kneel
ye doone onn yur Marrow Bones & Pray for ye Vile Sinner wich has miss’d
ye Strait & Narrow path & peetifully Chosen ye Broad & Flowery Waye wich
leadeth to Destruction & ye Jaws of Death.”

Abigail read the sign over hastily and passed on. “I will get down on my
marrow-bones when I come back,” she murmured; “I be in mickle haste for
loitering.”

Soon she neared the river beyond which stretched the pleasant hill. She
heard a voice singing a hymn a far distance behind her. She turned and
waited until the singer should have turned the curve of the road. The
singing grew louder and then died away. A little later Mr. Cotton Mather,
mounted on his white horse, came in sight. It seemed to her that far as
he was from her, their glances met and then he turned and looked behind
him.

That moment was her salvation. Quickly she ran and hid behind the trunk
of a great tree. Cotton Mather came slowly on. His horse was well
nigh spent with fatigue. She saw him distinctly, his face white from
exhaustion, his eyes sombre from a sleepless night. His black velvet
small-clothes were spattered with mud. He reined in his horse so near her
that she might almost have touched him.

He removed his hat to greet the cool river breeze. His countenance at
this time of his young manhood held an irresistible ardour. Some heritage
had bestowed upon him a distinction and grace, even a worldliness of
mien, which, where he was unknown, would have permitted him to pass for
a courtier rather than a priest. At this moment no least suggestion
of anything gross or material showed in his face, which was so nearly
unearthly in its exaltation that the little maid watching him was awed
thereat and sank to her knees. His very presence seemed to inspire prayer.

A moment he looked searchingly around him, then spurred his horse to take
the ford. She saw the bright water break around his horse’s feet, the
early sunshine falling aslant his handsome figure. She watched until he
reached the further bank and disappeared behind a gentle hill. Then she
came out from her hiding.

When in after years she beheld him,—his public life a tragedy by reason
of his part in the witchcraft trouble and his jealous strivings to
maintain the infallibility of the Protestant priesthood,—saw him mocked
and ridiculed and slaves named after him, a vision would rise before her.
She would see again that magnificent young figure on the white horse,
the radiant air softly defining it amidst the greenness of the forest,
herself a part of the picture, a little child kneeling hidden behind a
tree in the early morning.

The fordway was so swollen that Abigail did not dare attempt to cross
on foot. And although further down where the river narrowed and deepened
there was a ferryman, she had not the money with which to pay toll.
Thinking, however, that it would not be long before some farm people
would be going into town with their produce, she sat down on the shore
and dabbled her feet in the cold water to help pass away the time. At
last when the first hour had passed, and she was waxing impatient, there
appeared, ambling contentedly down the green shadowed road, a countryman
on his fat nag, his saddle-bags filled with vegetables and fruit for
market.

Abigail rose. “Goodman,” said she, “would ye be so kind as to take me
across the river? I be in an immoderate haste.”

“To be sure,” said the countryman; “set your foot on my boot; let me have
your shoes and stockings. Give me your hands. Now, jump; up we go, that’s
right. Ye be an uncommon vigorous lassie.”

The horse splashed into the water, which rose so high that Abigail’s bare
feet and ankles and the farmer’s boots were wet. The little maid put her
arms as far as she could reach around her companion’s broad waist, and
clung tightly to him, her little teeth firmly set to keep from screaming
as the horse rolled and slipped on the stones in the river bed.

When they reached the other side, Abigail, desperately shy, insisted upon
her companion permitting her to dismount, although he offered to carry
her all the way into town.

“Ye be sure ye can find your home, child?” he asked, loath to leave her.

Abigail nodded and sat down on the ground to pull on her shoes and
stockings, while the countryman after a moment’s further hesitation made
his way leisurely up the grassy hill.

After a brisk walk, Abigail arrived at Boston Common, a large field in
which cows were pastured during the daytime, and where, in the evening,
the Governor and his Lady and the gallants and their “Marmalet Madams”
strolled until the nine o’clock bell rang them home and the constables
began their nightly rounds. The trees that once covered the Common had
been cut down for firewood, but there were many thickets and grassy
knolls. On one side the ground sloped to the sea where the cattle
wandered through the salt marsh grasses. And there was to be heard always
the sweet incessant jangle of their bells. At this hour of the morning
there was generally to be seen no person except the herdsman, but as
Abigail approached a stately elm which stood alone in the field, she saw
a student lying on the grass, reading.