A Brave Little Quakeress

by Edward Payson Roe

A Tradition of the RevolutionNot very far from the Highlands of the Hudson, but at aconsiderable distance from the river, there stood, one hundredyears ago, a farmhouse that evidently had been built as much forstrength and defence as for comfort. The dwelling was one storyand a half in height, and was constructed of hewn logs, fittedclosely together, and made impervious to the weather by old-fashioned mortar, which seems to defy the action of time. Twoentrances facing each other led to the main or living room, andthey were so large that a horse could pass through them, draggingin immense back-logs. These, having been detached from a chainwhen in the proper position, were rolled into the huge fireplacethat yawned like a sooty cavern at the farther end of theapartment. A modern housekeeper, who finds wood too dear anarticle for even the air-tight stove, would be appalled by thisfireplace. Stalwart Mr. Reynolds, the master of the house, couldeasily walk under its stony arch without removing his broad-brimmed Quaker hat. From the left side, and at a convenient heightfrom the hearth, a massive crane swung in and out; while highabove the centre of the fire was an iron hook, or trammel, fromwhich by chains were suspended the capacious iron pots used inthose days for culinary or for stock-feeding purposes. Thistrammel, which hitherto had suggested only good cheer, wasdestined to have in coming years a terrible significance to thehousehold.When the blaze was moderate, or the bed of live coals not tooample, the children could sit on either side of the fireplace andwatch the stars through its wide flue; and this was a favoriteamusement of Phebe Reynolds, the eldest daughter of the house.A door opened from the living-room into the other apartments,furnished in the old massive style that outlasts many generations.All the windows were protected by stout oaken shutters which, whenclosed, almost transformed the dwelling into a fortress, givingsecurity against any ordinary attack. There were no loopholes inthe walls through which the muzzle of the deadly rifle could bethrust and fired from within. This feature, so common in theprimitive abodes of the country, was not in accordance with JohnReynolds's Quaker principles. While indisposed to fight, it wasevident that the good man intended to interpose between himselfand his enemies all the passive resistance that his stout littledomicile could offer.And he knew that he had enemies of the bitterest and mostunscrupulous character. He was a stanch Whig, loyal to theAmerican cause, and, above all, resolute and active in themaintenance of law and order in those lawless times. He thus hadmade himself obnoxious to his Tory neighbors, and an object ofhate and fear to a gang of marauders, who, under the pretence ofacting with the British forces, plundered the country far andnear. Claudius Smith, the Robin Hood of the Highlands and theterror of the pastoral low country, had formerly been theirleader; and the sympathy shown by Mr. Reynolds with all theefforts to bring him to justice which finally resulted in hiscapture and execution, and awakened among his former associates anintense desire for revenge. This fact, well known to the farmer,kept him constantly on his guard, and filled his wife and daughterPhebe with deep apprehension.At the time of our story, Phebe was only twelve years of age, butwas mature beyond her years. There were several younger children,and she had become almost womanly in aiding her mother in theircare. Her stout, plump little body had been developed rather thanenfeebled by early toil, and a pair of resolute and often mirthfulblue eyes bespoke a spirit not easily daunted. She was a nativegrowth of the period, vitalized by pure air and out-of-doorpursuits, and she abounded in the shrewd intelligence and demurerefinement of her sect to a degree that led some of theirneighbors to speak of her as "a little old woman." When alone withthe children, however, or in the woods and fields, she would doffher Quaker primness, and romp, climb trees, and frolic with thewildest.But of late, the troublous times and her father's peril hadbrought unwonted thoughtfulness into her blue eyes, and more thanQuaker gravity to the fresh young face, which, in spite ofexposure to sun and wind, maintained much of its inheritedfairness of complexion. Of her own accord she was becoming avigilant sentinel, for a rumor had reached Mr. Reynolds thatsooner or later he would have a visit from the dreaded mountaingang of hard riders. Two roads leading to the hills converged onthe main highway not far from his dwelling; and from an adjacentknoll Phebe often watched this place, while her father, with a ladin his employ, completed their work about the barn. When theshadows deepened, all was made as secure as possible without andwithin, and the sturdy farmer, after committing himself and hishousehold to the Divine protection, slept as only brave men sleepwho are clear in conscience and accustomed to danger.His faith was undoubtedly rewarded; but Providence in theexecution of its will loves to use vigilant human eyes and ready,loving hands. The guardian angel destined to protect the good manwas his blooming daughter Phebe, who had never thought of herselfas an angel, and indeed rarely thought of herself at all, as isusually the case with those who do most to sweeten and brightenthe world. She was a natural, wholesome, human child, with all achild's unconsciousness of self. She knew she could not protecther father like a great stalwart son, but she could watch and warnhim of danger, and as the sequel proved, she could do far more.The farmer's habits were well known, and the ruffians of themountains were aware that after he had shut himself in he was muchlike Noah in his ark. If they attempted to burn him out, theflames would bring down upon them a score of neighbors nothampered by Quaker principles. Therefore they resolved upon asudden onslaught before he had finished the evening labors of thefarm. This was what the farmer feared; and Phebe, like a vigilantoutpost, was now never absent from her place of observation untilcalled in.One spring evening she saw two mounted men descending one of theroads which led from the mountains. Instead of jogging quietly outon the highway, as ordinary travellers would have done, theydisappeared among the trees. Soon afterward she caught a glimpseof two other horsemen on the second mountain road. One of thesesoon came into full view, and looked up and down as if to see thatall was clear. Apparently satisfied, he gave a low whistle, whenthree men joined him. Phebe waited to see no more, but sped towardthe house, her flaxen curls flying from her flushed and excitedface."They are coming, father! Thee must be quick!" she cried.But a moment or two elapsed before all were within the dwelling,the doors banged and barred, the heavy shutters closed, and thehome-fortress made secure. Phebe's warning had come none too soon,for they had scarcely time to take breath before the tramp ofgalloping horses and the oaths of their baffled foes were heardwithout. The marauders did not dare make much noise, for fear thatsome passing neighbor might give the alarm. Tying their horsesbehind the house, where they would be hidden from the road, theytried various expedients to gain an entrance, but the logs andheavy planks baffled them. At last one of the number suggestedthat they should ascend the roof and climb down the wide flue ofthe chimney. This plan was easy of execution, and for a fewmoments the stout farmer thought that his hour had come. With aheroism far beyond that of the man who strikes down his assailant,he prepared to suffer all things rather than take life with hisown hands.But his wife proved equal to this emergency. She had been makingover a bed, and a large basket of feathers was within reach. Therewere live coals on the hearth, but they did not give out enoughheat to prevent the ruffians from descending. Two of them werealready in the chimney, and were threatening horrible vengeance ifthe least resistance was offered. Upon the coals on the hearth thehousewife instantly emptied her basket of feathers; and a greatvolume of pungent, stifling smoke poured up the chimney. Thethreats of the men, who by means of ropes were cautiouslydescending, were transformed into choking, half-suffocated sounds,and it was soon evident that the intruders were scrambling out asfast as possible. A hurried consultation on the roof ensued, andthen, as if something had alarmed them, they galloped off. Withthe exception of the cries of the peepers, or hylas, in anadjacent swamp, the night soon grew quiet around the closed anddarkened dwelling. Farmer Reynolds bowed in thanksgiving overtheir escape, and then after watching a few hours, slept as didthousands of others in those times of anxiety.But Phebe did not sleep. She grew old by moments that night as doother girls by months and years; as never before she understoodthat her father's life was in peril. How much that life meant toher and the little brood of which she was the eldest! How much itmeant to her dear mother, who was soon again to give birth to alittle one that would need a father's protection and support! Asthe young girl lay in her little attic room, with dilated eyes andears intent on the slightest sound, she was ready for any heroicself-sacrifice, without once dreaming that she was heroic.The news of the night-attack spread fast, and there was a periodof increased vigilance which compelled the outlaws to lie close intheir mountain fastnesses. But Phebe knew that her father'senemies were still at large with their hate only stimulatedbecause baffled for a time. Therefore she did not in the leastrelax her watchfulness; and she besought their nearest neighborsto come to their assistance should any alarm be given.When the spring and early summer passed without further trouble,they all began to breathe more freely, but one July night JohnReynolds was betrayed by his patriotic impulses. He was awakenedby a loud knocking at his door. Full of misgiving, he rose andhastily dressed himself: Phebe, who had slipped on her clothes atthe first alarm, joined him and said earnestly:"Don't thee open the door, father, to anybody, at this time ofnight;" and his wife, now lying ill and helpless on a bed in theadjoining room, added her entreaty to that of her daughter. Inanswer, however, to Mr. Reynolds's inquiries a voice from without,speaking quietly and seemingly with authority, asserted that theywere a squad from Washington's forces in search of deserters, andthat no harm would ensue unless he denied their lawful request.Conscious of innocence, and aware that detachments were oftenabroad on such authorized quests, Mr. Reynolds unbarred his door.The moment he opened it he saw his terrible error; not soldiers,but the members of the mountain gang, were crouched like wildbeasts ready to spring upon him."Fly, father!" cried Phebe. "They won't hurt us;" but before thebewildered man could think what to do, the door flew open from thepressure of half a dozen wild-looking desperadoes, and he waspowerless in their grasp. They evidently designed murder, but nota quick and merciful "taking off"; they first heaped upon theirvictim the vilest epithets, seeking in their thirst for revenge toinflict all the terrors of death in anticipation. The good man,however, now face to face with his fate, grew calm and resigned.Exasperated by his courage, they began to cut and torture him withtheir swords and knives. Phebe rushed forward to interpose herlittle form between her father and the ruffians, and was dashed,half stunned, into a corner of the room. Even for the sake of hissick wife, the brave farmer could not refrain from uttering groansof anguish which brought the poor woman with faltering steps intohis presence. After one glance at the awful scene she sank, halffainting, on a settee near the door.When the desire for plunder got the better of their fiendishcruelty, one of the gang threw a noosed rope over Mr. Reynolds'shead, and then they hanged him to the trammel or iron hook in thegreat chimney."You can't smoke us out this time," they shouted. "You've now gotto settle with the avengers of Claudius Smith; and you and someothers will find us ugly customers to settle with."They then rushed off to rob the house, for the farmer was reputedto have not a little money in his strong box. The moment they weregone Phebe seized a knife and cut her father down. Terror andexcitement gave her almost supernatural strength, and with the aidof the boy in her father's service she got the poor man on a bedwhich he had occupied during his wife's illness. Her revivingmother was beginning to direct her movements when the ruffiansagain entered; and furious with rage, they again seized and hangedher father, while one, more brutal than the others, whipped thepoor child with a heavy rope until he thought she was disabled.The girl at first cowered and shivered under the blows, and thensank as if lifeless on the floor. But the moment she was left toherself she darted forward and once more cut her father down. Therobbers then flew upon the prostrate man and cut and stabbed himuntil they supposed he was dead. Toward his family they meditateda more terrible and devilish cruelty. After sacking the house andtaking all the plunder they could carry, they relieved the horror-stricken wife and crying, shrieking children of their presence.Their further action, however, soon inspired Phebe with a new andmore awful fear, for she found that they had fastened the doors onthe outside and were building a fire against one of them.For a moment an overpowering despair at the prospect of their fatealmost paralyzed her. She believed her father was dead. The boywho had aided her at first was now dazed and helpless from terror.If aught could be done in this supreme moment of peril she sawthat it must be done by her hands. The smoke from the kindlingfire without was already curling in through the crevices aroundthe door. There was not a moment, not a second to be lost. Theruffians' voices were growing fainter and she heard the sounds oftheir horses' feet. Would they go away in time for her toextinguish the fire? She ran to her attic room and cautiouslyopened the shutter. Yes, they were mounting; and in the faintlight of the late-rising moon she saw that they were taking herfather's horses. A moment later, as if fearing that the blazemight cause immediate pursuit, they dashed off toward themountains.The clatter of their horses' hoofs had not died away before theintrepid girl had opened the shutter of a window nearest theground, and springing lightly out with a pail in her hand sherushed to the trough near the barn, which she knew was full ofwater. Back and forth she flew between the fire and the convenientreservoir with all the water that her bruised arms and backpermitted her to carry. Fortunately the night was a little damp,and the stout thick door had kindled slowly. To her intense joyshe soon gained the mastery of the flames, and at lastextinguished them.She did not dare to open the door for fear that the robbers mightreturn, but clambering in at the window, made all secure as hadbeen customary, for now it was her impulse to do just as herfather would have done.She found her mother on her knees beside her father, who wouldindeed have been a ghastly and awful object to all but the eyes oflove."Oh, Phebe, I hope--I almost believe thy father lives!" cried thewoman. "Is it my throbbing palm, or does his heart still beat?""I'm sure it beats, mother!" cried the girl, putting her littlehand on the gashed and mangled body."Oh, then there's hope! Here, Abner," to the boy, "isn't there anyman in thee? Help Phebe get him on the bed, and then we must stopthis awful bleeding. Oh, that I were well and strong! Phebe, theemust now take my place. Thee may save thy father's life. I cantell thee what to do if thee has the courage."Phebe had the courage and with deft hands did her mother'sbidding. She stanched the many gaping wounds; she gave spirits atfirst drop by drop, until at last the man breathed and wasconscious. Even before the dawn began to brighten over the dreadedHighlands which their ruthless enemies were already climbing,Phebe was flying, bare-headed, across the fields to their nearestneighbor. The good people heard of the outrage with horror andindignation. A half-grown lad sprang on the bare back of a younghorse and galloped across the country for a surgeon. A few momentslater the farmer, equipped for chase and battle, dashed away atheadlong pace to alarm the neighborhood. The news sped from houseto house and hamlet to hamlet like fire in prairie grass. The sunhad scarcely risen before a dozen bronzed and stern-browed menwere riding into John Reynolds's farm-yard under the lead of youngHal June--the best shot that the wars had left in the region. Thesurgeon had already arrived, and before he ceased from his laborshe had dressed thirty wounds.The story told by Phebe had been as brief as it was terrible--forshe was eager to return to her father and sick mother. She had notdreamed of herself as the heroine of the affair, and had not givenany such impression, although more than one had remarked that shewas "a plucky little chick to give the alarm before it was light."But when the proud mother faintly and tearfully related theparticulars of the tragedy, and told how Phebe had saved herfather's life and probably her mother's--for, "I was too sick toclimb out of a window," she said; when she told how the childafter a merciless whipping had again cut her father down from thetrammel-hook, had extinguished the fire, and had been nursing herfather back to life, while all the time in almost agony herselffrom the cruel blows that had been rained upon her--Phebe wasdazed and bewildered at the storm of applause that greeted her.And when the surgeon, in order to intensify the general desire forvengeance, showed the great welts and scars on her arms and neck,gray-bearded fathers who had known her from infancy took her intotheir arms and blessed and kissed her. For once in his life youngHal June wished he was a gray-beard, but his course was much moreto the mind of Phebe than any number of caresses would have been.Springing on his great black horse, and with his dark eyes burningwith a fire that only blood could quench, he shouted:"Come, neighbors, it's time for deeds. That brave little womanought to make a man of every mother's son of us;" and he dashedaway so furiously that Phebe thought with a strange little tremorat her heart that he might in his speed face the robbers allalone. The stout yeomen clattered after him; the sound of theirpursuit soon died away; and Phebe returned to woman's work ofnursing, watching, and praying.The bandits of the hills, not expecting such prompt retaliation,were overtaken, and then followed a headlong race over the roughmountain roads--guilty wretches flying for life, and stern menalmost reckless in the burning desire to avenge a terrible wrong.Although the horses of the marauders were tired, their riders wereso well acquainted with the fastnesses of the wilderness that theyled the pursuers through exceedingly difficult and dangerouspaths. At last, June ever in the van, caught sight of a man'sform, and almost instantly his rifle awoke a hundred echoes amongthe hills. When they reached the place, stains of blood marked theground, proving that at least a wound had been given. Just beyond,the gang evidently had dispersed, each one for himself, leavingbehind everything that impeded their progress. The region wasalmost impenetrable in its wildness except by those who knew allits rugged paths. The body of the man whom June had wounded,however, was found, clothed in a suit of Quaker drab stolen fromMr. Reynolds. The rest of the band with few exceptions met withfates that accorded with their deeds.Phebe had the happiness of nursing her father back to health, andalthough maimed and disfigured, he lived to a ripe old age. If thebud is the promise of the flower, Phebe must have developed awomanhood that was regal in its worth; at the same time I believethat she always remained a modest, demure little Quakeress, andnever thought of her virtues except when reminded of them in plainEnglish.NOTE--In the preceding narrative I have followed almost literallya family tradition of events which actually occurred.

Previous Authors：Will It Pay? Next Authors：A Christmas-Eve Suit