A narrative of the captivity of Mrs. Johnson. Containing an account of her sufferings, during four years with the Indians and French. : Published according to act of Congress.

NARRATIVE OF THE CAPTIVITY OF Mrs. JOHNSON.

INTRODUCTION.

A DETAIL of the miseries of a "frontier man," must excite the pity of eve|ry one who claims humanity. The gloom|iness of the rude forest, the distance from friends and competent defence, and the daily inroads and nocturnal yells of hostile

Indians, awaken those keen apprehensions and anxieties which conception only can picture. If the peaceful employment of husbandry is pursued, the loaded musket must stand by his side; if he visits a neigh|bor, or resorts on sundays to the sacred house of prayer, the weapons of war must bear him company; at home, the distresses of a wife, and the fears of lisping children often unman the soul that real danger as|sailed in vain. Those, who can recollect the war that existed between France and England fifty years ago, may figure to themselves the unhappy situation of the inhabitants on the frontiers of Newhamp|shire; the malice of the French in Canada, and the exasperated savages that dwelt in their vicinity, rendered the tedious days and frightful nights a season of unequalled calamities. The daily reports of captured families and slaughtered friends, mingled grief with fear. Had there been an or|ganized

government, to stretch forth its protecting arm, in any case of danger, the misery might have been in a degree allevi|ated. But the infancy of our country did not admit of this blessing. While Gov|ernor Shirley of Massachusetts, was peti|tioning to England for a fleet and an ar|my, Benning Wentworth the supine Gov|ernor of Newhampshire, obeyed implicit|ly the advice of his friend Shirley, and remained inactively secure at his seat at Portsmouth. At the commencement of the year seventeen hundred and forty five, the Quixotick expedition to Louisburg was projected, the success of which origin|ated from the merest accident, rather than from military valor or generalship; this drained the thinly inhabited state of New|hampshire of most of its effective men. From that period till the peace, which took place in the year seventeen hundred and forty nine, the visionary schemes of

Shirley kept the best soldiers embodied in some remote place, as a force to execute some impolitick project. The conquest of Canada, and the attack upon Crown|point, are recorded as specimens of the wild projects which were to employ the in|fant forces of Newengland. During this time, the frontiers sustained additional mis|eries, by having the small forces of the state deducted for purposes which could be of no immediate service to them. The savages committed frequent depredations on the defenceless inhabitants, and the ease with which they gained their prey, encouraged their boldness, and by scatter|ing in small parties, they were able to in|fest the whole frontier of Newhampshire, from fort Dummer on Connecticut River, to the lowest settlement on Merrimack. During this war, which is known by the name of the Cape Breton war, the town of No. 4 could hardly be said to be inhab|ited;

some adventurers had made a begin|ning, but few were considered as belong|ing to the town. Capt. Stevens, whose valor is recorded as an instance of consummate generalship, part of the time kept the fort, which afforded a shelter to the enterprizing settlers, in times of imminent danger. But even his vigilance did not save the town from numerous scenes of carnage. At the commencement of the peace, in seven|teen hundred and forty nine, the enter|prizing spirit of Newengland rose superior to the dangers of the forest, and they be|gan to venture innovation. The Indians, still thirsty for plunder and rapine, and regardless of the peace which their masters, the French, had concluded, kept up a fly|ing warfare, and committed several out|rages upon lives and property; this kept the increasing inhabitants in a state of alarm, for three or four years; most of the time, they performed their

daily work without molestation, but re|treated to the fort at each returning night.

OUR country has so long been exposed to Indian wars, that recitals of exploits and sufferings, of escapes and deliverances, have become both numerous and trite. The air of novelty will not be attempted in the following pages; simple facts, un|adorned, is what the reader must expect; pity for my sufferings, and admiration at my safe return, is all that my history can excite. The aged man, while perusing, will probably turn his attention to the period when the facts took place, his memory will be refreshed with the sad tidings of his country's sufferings, which gave a daily wound to his feelings, between the years forty and sixty; by contrasting those days with the present, he may rejoice, that he witnesses those times, which many have "waited for, but died without a sight." Those "in early life," while they commis|erate

the sufferings which their parents, and ancestors endured, may felicitate them|selves that their lines fell in a land of peace, where neither savages, nor neigh|boring wars embitter life.

CHAP. I. Removal to No. 4, in the year seven|teen hundred and fifty, and situation till August the 31st, the day after our Cap|tivity.

THE continuation of peace, began by degrees to appease the resent|ment of the Indians, and they appeared to discover a wish for friendly intercourse. The inhabitants in No. 4, and its vicinity, relaxed their watchfulness, and ventured more boldly into their fields. As pros|pects grew favorable, my husband, Mr. James Johnson, was induced, in the year 1750, to remove his family from Lunenburgh, in Massachusetts, to his pos|sessions in No. 4. Lest savage caprice might offer some insult, we resided in the

fort the two or three first years, but every appearance of hostility at length vanished —the Indians expressed a wish to traf|fick, the inhabitants laid by their fears, and thought no more of tomahawks, nor scalpingknives. Mr. Johnson now thought himself justified in removing to his farm, an hundred rods distant from the fort, which was then the uppermost settlement on Connecticut River, he pur|sued his occupation of trade, and the In|dians made frequent visits to traffick their furs for his merchandize. He frequently credited them for blankets and other nec|essaries, and in most instances they were punctual in payment. During the year 1753, all was harmony and safety—set|tlements increased with tolerable rapidity, and the new country began to assume the appearance of cultivation.

THE commencement of the year 1754 began to threaten another rupture be|tween

the French and English, and as the dividing line between Canada and the English Colonies was the object of conten|tion, it was readily seen that the frontier towns would be in imminent danger. But as immediate war was not expected, Mr, Johnson thought that he might risk the safety of his family, while he made a tour to Connecticut, for trade. He sat out the last of May, and his absence of three months was a tedious and a bitter season to me. Soon after his departure every body was "tremblingly alive" with fear. The Indians were reported to be on their march for our destruction, and our dis|tance from sources of information gave full latitude for exaggeration of news, before it reached our ears. The fears of the night were horrible beyond description, and even the light of day was far from dis|pelling painful anxiety. While looking from the windows of my log house, and

seeing my neighbors tread cautiously by each hedge and hillock, left some secreted savage might start forth to take their scalp, my fears would baffle description. Alarms grew louder and louder, till our apprehen|sions were too strongly confirmed, by the news of the capture of Mr. Malony's fam|ily, on Merrimack River; this reached us about the twentieth of August. Imagination now saw and heard a thousand Indians; and I never went round my own house, without first looking with trembling cau|tion by each corner, to see if a tomahawk was not raised for my destruction.

ON the twenty fourth of August I was re|lieved from all my fears by the arrival of my husband. He brought intelligence from Connecticut that a war was expected the next spring, but that no immediate danger was contemplated. He had made prepa|rations to remove to Northfield, as soon as

our stock of hay was consumed, and our dozen of swine had demolished our ample stores of grain, which would secure his family and property from the miseries and ravages of war. Our eldest son, Sylvanus, who was six years old, was in the mean time to be put to school at Springfield.— Mr. Johnson brought home a large addi|tion to his stores, and the neighbors made frequent parties at our house, to ex|press their joy for his return, and time passed merrily off, by the aid of spirit and a ripe yard of melons. As I was in the last days of pregnancy, I could not join so heartily in their good cheer as I other|wise might. Yet in a new country, pleas|ure is often derived from sources unknown to those less accustomed to the woods. The return of my husband, the relief from danger, and the crowds of happy friends, combined to render my situation peculiar|ly agreeable. I now boasted with exulta|tion,

that I should, with husband, friends, and luxuries, live happy in spite of the fear of savages.

ON the evening of the twenty ninth of August our house was visited by a party of neighbors, who spent the time very cheerfully with watermelons and flip, till midnight; they all then retired in high spirits, except a spruce young spark, who tarried to keep company with my sister. We then went to bed with feelings well tuned for sleep, and rested with fine com|posure, till midway between daybreak and sunrise, when we were roused by neighbor Labarree's knocking at the door, who had shouldered his ax to do a day's work for my husband. Mr. Johnson slipped on his jacket and trowsers, and stepped to the door to let him in. But by opening the door he opened a scene—terrible to de|scribe!! Indians! Indians were the

first words I heard, he sprang to his guns, but Labarree, heedless of danger, instead of closing the door to keep them out, be|gan to rally our hired men up stairs, for not rising earlier. But in an instant a crowd of savages, fixed horribly for war, rushed furiously in. I screamed and begged my friends to ask for quarter; by this time they were all over the house, some up stairs, some haling my sister out of bed, another had hold of me, and one was ap|proaching Mr. Johnson, who stood in the middle of the floor to deliver himself up; but the Indian, supposing that he would make resistance, and be more than his match, went to the door and brought three of his comrades, and the four bound him. I was led to the door, fainting and trem|bling; there stood my friend Labarree, bound; Ebenezer Farnsworth, whom they found up chamber, they were putting in the same situation, and to complete the shock|ing

scene, my three little children were driven naked to the place where I stood. On viewing myself I found that I too was naked. An Indian had plundered three gowns, who, on seeing my situation, gave me the whole. I asked another for a petticoat, but he refused it. After what little plunder their hurry would allow them to get, was confusedly bundled up, we were ordered to march. After going about twenty rods we fell behind a rising ground, where we halted to pack the things in a better manner; while there, a savage went back, as we supposed, to fire the buildings. Farnsworth proposed to my husband to go back with him, to get a quantity of pork from the cellar, to help us on our journey; but Mr. Johnson prudently replied, that by that means, the Indians might find the rum, and in a fit of intoxication kill us all. The Indian pres|ently returned with marks of fear in his

countenance,* 1.1 and we were hurried on with all violence. Two savages laid hold of each of my arms, and hurried me through thorny thickets in a most unmer|ciful manner. I lost a shoe and suffered exceedingly. We heard the alarm guns from the fort. This added new speed to the flight of the savages.—They were ap|prehensive that soldiers might be sent for our relief. When we had got a mile and a half, my faintness obliged me to sit. This being observed by an Indian, he drew his knife, as I supposed, to put an end to my

existence. But he only cut some bands, with which my gown was tied, and then pushed me on. My little children were crying, my husband and the other two men were bound, and my sister and myself were obliged to make the best of our way, with all our might. The loss of my shoe rendered travelling extremely painful. At the distance of three miles there was a general halt; the savages, sup|posing that we, as well as themselves, might have an appetite for breakfast, gave us a loaf of bread, some raisins and apples, which they had taken from the house. While we were forcing down our scanty breakfast, a horse came in sight, known to us all by the name of Scoggin, belonging to Phineas Stevens, Esquire. One of the Indians attempted to shoot him, but was prevented by Mr. Johnson. They then expressed a wish to catch him, saying, by pointing to me, for squaw to ride; my

husband had previously been unbound to assist the children, he, with two Indians, caught the horse on the banks of the river. By this time my legs and feet were cover|ed with blood, which being noticed by Mr. Labarree, he, with that humanity which never forsook him, took his own stockings and presented them to me, and the Indians gave me a pair of moggasons. Bags and blankets were thrown over Scoggin, and I mounted on the top of them, and on we jogged about seven miles, to the upper end of Wilcott's Island. We there halted, and prepared to cross the river; rafts were made of dry timber—two Indians and Farnsworth crossed first, Labarree, by signs, got permission to swim the horse, and Mr. Johnson was allowed to swim by the raft that I was on, to push it along. We all arrived safe on the other side of the river, about four o'clock in the after|noon; a fire was kindled and some of

their stolen kettles were hung over it, and filled with porridge. The savages took delight in viewing their spoil, which a|mounted to forty or fifty pounds in value. They then, with a true savage yell, gave the war whoop, and bid defiance to dan|ger. As our tarry in this place lasted an hour, I had time to reflect on our misera|ble situation.—Captives, in the power of unmerciful savages, without provision, and almost without clothes, in a wilderness where we must sojourn as long as the children of Israel did, for ought we knew, and what added to our distress, not one of our savage masters could understand a word of English. Here, after being hurried from home with such rapidity, I have lei|sure to inform the reader, respecting our Indian masters. They were eleven* 1.2 in

number, men of middle age, except one, a youth of sixteen, who in our journey, dis|covered a very mischievous and trouble|some disposition. According to their na|tional practice, he who first laid hands on a prisoner considered him as his prop|erty. My master, who was the one that took my hand when I sat on the bed, was as clever an Indian as ever I saw, he even evinced, at numerous times, a dispo|sition, that shewed he was by no means void of compassion. The four, who took my husband, claimed him as their property, and my sister, three children, Labarree and Farnsworth, had each a master. When the time came for us to prepare to march, I almost expired at the thought. To leave my aged parents, brothers, sisters

and friends, and travel with savages, through a dismal forest to unknown re|gions, in the alarming situation I then was in, with three small children, the eldest, Sylvanus, who was but six years old. My eldest daughter, Susanna, was four, and Polly, the other, two. My sister Miriam was fourteen. My husband was barefoot, and otherwise thinly clothed, his master had taken his jacket, and nothing but his shirt and trowsers remained. My two daughters had nothing but their shifts, and I only the gown that was handed me by the savages. In addition to the sufferings which arose from my own deplorable con|dition, I could not but feel for my friend Labarree; he had left a wife and four small children behind, to lament his loss, and to render his situation extremely un|happy. With all these misfortunes ly|ing heavily upon me, the reader can imag|ine my situation.—The Indians pronounc|ed

the dreadful word "munch," march, and on we must go. I was put on the horse, Mr. Johnson took one daughter, and Mr. Labarree, being unbound, took the other; we went six or eight miles, and stopped for the night. The men were made secure, by having their legs put in split sticks, somewhat like stocks, and tied with cords, which were tied to the limbs of trees too high to be reached. My sister, much to her mortification, must lie between two Indians, with a cord thrown over her, and passing under each of them; the little children had blankets, and I was allowed one for my use. Thus we took lodging for the night, with the sky for a covering, and the ground for a pillow. The fatigues of the preceding day obliged me to sleep several hours, in spite of the horrors which surrounded me. The Indians observed great silence, and never spoke but when really necessary, and

all the prisoners were disposed to say but little; my children were much more peaceable, than could be imagined, gloomy fear imposed a dead silence.

CHAP. II. History of our Journey through the Wilder|ness, till we came to the waters that enter Lake Champlain.

IN the morning we were roused before sunrise, the Indians struck up a fire, hung on their stolen kettles, and made us some water gruel for breakfast. After a few sips of this meagre fare, I was again put on the horse, with my husband by my side, to hold me on. My two fellow pris|oners took the little girls, and we marched sorrowfully on for an hour or two, when a keener distress was added to my multi|plied afflictions;—I was taken with the pangs of childbirth. The Indians signi|fied to us that we must go on to a brook. When we got there, they shewed some hu|manity,

by making a booth for me. Here the compassionate reader will drop a fresh tear, for my inexpressible distress; fifteen or twenty miles from the abode of any civilized being, in the open wilderness, rendered cold by a rainy day—in one of the most perilous hours, and unsupplied with the least necessary, that could yield convenience in the hazardous moment. My children were crying at a distance, where they were held by their masters, and only my husband and sister to attend me; none but mothers can figure to them|selves my unhappy fortune. The Indians kept aloof the whole time. About ten o'clock a daughter was born. They then brought me some articles of clothing for the child, which they had taken from the house. My master looked into the booth, and clapped his hands with joy, crying two monies for me, two monies for me. I was permitted to rest the remainder of

the day. The Indians were employed in making a bier for the prisoners to carry me on, and another booth for my lodging during night. They brought a needle and two pins, and some bark to tie the child's clothes, which they gave my sister, and a large wooden spoon to feed it with; at dusk they made some porridge, and brought a cup to steep some roots in, which Mr. Labarree had provided. In the evening I was removed to the new booth. For supper, they made more porridge and some Johnny cakes. My portion was brought me in a little bark. I slept that night far beyond expectation.

IN the morning we were summoned for the journey, after the usual breakfast, of meal and water. I, with my infant in my arms, was laid on the litter, which was support|ed alternately by Mr. Johnson, Labarree and Farnsworth. My sister and son were

put upon Scoggin, and the two little girls rode on their masters' backs. Thus we proceeded two miles, when my carriers grew too faint to proceed any further. This being observed by our sable masters, a general halt was called, and they em|bodied themselves for council. My mas|ter soon made signs to Mr. Johnson, that if I could ride on the horse I might pro|ceed, otherwise I must be left behind. Here I observed marks of pity in his coun|tenance, but this might arise from the fear of loosing his two monies. I preferred an attempt to ride on the horse, rather than to perish miserably alone. Mr. Lab|arree took the infant, and every step of the horse almost deprived me of life. My weak and helpless condition rendered me, in a degree, insensible to every thing; my poor child could have no sustenance from my breast, and was supported entirely by water gruel. My other little children,

rendered peevish by an uneasy mode of riding, often burst into cries, but a surly check from their masters soon silenced them.—We proceeded on with a slow, mournful pace. My weakness was too severe to allow me to sit on the horse, long at a time; every hour I was taken off, and laid on the ground to rest. This preserved my life, during the third day. At night we found ourselves at the head of Black River Pond. Here we prepared to spend the night, our supper consist|ed of gruel and the broth of a hawk, they had killed the preceding day. The pris|oners were secured, as usual, a booth was made for me, and all went to rest. After encampment, we entered into a short con|versation. My sister observed, that if I could have been left behind, our trouble would have been seemingly nothing. My husband hoped, by the assistance of Provi|dence, we should all be preserved. Mr.

Labarree pitied his poor family—and Farnsworth, summed the whole of his wishes, by saying, that if he could have got a layer of pork, from the cellar, we should not be in fear of starvation. The night was uncommonly dark, and passed tedi|ously off.

IN the morning, half chilled with a cold fog, we were ordered from our places of rest, were offered the lean fare of meal and water, and then prepared for the journey; every thing resembled a fu|neral procession. The savages preserved their gloomy sadness—the prisoners, bowed down with grief and fatigue, felt little dis|position to talk; and the unevenness of the country, sometimes lying in miry plains, at others rising into steep and broken hills, rendered our passage hazard|ous and painful. Mr. Labarree kept the infant in his arms, and preserved its life.

The fifth day's journey was an unvaried scene of fatigue. The Indians sent out too or three hunting parties, who returned without game. As we had in the morn|ing consumed the last morsel of our meal, every one now began to be seriously alarm|ed; and hunger, with all its horrors, looked us earnestly in the face. At night, we found the waters that run into Lake Champlain, which was over the height of land; before dark we halted, and the In|dians, by the help of their punk, which they carried in horns, made a fire. They soon adopted a plan to relieve their hun|ger. The horse was shot, and his flesh was in a few moments broiling on embers, and they, with native gluttony, satiated their craving appetites. To use the term politeness, in the management of this re|past, may be thought a burlesque, yet their offering the prisoners the best parts of the horse, certainly bordered on 〈◊〉〈◊〉;

an epicure could not have cartered nicer slices, nor in that situation, served them up with more neatness. Appetite is said to be the best sauce, yet our abun|dance of it did not render savory this nov|el steak. My children, however, eat too much, which made them very unwell for a number of days. Broth was made for me and my child, which was rendered al|most a luxury by the seasoning of roots. After supper, countenances began to brighten, those who had relished the meal, exhibited new strength, and those who had only snuffed its effluvia, confessed themselves regaled; the evening was em|ployed in drying and smoking what re|mained, for future use. The night was a scene of distressing fears to me, and my ex|treme weakness had affected my mind to such a degree, that every difficulty ap|peared doubly terrible. By the assistance of Scoggin, I had been brought so far, yet

so great was my debility, that every hour I was taken off, and laid on the ground, to keep me from expiring. But now alas! this conveyance was no more. To walk was impossible. Inevitable death, in the midst of woods, one hundred miles wide, appeared my only portion.

CHAP. III. Continuation—till our arrival at East Bay, in Lake Champlain.

IN the morning of the sixth day, the Indians exerted themselves to prepare one of their greatest dainties. The mar|row bones of old Scoggin were pounded for a soup, and every root, both sweet and bitter, that the woods afforded, was thrown in to give it a flavor. Each one partook of as much as his feelings would allow. The war whoop then resounded, with an infernal yell, and we began to fix for a march. My fate was unknown, till my master brought some bark, and tied my petticoats, as high as he supposed would be convenient for walking, and ordered me to "munch." With scarce strength

to stand alone, I went on half a mile, with my little son and three Indians. The rest were advanced. My power to move then failed, the world grew dark, and I drop|ped down. I had sight enough to see an Indian lift his hatchet over my head, while my little son screamed, "Ma'am do go, for they will kill you." As I fainted, my last thought was, that I should presently be in the world of spirits.—When I awoke, my master was talking angrily with the savage, who had threatened my life. By his gestures I could learn, that he charged him with not acting the honora|ble part of a warrior, by an attempt to de|stroy the prize of a brother. A whoop was given, for a halt. My master help|ed me to the rest of the company—where a council was held, the result of which was, that my husband should walk by my side, and help me along. This he did for some hours, but faintness then overpower|ed

me, and Mr. Johnson's tenderness and solicitude, was unequal to the task, of aid|ing me further; another council was held —while in debate, as I lay on the ground, gasping for breath, my master sprang to|wards me, with his hatchet. My husband and fellow prisoners grew pale at the sight, suspecting that he, by a single blow, would rid themselves of so great a burthen, as myself. But he had yet too much e|steem for his "two monies." His ob|ject was to get bark from a tree, to make a pack saddle, for my conveyance on the back of my husband. He took me up, and we marched in that form the rest of the day. Mr. Labarree still kept my infant, Farnsworth carried one of the little girls, and the other rode with her master; they were extremely sick and weak, owing to the large portion of the horse, which they eat; but if they uttered a murmuring word, a menacing frown

from the savages, soon imposed silence. None of the Indians were disposed to shew insults of any nature, except the youngest, which I have before mentioned. He often delighted himself, by torment|ing my sister, by pulling her hair, treading on her gown, and numerous other boyish pranks, which were provoking and trouble|some. We moved on, faint and wearily, till night; the Indians, then yelled their war whoop, built a fire, and hung over their horse broth. After supper, my booth was built, as usual, and I reposed much better than I had the preceding nights.

IN the morning, I found myself great|ly restored. Without the aid of physi|cians, or physick, nature had began the cure of that weakness, to which she had reduced me, but a few days before. The reader will be tired of the repetition of the same materials, for our meals; but if my

feelings can be realized, no one will turn with disgust from a breakfast of steaks, which were cut from the thigh of a horse. After which, Mr. Johnson was ordered to take the infant, and go forward with part of the company. I "munched" in the rear till we came to a beaver pond, which was formed in a branch of Otter Creek. Here I was obliged to wade; when half way over, up to the middle in cold water, my little strength failed, and my power to speak or see left me. While motionless and stiffened, in the middle of the pond, I was perceived from the other side, by Mr. Johnson, who laid down the infant, and came to my assistance; he took me in his arms, and when the opposite side was gained, life itself had apparently forsaken me. The whole company stopped, and the Indians, with more humanity than I supposed them possessed of, busied them|selves in making a fire, to warm me into

life. The warm influence of the fire re|stored my exhausted strength, by degrees; and in two hours I was told to munch. The rest of the day I was carried by my husband. In the middle of the afternoon, we arrived on the banks of one of the great branches of Otter Creek. Here we halted, and two savages, who had been on a hunting scout, returned with a duck; a fire was made, which was thrice grateful to my cold shivering limbs. Six days had now almost elapsed, since the fatal morn, in which we were taken, and by the bless|ing of that Providence, whose smiles give life to creation, we were still in existence. My wearied husband, naked children, and helpless infant, formed a scene, that conveyed severer pangs to my heart, than all the sufferings I endured myself. The Indians were sullen and silent, the prison|ers were swollen with gloomy grief, and I was half the time expiring. After my

feelings were a little quickened by warmth, my sad portion was brought in a bark, consisting of the Duck's head, and a gill of broth. As I lifted the unsavory mor|sel, with a trembling hand, to my mouth, I cast my thoughts back a few days, to a time, when, from a board plentifully spread, in my own house, I eat my food with a merry heart. The wooden spoon dropped from my feeble hand. The con|trast was too affecting. Seated on a rag|ged rock, beneath a hemlock, as I then was. Emaciated by sickness, and sur|rounded by my weeping and distressed family, who were helpless prisoners, de|spair would have robbed me of life, had I not put my whole confidence in that Being, who has power to save. Our masters be|gan to prepare to ford the stream. I swallowed most of my broth, and was tak|en up by my husband. The river was very rapid, and passing dangerous. Mr.

Labarree, when half over with my child, was tripped up by its rapidity, and lost the babe in the water; little did I expect to see the poor thing again, but he fortunate|ly reached a corner of its blanket, and saved its life. The rest got safe to the other shore—another fire was built, and my sister dried the infant, and its clothes. Here we found a proof of Indian sagacity, which might justly be suppesed not to be|long to a band of rambling barbarians. In their journey over to Connecticut Riv|er, they had, in this place, killed a Bear. The entrails were cleansed, and filled with the fat of the animal, and suspended from the limb of a tree; by it was deposited a bag of flour, and some tobacco, all which was designed for future stores, when trav|elling that way. Nothing could have been offered more acceptable, than these tokens of Indian economy and prudence. The flour was made into pudding, and

the bear grease sauce was not unrelishing. Broth was made, and well seasoned with snakeroot, and those who were fond of tobacco, had each their share. The whole, formed quite a sumptuous entertainment. But these savage dainties, made no sensi|ble addition to our quota of happiness. My weakness increased, my children were very unwell, and Mr. Johnson's situation was truly distressing. By travelling bare|foot, over such a length of forest, and supporting me on his shoulders, his feet were rendered sore, beyond description. I cannot express too much gratitude, for Mr. Labarree's goodness. My infant was his sole charge, and he supported it, by pieces of the horse flesh, which he kept for its use, which by being first chewed in his own mouth, and then put into the child's, afforded it the necessary nutriment. After supper, my booth was made, the evening yell was sounded, and we encamp|ed

for the night. By this time the sav|ages, had relaxed part of their watchful|ness, and began to be careless of our escap|ing. Labarree and Farnsworth were slightly bound, and my husband had all his liberty. My sister could sleep with|out her two Indian companions, and the whole company appeared less like prison|ers.

IN the morning of the eighth day, we were roused at sunrise. Although the early part of September is generally bless|ed with a serene sky, and a warm sun, yet we suffered exceedingly, by the cold. The mornings were damp and foggy, and the lofty trees, and numerous mountains, oft|en excluded the sun till noon. Our snake|root broth, enriched with flour, made a rare breakfast, and gave a little strength to our exhausted limbs. Orders came to "munch." My poor husband took me

upon the pack saddle, and we reassumed our march. Long before night, desponden|cy had strikingly pictured every counte|nance. My little son, who had performed the whole journey on foot, was almost lifeless. Mr. Johnson was emaciated, and almost exhausted; often he laid me on the ground to save his own life, and mine; for my weakness was too great to ride far, without requiring rest. While prostrate upon the earth, and able to speak, I oft|en begged him to leave me there, to end a life, which could last but a short time, and would take his with it, if he continued his exertions to save me; but the idea was too shocking, we continued our journey, in a slow sorrowful mood, till night. Often did I measure a small distance for the sun to run, before I must bid it an eternal a|dieu. But the same Providence who had brought us so far, and inclined our savage masters to mercy, continued my protector.

Farnsworth carried me a small distance, and at last darkness put an end to our painful day's journey. After the custom|ary refreshment, we went to rest. The night was terrible; the first part was E|gyptian darkness, then thunder, and lightning, and rain. On the cold earth, without a cover, our situation may be im|agined, but not described. The Indians gave me an additional blanket for my use, and shewed some concern for my welfare; but it will ever stand first among modern miracles, that my life was spared.

THE morning came, and a bright sun reanimated our drowned spirits. The whole company now resembled a group of ghosts, more than bodily forms. Little did I expect that the light of another day, would witness my existence; sensible, that if my own sad diseases did not finish my existence, that my husband would be re|duced

to the woful alternative, of either perishing with me, or leaving me in the woods to preserve his own life. The hor|rid yell was given, which was a signal for preparation. Melancholy sat heavily on every countenance, and the tear of woe moistened the sickened cheek of every pris|oner. In addition to famine and fatigue, so long a journey, without a shoe, for de|fence, had lacerated and mangled every foot, to a shocking degree; travelling was keenly painful.—The scanty breakfast was served up; as I was lifting my gill of broth to my cold lips, my master, with a rash hand, pulled it from me, and gave it to my husband, observing, by signs, that he required all the sustenance, to enable him to carry me. I yielded, on the sup|position that it was a matter of little con|sequence, whether any thing was bestow|ed to that body which must soon mingle with its original clay. With sorrow and

anguish, we began the ninth day's journey. Before we proceeded far, the Indians sig|nified to us, that we should arrive, before night, at East Bay, on Lake Champlain. This was a cordial to our drooping spirits, and caused an immediate transition from despair to joy; the idea of arriving at a place of water carriage, translated us to new life. Those who languished with sickness, fatigue or despair, now marched forward, with nervous alacrity. Two In|dians were sent on a hunting scout, who were to meet us at the Bay, with canoes. This seasonable and agreeable intelligence, had every possible effect that was good, we walked with greater speed, felt less of the journey, and thought little of our dis|tresses. About the middle of the after|noon the waters of the Lake were seen, from a neighboring eminence; we soon gained the bank, where we found the two Indians, with four canoes, and a ground

squirrel; a fire was built, and some food put in preparation. Here my feelings, which had not been exhilirated, so much as the rest of my fellow prisoners, were buoyed above despair, and, for a short time, the pangs of distress lost their influence. The life, which nine days painful suffering in the wilderness, had brought to its last mo|ment of duration, now started into new ex|istence, and rendered the hour I sat on the shore of Lake Champlain, the happiest I ever experienced. Here we were to take passage, in boats, and find relief from the thorny hills and miry swamps of the damp-desart. My husband could now be relieved, from the burden, which had brought him as nigh eternity, as myself. My little children would soon find cloth|ing, and all my fellow sufferers would be in a condition to attain some of life's con|veniences; Twelve hours sailing would waft us to the settlements of civilized

Frenchmen. Considering how much we had endured, few will deem it less than a miracle, that we were still among the liv|ing. My son, of six years old, had walk|ed barefoot the whole journey. Farns|worth was shoeless, and carried my eldest daughter. Labarree had to carry, and preserve the life of my infant. My sister, owing to her youth and health, had suf|fered the least. My two little daughters, with only their shifts, and part of one of the three gowns, which the savage gave me, were subject to all the damps of morn and night; and Mr. Johnson's situation was pitiably painful; the fatigue of carry|ing me on the wearying pack saddle, had rendered his emaciated body almost a corpse, and his sore feet made him a crip|ple. The Indians had been surprisingly patient, and often discovered tokens of hu|manity. At every meal, we all shared e|qual with them, whether a horse or a duck

composed the bill of fare, and more than once, they gave me a blanket, to shelter me from a thunder storm.

CHAP. IV. Crossing the Lake to Crown Point, from thence to St. Johns—Chamblee—and to St. Francis's Village.

I WILL only detain the reader a few moments longer in this place, while I eat the leg of a woodchuck, and then re|quest him to take a night's sailing in the canoe with me across the Lake. Though I sincerely wish him a better passage than I had. No sooner was our repast finish|ed, than the party were divided into four equal parties, for passage. In my boat were two savages, besides my son and in|fant. I was ordered to lie flat on the bot|tom of the canoe, and when pain obliged me to move for relief, I had a rap from a paddle. At day break, we arrived at a

great rock, on the west side of the Lake, where we stopped and built a fire. The Indians went to a French house, not far distant, and got some meat, bread, and green corn. Although we were not al|lowed to taste the meat, yet, by the grate|ful effluvia of the broiling steak, we were finely regaled, and the bread and roast corn, were a luxury. Here the savages, for the first time, gave loud tokens of joy, by hallooing and yelling in a tremendous manner. The prisoners were now intro|duced to a new school. Little did we ex|pect that the accomplishment of dancing, would ever be taught us, by the savages. But the war dance must now be held; and every prisone that could move, must take its awkward steps. The figure con|sisted of circular motion, round the fire; each sang his own musick, and the best dancer was the one most violent in motion. The prisoners were taught each a song,

mine was, danna witchee natchepung; my son's was narwiscumptom. The rest I cannot recollect. Whether this talk was imposed on us for their diversion, or a re|ligious ceremonial, I cannot say, but it was very painful and offensive. In the fore|noon, seven Indians came to us, who were received with great joy, by our masters, who took great pleasure in introducing their prisoners. The war dance was a|gain held; we were obliged to join, and sing our songs, while the Indians rent the air with infernal yelling. We then em|barked and arrived at Crown Point about noon. Each prisoner was then led by their masters, to the residence of the French Commander. The Indians kept up their infernal yelling the whole time. We were ordered to his apartment, and used with that hospitality, which characterizes the best part of the nation. We had brandy in profusion, a good dinner, and

a change of linen. This was luxury in|deed, after what we had suffered, for the want of these things. None but ourselves could prize their value. We, after din|ner, were paraded before Mr. Commander, and underwent examination, after which we were shewn a convenient apartment, where we resided four days, not subject to the jurisdiction of our savage masters. Here we received great civilities, and many presents. I had a nurse, who in a great measure, restored my exhausted strength. My children were all decently clothed, and my infant in particular. The first day, while I was taking a nap, they dress|ed it so fantastically, a la France, that I re|fused to own it, when brought to my bed|side, not guessing that I was the mother of such a strange thing.

ON the fourth day, to our great grief and mortification, we were again delivered to the Indians, who led us to the water

side, where we all embarked in one vessel for St. Johns. The wind shifted, after a short sail and we dropped anchor. In a little time, a canoe came a long side of us, in which was a white woman, who was bound for Albany. Mr. Johnson beg|ged her to stop a few minutes, while he wrote to Col. Lydius, of Albany, to in|form him of our situation, and to request him to put the same in the Boston news|papers, that our friends might learn that we were alive. The woman delivered the letter, and the contents were published, which conveyed the agreeable tidings to our friends, that although prisoners, we were then alive.

AFTER a disagreeable voyage of three days, we made St. Johns, the sixteenth of September, where we again experienced the politeness of a French Commander. I, with my child, was kindly lodged in the

same room with himself and lady. In the morning, we still found misfortune tread|ing close at our heels;—we must again be delivered to our savage masters, and take another passage in the boats for Chamblee, when within three miles of which, Labar|ree, myself and child, with our two mas|ters, were put on shore; we were ignorant of our destiny, and parting from my hus|band and friends, was a severe trial, with|out knowing whether we were ever to meet them again. We walked on to Chamblee; here our fears were dissipated, by meeting our friends. In the garrison of this place, we found all the hospitality our necessities required. Here, for the first, after my captivity, I lodged on a bed. Brandy was handed about in large bowls, and we lived in high style. The next morning we were put in the custody of our old masters, who took us to the canoes, in which we had a painful voyage that day,

and the following night to Sorell; where we arrived on the nineteenth. A hospi|table friar came to the shore to see us, and invited us to his house; he gave us a good breakfast, and drank our better healths, in a tumbler of brandy; he took compassion|ate notice of my child, and ordered it some suitable food. But the Indians hurried us off, before it could eat. He then went with us to the shore, and ordered his ser|vant to carry the food, prepared for the child, to the canoe, where he waited till I fed it. The friar was a very genteel man, and gave us his benediction, at part|ing, in feeling language. We then row|ed on till the middle of the afternoon, when we landed on a barren heath, and by the help of a fire, cooked an Indian dinner; after which the war dance was held, and another infernal yelling. The prisoners were obliged to sing, till they were hoarse, and dance round the fire.

We had now arrived within a few miles of the village St. Francis, to which place our masters belonged. Whenever the warriors return from an excursion against an enemy, their return to the tribe or vil|lage, must be designated by warlike cer|emonial; the captives or spoil, which may happen to crown their valour, must be conducted in a triumphant form, and decorated to every possible advantage. For this end we must now submit to paint|ing; their vermillion, with which they were ever supplied, was mixed with bear's grease, and every cheek, chin, and fore|head, must have a dash. We then rowed on within a mile of the town, where we stopped at a French house, to dine; the prisoners were served with soup meagre, and bread. After dinner, two savages proceeded to the village, to carry the glad tidings of our arrival. The whole atmos|phere soon resounded from every quarter,

with whoops, yells, shrieks, and screams. St. Francis, from the noise that came from it, might be supposed the centre of Pan|demonium. Our masters were not back|ward, they made every response they pos|sibly could. The whole time we were sailing from the French house, the noise was direful to be heard. Two hours before sun|set, we came to the landing, at the village. No sooner had we landed, than the yell|ing in the town was redoubled, a cloud of savages, of all sizes, and sexes, soon appear|ed running towards us; when they reached the boats, they formed themselves into a long parade, leaving a small space, through which we must pass. Each Indian then took his prisoner by his hand, and after ordering him to sing the war song, began to march through the gauntlet. We ex|pected a severe beating, before we got through, but were agreeably disappointed, when we found that each Indian only gave

us a tap on the shoulder. We were led directly to the houses, each taking his prisoner to his own wigwam. When I entered my master's door, his brother sa|luted me with a large belt of wampum, and my master presented me with another. Both were put over my shoulders, and crossed behind and before. My new home was not the most agreeable; a large wigwam without a floor, with a sire in the centre, and only a few water vessels and dishes, to eat from, made of birch bark, and tools for cookery, made clumsily of wood, for furniture, will not be thought a pleasing residence to one accustomed to civilized life▪

CHAP. V. Residence at St. Francis. Sale of most of the Prisoners to the French, and Removal to Montreal.

NIGHT presently came, after our arrival at St. Francis. Those, who have felt the gloomy, homesick feelings, which sadden those hours which a youth passes, when first from a father's house, may judge of part of my sufferings; but when the rest of my circumstances are ad|ded, their conception must fall infinitely short. I now found myself, with my in|fant, in a large wigwam, accompanied with two or three warriors, and as many squaws, where I must spend the night, and perhaps a year. My fellow prisoners were disposed over the town; each one,

probably, feeling the same gloominess, with myself. Hasty pudding presently was brought forward, for supper. A spa|cious bowl of wood, well filled, was placed in a central spot, and each one drew near with a wooden spoon. As the Indians never use seats, nor have any in their wig|wams, my awkwardness in taking my posi|tion, was a matter of no small amusement to my new companions. The squaws first fall upon their knees, and then sit back upon their heels. This was a posture that I could not imitate. To sit in any other, was thought by them, indelicate and un|polite. But I advanced to my pudding, with the best grace I could, not, however, escaping some of their funny remarks. When the hour for sleep came on, for it would be improper to call it bedtime, where beds were not, I was pointed to a platform, raised half a yard, where upon a board, covered with a blanket, I was to

pass the night. The Indians threw them|selves down, in various parts of the building, in a manner that more resem|bled cows, in a shed, than human beings, in a house. In the morning, our break|fast consisted of the relicks of the last night; my sister came to see me in the forenoon, and we spent some hours, in observations upon our situation, while washing some apparel, at a little brook. In the after|noon, I with my infant, was taken to the grand parade, where we found a large col|lection of the village inhabitants; an aged chief stepped forward, into an area, and after every noise was silenced, and every one fixed in profound attention, he began to harrangue; his manner was solemn— his motions and expression gave me a per|fect idea of an orator. Not a breath was 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and every spectator seemed to rev|erence what he said. After the speech, my little son was brought to the opposite

side of the parade, and a number of blank|ets laid by his side. It now appeared that his master and mine, intended a swop of prisoners. My master being a hunter, wished for my son, to attend him on his excursions. Each delivered his property with great for|mality; my son and blankets, being an equiv|alent for myself, child, and wampum. I was taken to the house of my new master, and found myself allied to the first family; my master was son in law to the grand sachem, was accounted rich, had a store of goods, and lived in a style far above the majority of his tribe. Soon after my arrival at his house, the interpreter came to inform me, that I was adopted into his family. I was then introduced to the family, and was told to call them brothers and sisters.—I made a short reply, expressive of gratitude, for being introduced to a house of high blood, and requested their patience, while I should learn the customs of the nation.

This was scarce over, when the attention of the village was called to the grand pa|rade, to attend a rejoicing, occasioned by the arrival of some warriors, who had brought some scalps. They were carried in triumph on a pole. Savage butchery, upon murdered countrymen. The sight was horrid. As I retired to my new resi|dence, I could hear the savage yells, that accompany the war dance. I spent the night in sad reflection.

MY time now was solitary beyond de|scription; my new sisters and brothers treated me with the same attention that they did their natural kindred, but it was an unnatural situation to me. I was a novice at making canoes, bunks, and tumplines, which was the only occupation of the squaws; of course, idleness was a|mong my calamities.—My fellow prison|ers, were as gloomy as myself ignorant,

whether they were to spend their days in this inactive village, to be carried into a war campaign, to slaughter their country|men, or to be dragged to the cold Lakes of the north, in a hunting voyage. We visited each other daily, and spent our time in conjecturing our future destiny.

THE space of forty five years having e|lapsed, since my residence in St. Francis, it is impossible to give the reader a minute detail of events, that occurred, while there; many of them are still forcibly impressed upon my memory, but dates and particu|lars, are now inaccurately treasured up, by faint recollection. Mr. Johnson tarried but a few days with me, before he was carried to Montreal, to be sold. My two daughters, sister and Labarree, were soon after carried to the same place, at different times. Farnsworth was carried by his master, on a hunting scout, but not prov|ing

so active in the chase and ambush, as they wished, he was returned, and sent to Montreal. I now found an increase to my trouble, with only my son and infant, in this strange land, without a prospect of relief, and with all my former trouble lying heavy upon me, disappointment and de|spair came well nigh being my execution|ers. In this dilemma, who can imagine my distress, when my little son came run|ning to me one morning, swollen with tears, exclaiming, that the Indians were going to carry him into the woods to hunt; he had scarcely told the piteous story, before his master came, to pull him away; he threw his little arms around me, begging in the agony of grief, that I would keep him. The inexorable savage, unclenched his hands, and forced him away; the last words I heard, intermingled with his cries, were, Ma'am I shall never see you again. The keenness of my pangs, almost obliged

me to wish that I never had been a moth|er. Farewell, Sylvanus, says I, God will preserve you.

IT was now the fifteenth of October. Forty five days had passed since my cap|tivity, and no prospect, but what was darkened with clouds of misfortune. The uneasiness occasioned by indolence, was in some measure relieved, by the privilege of making shirts for my brother. At night and morn, I was allowed to milk the cows. The rest of the time I strolled gloomily about, looking sometimes into an unsocia|ble wigwam, at others sauntering into the bushes, and walking on the banks of brooks. Once, I went to a French house, three miles distant, to visit some friends of my brother's family, where I was enter|tained politely a week; at another time, I went with a party to fish, accompanied by a number of squaws. My weakness

obliged me to rest often, which gave my companions a poor opinion of me; but they shewed no other resentment, than calling me "no good squaw," which was the only reproach my sister ever gave, when I displeased her. All the French in|habitants I formed an acquaintance with, treated me with that civility, which distin|guishes the nation; once in particular, be|ing almost distracted with an aching tooth, I was carried to a French physician, a|cross the river, for relief. They prevailed on the Indians, to let me visit them a day or two, during which time, their mark|ed attention and generosity, claims my warmest gratitude. At parting, they ex|pressed their earnest wishes to have me visit them again.

ST. Francis contained about thirty wig|wams, which were thrown disorderly into a clump. There was a church, in which

mass was held every night and morning, and every Sunday, the hearers were sum|moned by a bell; and attendance was pretty general. Ceremonies were per|formed by a French friar, who lived in the midst of them, for the salvation of their souls. He appeared to be in that place, what the legislative branch is in civil gov|ernments, and the grand sachem the executive. The inhabitants lived in per|fect harmony, holding most of their prop|erty in common. They were prone to indolence, when at home, and not remark|able for neatness. They were extremely modest, and apparently averse to airs of courtship. Necessity was the only thing that called them to action, this induced them to plant their corn, and to undergo the fatigues of hunting. Perhaps I am wrong, to call necessity the only motive; revenge, which prompts them to war, has great power. I had a numerous retinue

of relations, which I visited daily; but my brother's house, being one of the most decent in the village, I fared full as well at home. Among my connexions, was a little brother Sabatis, who brought the cows for me, and took particular notice of my child. He was a sprightly little fel|low, and often amused me, with feats per|formed with his bow and arrow.

IN the early part of November, Mr. Johnson wrote from Montreal, requesting me to prevail on the Indians, to carry me to Montreal, for sale, as he had made pro|vision for that purpose. I disclosed the matter, which was agreed to by my broth|er and sister, and, on the seventh, we set sail in a little bark canoe. While cross|ing Lake St. Peters, we came nigh land|ing on the shores of eternity. The waves were raised to an enormous height, by the wind, and often broke over the canoe.

My brother and sister, were pale as ghosts, and we all expected immediate destruction; but the arm of Salvation was extended for our relief, and we reached the shore. We were four days in this voyage, and receiv|ed obliging civilities every night, at French settlements; on the eleventh, we arrived at Montreal, where I had the supreme satisfaction of meeting my husband, chil|dren, and friends. Here I had the happi|ness to find, that all my fellow prisoners had been purchased, by gentlemen of re|spectability, by whom they were treated with great humanity. Mr. Du Quesne bought my sister, my eldest daughter was owned by three affluent old maids, by the name of Jaisson, and the other was owned by the mayor of the city.

MR. Johnson had obtained the privi|lege of two month's absence, on parole, for the purpose of going to Newengland, to

procure cash, for the redemption of his family; he sat out on his journey the day after my arrival at Montreal. Mr. Du Quesne engaged to supply his family with necessaries, during his absence, and was to be recompensed at his return. Directly after his departure, I found myself doom|ed to fresh trouble. The Indians brought me here, for the purpose of ex|changing me for some Micanaw savages, a tribe with whom they were at war; but being disappointed in this, they were ex|orbitant in their demands, and refused to take less than a thousand livres, for me, and my child, Mr. Du Quesne fixed his offer at seven hundred, which was utterly refused, by my savage masters. Their next step was, to threaten to carry me back to St. Francis. After a half day's surly deliberation, they concluded to take the offered sum. I was received into Mr. Du Quesne's family. My joy at be|ing

delivered from savage captivity, was unbounded. From this period, Indians and sufferings were no more to torture me, or my family, except the unfortunate Syl|vanus. The fond idea of liberty, held forth its dazzling pleasures, and the ignorance of future calamities, precluded every cloud, that could obscure its effulgence. On Mr. Johnson's journey to Newengland, I rest|ed all my hope, and felt full confidence in being relieved at his return.

IN justice to the Indians, I ought to remark, that they never treated me with cruelty, to a wanton degree; few people have survived a situation like mine, and few have fallen into the hands of savages, disposed to more lenity and patience. Modesty has ever been a characteristick of every savage tribe; a truth which my whole family will join to corroborate, to the extent of their knowledge. As they

are aptly called the children of nature, those who have profited by refinement and education, ought to abate part of the prejudice, which prompts them to look with an eye of censure on this untutored race. Can it be said of civilized conquer|ors, that they, in the main, are willing to share with their prisoners, the last ration of food, when famine stares them in the face? Do they ever adopt an enemy, and salute him by the tender name of brother? And I am justified in doubting, whether if I had fallen into the hands of French soldiery, so much assiduity would have been shewn, to preserve my life.

CHAP. VI. Mr. Johnson's Tour to Boston, and Ports|mouth, and the Catastrophe at his return▪ Arrival at the Prison in Quebec.

THE reader will leave me, and my family, under the care of our factor, a short time, and proceed with Mr. Johnson. On the twelth of November, he sat forward for Albany, accompanied by two Indians for pilots, for whose fi|delity, the commander in chief was respon|sible. They were to tarry at Albany, till his return. In a short time, I had a letter from Col. Lydius, informing me, that he had safely arrived at Albany, and had gone to Boston. His first step was, to ap|ply to Governor Wentworth, at Ports|mouth, for money to redeem his family,

and the English prisoners. Wentworth laid his matter before the General Assem|bly, and they granted the sum of one hundred and fifty pounds sterling, for the purposes of redemption, and ten pounds, to defray his expenses. The committee of the General Court gave him the follow|ing directions.

Portsmouth, N. H. January 25, 1755.

Mr. JAMES JOHNSON, SIR,

AGREEABLE to your letter to the Sec|retary, of the sixteenth instant, you have enclosed a letter to Col. Cornelius Cuyler, Esq in which you will observe, we have given you credit, for letters on his ac|quaintance in Canada, to furnish you with credit, to the amount of one hundred and fifty pounds sterling. We therefore, ad|vise you, to proceed to Albany, and on your arrival there, deliver the said letter

to Col. Cuyler, and take from him such credit as he shall give you, on some able person or persons, in Canada, and when you are thus furnished, you will then proceed to Canada, and there negotiate, in the best and most frugal manner you can, the purchasing such, and so many captives, as you may hear of, that have been taken from any part of this Province, taking care that the aforesaid sum agreea|ble to the grant of the General Assembly here, be distributed, to and for the pur|chasing all the said captives, that are to be come at, in the most equal and exact manner, that none may be left there, for want of their quota of said money. The captive's names, and places from whence taken, that we have information of, you have herewith a list of, for your direction. You are to keep an exact account of the distribution of this money, in order to your future discharge.

IF Col. Cuyler should not be living, or refuse you his good offices, in this affair, you are then to apply to the Hon.— Saunders, Esq mayor of the city of Al|bany, or any other person, that can give you credit at Canada, and leave with them our letter to Col. Cuyler, which shall o|blige us to pay the said sum or sums, mentioned in the said letter, to such per|son, and in the same way and manner, as we have obliged ourselves to pay him.

We are your friends,

• THEODORE ATKINSON, Com.
• S. WIBING, Com.
• MESHECH WEARE, Com.
• BENJ. SHERBURNE, jun. Com.

A list of the Captives, taken from the Prov|ince of Newhampshire, by the St. Francis Indians, in the summer 1754.

• From Charlestown, on Connecticut River. James Johnson, his wife, and four children.
• ...

• Peter Labarree,
• Ebenezer Farnsworth,
• Miriam Willard.

From Merrimack River.

• Nathaniel Malloon, his wife and three children.
• Robert Barber,
• Samuel Scribner,
• Enos Bishop.

IN addition to this letter of credit, Gov. Wentworth gave him the following pass|port.

Province of Newhampshire, in Newengland.

[figure]

L.S.

By his Excellency BENNING WENT|WORTH, Esq Captain General, Gov|ernor, and Commander in Chief, in and over his Britannick Majesty's Province of Newhampshire, afore|said, and Vice Admiral of the same, and Surveyor General of all his Majesty's Woods, in Northamerica.

WHEREAS the St. Francis, and other Indians, did, in the summer last past, cap|tivate sundry of his Majesty's subjects, in|habitants of this Province, and have, as I have been informed, sold the same to the subjects of the French King, in Canada, where they are now detained, in servitude; and having had application made to me, by Mr. James Johnson, of Charlestown, within this Province, one of the said cap|tives, who obtained leave to come to this country, in order to purchase his own, and other captive's liberty. For letters of safe passport, I do hereby require, and command, all officers, civil and military, as well as all other persons, that they of|fer no lett or hindrance to the said James Johnson, or his company, but contrary|wise, that they afford him all necessary dispatch, in said journey, through this Province.

AND I do hereby, also desire, that all

his Majesty's subjects, of his several other governments, through which the said Johnson may have occasion to travel, may treat him with that civility that becometh.

I also, hereby, earnestly entreat the Governor General, and all other officers, ministers, and subjects, of his most Christ|ian Majesty, governing and inhabiting, the country and territories of Canada, afore|said; that they would respectively be aid|ing and assisting to the said James John|son, in the aforesaid negociation. Here|by engaging to return the same civility and kindness, to any of his most Christ|ian Majesty's officers and subjects, when thereto requested, by any of his Gover|nors or proper officers. In token of which, I have caused the publick seal of the Prov|ince of Newhampshire aforesaid, to be hereunto affixed, this twenty fifth day of January, in the twenty eighth year of the

reign of our Sovereign Lord George, the second, of Greatbritain, France, and Ire|land, King, Defender of the Faith, &c.

BENNING WENTWORTH.

By his Excellency's Command, THEODORE ATKINSON, Sec'ry.

Anno Domini. 1755.

WITH these credentials, Mr. Johnson proceeded with alacrity to Boston, pro|cured Governor Shirley's passport, and set forward to Worcester, on his return back; while there, he was greatly astonish|ed at receiving the following letter from Governor Shirley.

Boston, February 15, 1755.

Mr. JOHNSON,

THESE have some things happened in our publick affairs, since your going from Boston, with my letters to the Governor of Canada, and intelligence come of the

motions of the French in Canada, for fur|ther invading his Majesty's territories on the frontiers of Newyork, and Newhamp|shire, as make it unsafe for you, as well as for the publick, to proceed, at present, on your journey to Quebec, and there|fore I expect that you do forthwith, upon receiving this letter, return back, and lay aside all thoughts of going forward, on this journey, till you have my leave, or the leave of Governor Wentworth, to whom I shall write, and inform him of what I have undertook to do in this matter, in which his Majesty's service is so much concerned.

Your friend and servant, W. SHIRLEY.

Mr. JAMES JOHNSON.

ON the receipt of this letter, he return|ed with a heavy heart to Boston, and was positively ordered, by Shirley, to stay till

further orders. His situation now, was really deplorable. His parole, which was only for two months, must be violated; his credit in Canada lost. His family exposed to the malice of exasperated Frenchmen, and all his good prospects, at an end. Af|ter using every exertion, in Boston, for leave to recommence his journey, and spending the rest of the winter, and all the spring, he found his efforts were in vain. During this time, my situation grew daily distressing. Mr. Du Quesne made honorable provision for myself, sis|ter, and child, till the expiration of my husband's parole; the two Indians were then sent to Albany, to pilot him back; after waiting some time, and learning nothing a|bout him, they returned. Previous to this, I had been treated with great attention and civility; dined frequently in the first families, received cards, to attend them on parties of pleasure, and was introduced to

a large and respectable acquaintance. As an unfortunate woman, I received those general tokens of generosity, which flow from a humane people. Among the pres|ents which I received, was one of no small magnitude, from Captains Stowbrow and Vambram, two gentlemen, who were de|livered by Major Washington, as hostages, when he, with the Virginia troops, surren|dered to the French and Indians. In compliance with their billet, I waited on them one morning, and, at parting, receiv|ed a present of one hundred and forty eight livres. Mr. St. Ange, a French gentleman of fortune, and distinction, be|side frequent proofs of his goodness, gave me, at one time, forty eight livres. In his family, I formed an intimate acquaint|ance, with a young English lady, who was captured by the Indians, in the Province of Maine, and sold to him; she was used with parental tenderness, and shared the

privileges of his children; she, with his daughter, frequently came in their morn|ing carriage, to ride with my sister and me. Gratitude to my numerous bene|factors, pleads loudly in favor of inserting all their names, and particularizing every act of generosity. If I omit it, it must not be imagined that I have forgotten their charity; it has left an impression on my heart, that can only be erased with the extinction of life.

WHILE in Mr. Du Quesnes family, my little daughter was very unwell, and the superstitious people were convinced that she would either die, or be carried off by the Devil, unless baptized. I yielded to their wishes, and they prepared for the ceremony, with all the appendages annexed to their religion. Mr. Du Ques|ne was godfather, and the young English lady godmother; by Mrs. Du Quesne's

particular request, she was christened Louis, after herself—to which I added the name of Captive.

THE return of the Indians, without Mr. Johnson, boded no good to me. I observ|ed, with pain, the gradual change in my friends, from coldness to neglect, and from neglect to contempt. Mr. Du Quesne, who had the most delicate sense of honor, supposed that he had designedly broken his parole, and abused his confidence; he re|fused to grant me further assistance, or even to see my face. I now found my|self friendless and alone; not a word had I heard from Mr. Johnson, not a word had I heard from my little son, with the Indians. Affliction lowered upon me, with all its hor|rors; in this dilemma, my sister and I agreed to take a small room, and support our|selves, till our little store of cash was expend|ed, and then have recourse to our needles.

IN the beginning of April, the Indians made a second tour to Albany, in quest of Mr. Johnson, and again returned without him. I wrote to Col. Lydius, for infor|mation, but he could tell nothing. Dark|ness increased; but I summoned all my resolution, and indulged the fond hope, of being soon relieved. We kept our little room till June, when I had the happiness to hear, that my husband was without the city, waiting for permission to come in. He was conducted in by a file of men; his presence banished care and trouble, and turned the tear of sorrow, to the effusion of joy; after the gratulation of meeting had subsided, he related his sad fate in Newengland. He finally got permission from Gov. Wentworth, to come private|ly, by the way of Albany, where he took his bills, drawn by Mr. Cuyler, on Mr. St. Luc Lucorne, and Mr. Rine Du Quesne. The face of affairs in Canada had mate|rially

changed; during his absence a new Governor had been sent over, and various manoeuvres in politicks had taken place, which were very injurious to him. Had the old Governor tarried, his absence would have probably been excused. But Mons. Vaudrieul was ignorant of the con|ditions, on which he went home, and could not admit apologies, for the breach of his parole. Our disappointment and morti|fication were severe, when we found our bills protested. This reduced us at once to a beggarly state. The evil was partial|ly remedied, by St. Luc Lucorne's lend|ing us paper money, while we could send some Indians, to Mr. Cuyler, for silver. Mr. Johnson received orders to settle his affairs, with all possible dispatch.

SPIRITED preparations were now mak|ing for war. General Dieskau, arrived from France, with an army, and Montreal

was a scene of busy confusion. We were completing our settlements, with our pa|per, expecting to have full permission to go home, when the Indians returned. But the measure of our misery was not yet full. In the beginning of July, Mr. Johnson was put into jail. Terrible to me, was this unexpected stroke; without money, credit or friends, I must now roam the streets, without a prospect of relief, from the cloud of misfortune, that hung over me. In a few days, the faithful Indians, who had been sent to Mr. Cuyler, for the silver, returned, with four hundred and thirty eight dollars, with an order on St. Luc Lucorne, for seven hundred addi|tional livres; but he took the whole into possession, and we never after received a penny from him.

HALF distracted, and almost exhausted with despair and grief, I went to the Gov|ernor,

to paint our distress, and ask relief. I found him of easy access, and he heard my lamentable story, with seeming emo|tion; his only promise was, to take care of us, and, at parting, he gave me a crown, to buy milk for my babes. Ignorant of our destiny, my sister and I, kept our little room, and were fortunate enough, to get subsistance from day to day. Often going to the gloomy prison, to see my poor hus|band, whose misfortunes in Boston had brought him to this wretchedness.

OUR own misfortunes had taught us how to feel for the sufferings of others, and large demands were now made, on our sympathetick powers. Just as we were plunged into this new distress, a scout of savages brought a number of prisoners in|to Montreal, which were our old friends

and acquaintance.* 4.1 Our meeting was a scene of sorrow, and melancholly pleasure.

ALL were now flocking to the standard of war. The Indians came from all quar|ters,

thirsting for English blood, and re|ceiving instruction from the French. A number of tribes, with all their horrid weapons of war, paraded, one morning, before the General's house, and held the war dance, and filled the air with infernal yells, after which, in a formal manner, they took the hatchet, against the English, and marched for the field of battle. Alas! my poor countrymen, thought I, how many of you are to derive misery from these monsters.

ON the twenty second of July, Mr. Johnson was taken from jail, and with myself, and our two youngest children, were ordered on board a vessel for Que|bec. To leave our friends at Montreal, was a distressing affair; my sisters ransom had been paid, but she could not go with us. She went into the family of the Lieut. Governor, where she supported

herself, with her needle. My eldest daughter, was still with the three old maids, who treated her tenderly. Labar|ree and Farnsworth, had paid the full price of their redemption, but were not allowed to go home. Not a word had we heard yet, from poor Sylvanus. We parted in tears, ignorant of our destina|tion, but little thinking, that we were to embark for a place of wretchedness and woe. After two days good sailing, we ar|rived at Quebec, and were all conducted directly to jail.

CHAP. VII. Six month's residence in the Criminal Jail, and removal to the Civil Prison.

WE now, to our indescriba|ble pain, found the fallacy of Mr. Gover|nor's promises, for our welfare. This jail was a place, too shocking for description. In one corner, sat a poor being, half dead with the small pox; in another, were some lousy blankets and straw; in the centre stood a few dirty dishes, and the whole presented a scene miserable to view. The terrors of starvation, and the fear of suffo|cating in filth, were overpowered, by the more alarming evil of the small pox, which none of us had had. But there was no retreat, resignation was our only resource; the first fortnight we waited

anxiously for the attack of the disease, in which time, we were supported by a small piece of meat a day, which was stewed with some rusty crusts of bread, and brought to us in a pail, that swine would run from. The straw and lousy blankets, were our only lodging, and the rest of our furniture consisted of some wooden blocks, for seats. On the fifteenth day, I was taken with the small pox, and removed to the hospital; leaving my husband and two children in the horrid prison. In two days, Mr. Johnson put my youngest child, Captive, out to nurse. The woman kept the child but a few days, before she returned it, owing to a mistrust, that she should not get her pay. But should it remain in prison, certain death must be its portion. Her father was reduced to the sad necessity, of requesting her, to carry it to the Lord In|tendant, and tell him, that he must either allow her a compensation for keeping it,

or it must be left at his door. The good woman dressed it decently, and obeyed her orders. Mr. Intendant smiled at her story, and took the child in his arms, say|ing, it was a pretty little English devil, it was a pity it should die; he ordered his clerk to draw an order for its allowance, and she took good care of it, till the last of October, except a few days, while it had the small pox.

A few days after I left the prison, Mr. Johnson and my other daughter, were tak|en with symptoms, and came to the hos|pital to me. It is a singular instance of Divine Interposition, that we all recov|ered from this malignant disease. We were remanded to prison, but were not compelled to our former rigid confine|ment. Mr. Johnson was allowed, at cer|tain times, to go about the city, in quest of provision. But, on the twentieth of

October, St. Luc Lucorne arrived from Montreal, with the news of Dieskau's de|feat; he had ever since my husband's mis|fortune, about his parole, been his perse|cuting enemy. By his instigation, we were all put directly to close prison.

THE ravages of the small pox, reduced us to the last extremity, and the foetid pris|on, without fire or food, added bitterness to our distress. Mr. Johnson preferred a petition to the Lord Intendant, stating our melancholy situation. I had the lib|erty of presenting it myself, and by the assistance of Mr. Pertua, the interpreter, in whom we ever found a compassionate friend, we got some small relief. About the first of November. I was taken violent|ly ill of a fever, and was carried to the hospital, with my daughter Captive. Af|ter a month's residence there, with toler|able good attendance, I recovered from

my illness, and went back to my husband. While at the hospital, I found an oppor|tunity to convey the unwelcome tidings of our deplorable situation to my sister, at Montreal, charging her to give my best love to my daughter Susanna, and to in|form our fellow prisoners, Labarree and Farnsworth, that our good wishes awaited them. Not a word had we yet heard from poor Sylvanus.

WINTER now began to approach, and the severe frosts of Canada, operated keenly upon our feelings. Our prison was a horrid defence, from the blasts of December, with two chairs, and a heap of straw, and two lousy blankets, we may well be supposed to live uncomfortably; but, in addition to this, we had but one poor fire a day, and the iron grates gave free access to the chills of the inclement sky. A quart bason, was the only thing

allowed us to cook our small piece of meat and dirty crusts in, and it must serve at the same time for table furniture. In this sad plight—a prisoner—in jail—winter ap|proaching—conceive reader, for I cannot speak our distress.

OUR former benevolent friends, Cap|tains Stowbrow and Vambram, had the peculiar misfortune, to be cast into a pris|on, opposite to us. Suspicion of having corresponded with their countrymen, was the crime, with which they were charged. Their misfortune did not preclude the ex|ertion of generosity; they frequently sent us, by the waiting maid, bottles of wine, and articles of provision. But the malice of Frenchmen, had now arrived to such a pitch, against all our country, that We must be deprived of these comforts. These good men were forbidden their of|fices of kindness, and our intercourse was

entirely prohibited. We, however, found means, by stratagem, to effect, in some measure, what could not be done by open dealing. When the servants were carry|ing in our daily supplies, we slipped into the entry, and deposited our letters in an ash box, which were taken by our friends, they leaving one at the same time for us; this served in some measure, to amuse a dull hour—sometimes, we diverted our|selves, by the use of Spanish cards; as Mr. Johnson was ignorant of the game, I de|rived no inconsiderable pleasure from in|structing him. But the vigilance of our keepers increased, and our paper and ink were withheld.—We had now been prison|ers seventeen months, and our prospects were changing from bad to worse, five months had elapsed, since our confine|ment in this horrid receptacle, except the time we lingered in the hospital. Our jailer was a true descendant from Pha|raoh;

but, urged by impatience and de|spair, I softened him so much, as to get him to ask Mr. Pertua, to call on us. When the good man came, we described our situation, in all the moving terms, which our feelings inspired, which in ad|dition to what he saw, convinced him of the reality of our distress. He proposed asking an influential friend of his, to call on us, who, perhaps, would devise some mode, for our relief. The next day, the gentleman came to see us; he was one of those good souls, who ever feel for others woes. He was highly affronted with his countrymen, for reducing us to such dis|tress, and declared, that the Lord Intend|ant himself, should call on us, and see the extremities to which he had reduced us; he sent, from his own house, that night, a kettle, some candles, and each of us a change of linen.

THE next day, January 8th, 1756, Mr. Intendant came to see us; he exculpated himself, by saying, that we were put there, by the special order of Mons. Vaudrieul, the Governor in chief, and that he had no authority to release us. But he would convey a letter from Mr. Johnson to Monsieur, which might have the desired effect. The letter was accordingly writ|ten, stating our troubles, and beseeching relief; likewise praying that our son might be got from the Indians, and sent to us, with our daughter and sister, from Mon|treal. The Governor returned the follow|ing obliging letter.

TRANSLATION.

I have received, Sir, your letter, and am much concerned for the situation you are in. I write to Mr. Longieul, to put you and your wife, in the civil jail. Mr.

L. Intendant, will be so good as to take some notice of the things you stand in need of, and to help you. As to your boy, who is in the hands of the Indians, I will do all that is in my power, to get him, but I do not hope to have a good success in it; your child in town, and your sister, in law are well. If it is some opportunity of do|ing you some pleasure, I will make use of it; unless some reason might happen, that hinder and stop the effects of my goodwill. If you had not before, given some cause of being suspected, you should be at liberty. I am, Sir, your most humble and obedi|ent servant.

VAUDRIEUL.

FROM the receipt of this letter, we dat|ed our escape from direful bondage. Mr. Intendant ordered us directly to the new jail, called the civil prison, where our ac|comodations were infinitely better. We

had a decent bed, candles, fuel, and all the conveniences belonging to prisoners of war. Mr. Johnson was allowed fifteen pence, per day, on account of a Lieutenant's commission, which he held under George the second, and I was permitted to go once a week into the city to purchase nec|essaries; and a washerwoman was provided for my use. We were not confined to the narrow limits of a single room, but were restrained only by the bounds of the jail yard. Our situation formed such a contrast, with what we endured in the gloomy criminal jail, that we imagined ourselves the favorites of fortune, and in high life.

CHAP. VIII Residence in the Civil Jail, and occurrences till the twentieth of July, 1757.

TO be indolent from necessity, has ever been deemed a formidable evil. No better witnesses than ourselves, can testify the truth of the remark, although, our lodgings were now such as we envied a month before, yet, to be compelled to continual idleness, was grievous to be borne. We derived some amusement, from the cultivation of a small garden, within the jail yard; but a continued sameness of friends and action, rendered our time extremely wearisome.

ABOUT a month after our arrival at this new abode, one Captain Milton, with

his crew, who, with their vessel, were taken at sea, were brought prisoners of war to the same place. Milton was lodged in our apartment; he had all the rude boist|erous airs of a seaman; without the least trait of a gentleman, which rendered him a very troublesome companion. His im|pudence was consummate, but that was not the greatest evil; while some new re|cruits were parading before the prison, one day, Milton addressed them in very im|proper language, from our window, which was noticed directly by city authority, who, supposing it to be Mr. Johnson, ordered him into the dungeon. Deeply affected, by this new trouble, I again called on my friend, Mr. Pertua, who, after having as|certained the facts, got him released. Mr. Milton was then put into other quarters.

A new jailer, who had an agreeable la|dy for his wife, now made our situation

still more happy. My little daughters played with hers, and learned the French language.

CAPT. M'Neil, and his brother, from Boston, were brought to us as prisoners; they told us the state of politicks, in our own country, and told us some interesting news, about some of our friends at home.

IN the morning of the thirteenth of August, our jailer, with moon eyes, came to congratulate us, on the taking of Oswe|go, by the French. We entered little into his spirit of joy, preferring much, to hear good news from the other side. We were soon visited by some of the prisoners, who had surrendered. Col. Schuyler was in the number, who, with the gentlemen in his suit, made us a generous present.

THE remainder of the summer and fall,

of fifty six, passed off without any sensible variation. We frequently heard from Montreal my sister was very well situated, in the family of the Lieut. Governor, and my eldest daughter was caressed by her three mothers. Could I have heard from my son, half my trouble would have ended.

IN December, I was delivered of a son, which lived but a few hours, and was bur|ied under the Cathedral Church.

IN the winter, I received a letter from my sister, containing the sad tidings of my father's death, who was killed by Indians, on his own farm, the preceding May. Savage vengeance fell heavily upon our family; I had a brother wounded at the same time, who ran to the fort, with the spear sticking in his thigh. Too much grief reduced me to a weak condition; I

was taken sick, and carried to the hospital, where, after a month's lingering illness, I found myself able to return.

THE commencement of the year fifty seven, passed off without a prospect of lib|erty. Part of our fellow prisoners, were sent to France, but we made no voyage out of the jail yard. About the first of May, we petitioned Mons. Vaudrieul, to permit our sister to come to us. Our prayer was granted, and in May, we had the pleasure of seeing her, after an ab|sence of two years. She had supported herself by her needle, in the family of the Lieut. Governor, where she was treated extremely well, and received a present of four crowns at parting.

IMPATIENT of confinement, we now made another attempt to gain our liberty. Mr. Pertua conducted us to the house of

the Lord Intendant, to whom we petition|ed in pressing terms; stating that we had now been prisoners almost three years, and had suffered every thing but death; and that would be our speedy portion, unless we had relief. His Lordship listen|ed with seeming pity, and promised to lay our case before the head man, at Mon|treal, and give us an answer, in seven days; at the expiration of which time, we had a permit to leave the prison. It is not easy to describe the effect of such news; those only, who have felt the hor|rors of confinement, can figure to them|selves, the happiness we enjoyed, when breathing, once more, the air of liberty. We took lodgings in town, where we tar|ried till the first of June; when a cartel ship arrived, to carry prisoners to En|gland, for an exchange. Mr. Johnson wrote an urgent letter, to Mons. Vau|drieul, praying that his family might be

included with those, who were to take pas|sage. Monsieur wrote a very encourag|ing letter back, promising that he and his family should sail, and that his daughter, Susanna, should be sent to him—he con|cluded, by congratulating him on his good prospects, and ordering the Governor of Quebec to afford us his assistance. This letter was dated June the 27th.

THIS tide of good fortune almost wip|ed away the remembrance of three years adversity. We began our preparations for embarkation, with alacrity. Mr. John|son wrote St. Luc Lucorne, for the seven hundred livres, due on Mr. Cuyler's or|der, but his request was, and still is, un|satisfied. This was a period, big with every thing propitious and happy. The idea of leaving a country, where I had suffered the keenest distress, during two months and a half, with the savages—been

bowed down by every mortification and insult, which could arise from the misfor|tunes of my husband in New-England; and, where I had spent two years in sickness and despair, in a prison too shocking to mention, contributed to fill the moment with all the happiness, which the benevo|lent reader will conceive my due, after sufferings so intense; to consummate the whole, my daughter was to be returned to my arms, who had been absent more than two years.—There was a good prospect of our son's being released from the In|dians; the whole, formed such a lucky combination of fortunate events, that the danger of twice crossing the ocean, to gain our native shore, vanished in a moment. My family were all in the same joyful mood, and hailed the happy day, when we should sail for England.

BUT little did we think, that this sun|shine

of prosperity was so soon to be darkened, by the heaviest clouds of mis|fortune. Three days before the appoint|ed day for sailing, the ship came down from Montreal, without my daughter; in a few moments, I met Mr. Pertua, who told me, that counter orders had come, and Mr. Johnson must be retained a pris|oner; only my two little daughters, sister and myself could go. This was calamity indeed; to attempt such a long, wearisome voyage, without money, and without ac|quaintance, and to leave a husband, and two children in the hands of enemies, was too abhorrent for reflection. But is was an affair of importance, and required weighty consideration; accordingly, the next day a solemn council, of all the pris|oners in the city, was held in the coffee house.—Col. Schuyler was president, and, after numerous arguments, for and against, were heard, it was voted, by a large ma|jority,

that I should go.—I, with hesita|tion, gave my consent. Some, perhaps, will censure the measure, as rash, and oth|ers may applaud my courage; but I had so long been accustomed to danger and distress, in the most menacing forms, they could assume, that I was now almost in|sensible to their threats; and this act was not a little biassed by desperation. Life could no longer retain its value, if linger|ed out in the inimical regions of Canada. In Europe, I should, at least, find friends, if not acquaintance; and among the nume|rous vessels bound to America, I might chance to get a passage. But then, to leave a tender husband, who had so long, at the hazard of his life, preserved my own; to part, perhaps forever, from two children, put all my resolution to the test, and shook my boasted firmness.

COL. Schuyler, whom we ever found

our benevolent friend, promised to use his influence, for Mr. Johnson's release, and for the redemption of our children.

ON the twentieth of July, we went on board the vessel, accompanied by Mr. Johnson, who went with us to take leave. We were introduced to the Captain, who was a gentleman, and a person of great civility;—he shewed us the best cabin, which was to be the place of our residence, and, after promising my husband, that the voyage should be made as agreeable to me as possible, he gave orders for weigh|ing anchor.—The time was now come, that we must part—Mr. Johnson took me by the hand—our tears imposed silence— I saw him step into the barge;—but my two little children, sister, and myself, were bound for Europe.

WE fell down the river St. Lawrence,

but a small distance that night. The next morning, the Captain, with a cheerful countenance, came to our cabin, and in|vited us to rise, and take our leave of Que|bec; none but myself complied, and I gazed, as long as sight would permit, at the place, where I had left my dearest friend.

CHAP. IX. Voyage to Plymouth. Occurrences. Sail|ing from Plymouth to Portsmouth, from thence, by the way of Cork, to Newyork.

ALL my fears and affliction, did not prevent my feeling some little joy, at being released from the jurisdiction of Frenchmen. I could pardon the Indians, for their vindictive spirit, because they had no claim to the benefits of civilization. But the French, who give lessons of po|liteness, to the rest of the world, can de|rive no advantage from the plea of igno|rance. The blind superstition, which is inculcated by their monks and friars, doubtless, stifles, in some measure, the ex|ertion of pity towards their enemies; and the common herd, which includes al|most

seven eighths of their number, have no advantages from education. To these sources, I attribute most of my sufferings. But I found some benevolent friends, whose generosity I shall ever recollect, with the warmest gratitude.

THE commencement of the voyage, had every favorable presage; the weather was fine, the sailors cheerful, and the ship in good trim. My accommodations in the Captain's family, were very commodious; a boy was allowed me, for my particular use. We sailed with excellent fortune, till the nineteenth of August, when we hove in sight of old Plymouth, and at four o'clock, in the afternoon, dropped anchor.

THE next day, all but myself and fam|ily, were taken from the vessel; we felt great anxiety at being left, and began to

fear, that fortune was not willing to smile on us, even on these shores; we waited in despair, thirty or forty hours, and found no relief. The Captain, observing our de|spondency, began his airs of gaiety to cheer us; he assured us, that we should not suffer—that if the English would not receive us, he would take us to France, and make us happy. But, at last an officer came on board, to see if the vessel was pre|pared for the reception of French prison|ers. We related to him our situation; he conducted us on shore, and applied to the Admiral for directions—who ordered us lodgings, and the King's allowance of two shillings sterling, per day, for our support. Fortunately, we were lodged in a house, where resided Captain John Tuston Ma|son, whose name will be familiar to the inhabitants of Newhampshire, on account of his patent. He very kindly interested himself in our favor, and wrote to Messrs.

Thomlinson and Apthorp, agents at Lon|don, for the Province of Newhampshire, soliciting their assistance, in my behalf. We tarried at Plymouth but a fortnight, during which time, I received much atten|tion, and had to gratify many an inquisi|tive friend, with the history of my suffer|ings.

CAPT. Mason procured me a passage to Portsmouth, in the Rainbow man of war, from whence I was to take passage in a packet, for America. Just as I stepped on board the Rainbow, a good lady, with her son, came to make me a visit; her cu|riosity to see a person of my description, was not abated, by my being on my pas|sage; she said she could not sleep, till she had seen the person, who had suffered such hard fortune.—After she had asked all the questions that time would allow of, she gave me a guinea, and a half guinea

to my sister, and a muslin handkerchief to each of my little girls. On our arrival at Portsmouth, the packet had sailed; the Captain of the Rainbow, not finding it convenient to keep us with him, introduc|ed us on board the Royal Ann.

WHEREVER we lived, we found the best friends and the politest treatment.— It will be thought singular, that a defence|less woman, should suffer so many changes, without meeting with some insults, and many incivilities. But, during my long residence on board the various vessels, the most delicate gallantry ever designated my companions. The officers were assiduous in making my situation agreeable, and readily proffered their services.

WHILE on board the Royal Ann, I re|ceived the following letters; the reader will excuse the recitation; it would be in|gratitude

gratitude not to record such conspicuous acts of benevolence.

Plymouth, Sept. 13, 1757.

MADAM,

LATE last postnight, I received an an|swer from Mr. Apthorp, who is partner with Mr. Thomlinson, the agent for New|hampshire, with a letter enclosed to you, which gave you liberty to draw on him for fifteen guineas. As Madam Hornech was just closing her letter to you, I gave it her, to enclose for you, I now write a|gain to London, in your behalf. You must immediately write Mr. Apthorp, what you intend to do, and what further you would have him, and our friends at London, do for you.

I hope you have received the benefac|tion, of the charitable Ladies in this town. All friends here commisserate your misfor|tunes,

and wish you well, together with your sister and children.

Your friend and countryman to serve. JOHN T. MASON.

Mrs. JOHNSON.

London, Sept. 7, 1757.

MADAM,

I received a letter from Capt. Mason, dated the thirtieth of last month, giving an account of your unfortunate situation, and yesterday, Mr. Thomlinson, who is ill in the country, sent me your letter, to|gether with Capt. Mason's to him, with the papers relative to you. In conse|quence of which, I, this day, applied to a number of gentlemen, in your behalf; who, very readily gave their assistance▪ but as I am a stranger to the steps you in|tend to pursue, I can only give you liber|ty, at present, to draw on me for ten or fifteen guineas, for which sum your bill shall be paid, and when you furnish me

with information, I shall, very cheerfully, give any furtherance in my power, to your relief, when I shall also send you a list of your benefactors.

I am, Madam, your most humble servant, JOHN APTHORP.

Mrs. SUSANNA JOHNSON

Letter from H Grove.

I have now the pleasure to let dear Mrs. Johnson know the goodness of Mrs. Hor|nech; she has collected seven pounds for you, and sent it to Mrs. Brett, who lives in the yard at Portsmouth, to beg her fa|vors to you, in any thing she can do, to help or assist you. She is a good lady; do go to her, and let her know your distress. Capt. Mason has got a letter this post, but he is not at home; cannot tell you further. You will excuse this scrawl, likewise my not enlarging. As Mr. Hornech waits to send it away. Only

believe me, madam, you have my earnest prayers to God, to help and assist you. My mama's compliments with mine, and begs to wait on you, and, believe me, dear Mrs. Johnson, yours in all events to serve you.

HANNAH GROVE.

Sunday eve, 10 o'clock.

I received the donation, and Mr. Ap|thorp sent me the fifteen guineas. I sin|cerely lament, that he omitted sending me the names of my benefactors.

THE Captain of the Royal Ann, sup|posing my situation with him, might not be so convenient, applied to the mayor, for a permit for me to take lodgings in the city, which was granted. I took new lodgings, where I tarried three or four days, when orders came for me to be on board the Orange, man of war, in three

hours, which was to sail for America. We made all possible dispatch, but when we got to the shore, we were astonished to find the ship too far under way, to be o|vertaken. No time was to be lost, I ap|plied to a waterman, to carry us to a mer|chantman, who was weighing anchor, at a distance, to go in the same fleet. He hesitated long enough to pronounce a chapter of oaths, and rowed us off. When we came to the vessel, I petitioned the Captain to take us on board, till he over|took the Orange. He directly flew into a violent passion, and offered greater in|sults, than I had ever received, during my whole voyage; he swore we were women of bad fame, who wished to follow the ar|my, and that he would have nothing to do with us. I begged him to calm his rage, and we would convince him of his error. But, fortunately, the victualler of the fleet happened to be in the ship, who

at this moment stepped forward, with his roll of names, and told the outrageous Captain, that he would soon convince him, whether we deserved notice, by searching his list. He soon found our names, and the Captain began to beg pardon.—He took us on board, and apologized for his rude|ness. We sailed with a fair wind for Cork, where the fleet took provision. We tarri|ed a fortnight in this place, during which time, the Captain of the Orange came on board to see me, and to offer me a birth in his vessel; but that being a battle ship, it was thought best for me to stay where I then was. After weighing anchor at Cork, we had a passage of seven weeks, remarka|bly pleasant, to Newyork. On the tenth of December, we dropped anchor at San|dy Hook; on the eleventh, I had the su|preme felicity, to find myself on shore in my native country, after an absence of three years, three months, and eleven days.

CHAP. X The History ends.

I MIGHT descant for many a page, on the felicity I felt, on being once more in my own country; but others can guess my feelings better than I can tell them. The Mayor of Newyork, ordered lodgings for us; here I had the pleasure of meeting my friend, Col. Schuyler, who gave me much information about affairs in Canada, he told me that my husband had been released, and taken passage in a cartel ship, for Halifax; and that he had redeemed my son from the Indians, for the sum of five hundred livres.

MY fellow prisoner, Labarree, had made his escape from the French, and had been

in Newyork a few days before, on his way home.

WE tarried in Newyork ten days—then took water passage for Newhaven, where I had the good fortune to find a number of officers who had been stationed at Charles|town, the preceding summer, who gratifi|ed my curiosity with intelligence respect|ing my relations and friends in that place. Some of these gentlemen, among whom was Col. Whiting, kindly undertook to as|sist us on our journey home, by the way of Springfield. At Hartford we found some gentlemen who were bound for Charlestown; they solicited my sister* 8.1 to go in company with them, which she assented to.

WHEN within half a dozen miles of Springfield, Mr. Ely, a benevolent friend of Mr. Johnson's, sent his two sons, with a sleigh to convey me to his house, where I proposed staying till some of my friends could hear of my arrival. Fortunately, Mr. Johnson about the same time arrived at Boston, but misfortune had not yet fill|ed the measure of his calamity. He had no sooner landed, than he was put un|der guard, on suspicion of not performing his duty in the redemption of the Canada prisoners, which suspicion was occasioned by his remisness in producing his vouchers. But the following certificate procured his liberty.

THIS is to certify, whom it may con|cern, that the bearer, Lieutenant James Johnson, inhabitant in the town of Charles|town, in the Province of Newhampshire, in Newengland; who together with his

family were taken by the Indians on the thirtieth of August 1754, has ever since continued a steady and faithful subject to his Majesty King George, and has used his utmost endeavors to redeem his own family, and all others belonging to the Province aforesaid, that was in the hands of the French and Indians, which he can|not yet accomplish; and that both himself and family, have undergone innumerable hardships and affliction since they have been prisoners in Canada.

IN testimony of which, we the subscrib|ers, Officers in his Brittanick Majesty's service, and now prisoners of war at Que|bec, have thought it necessary to grant him this certificate, and do recommend him as an object worthy the aid and compassion of every honest Englishman.

Signed

• PETER SCHUYLER,
• ANDREW WATKINS,
• WILLIAM MARTIN,
• WILLIAM PADGELD.

Quebec, Sept. 16, 1757.

AFTER his dismission, from the guards in Boston, he proceeded directly for Charlestown. When within fifteen miles of Springfield, he was met by a gentleman, who had just before seen me, who gave him the best news he could have heard; although, it was then late at night, he lost not a moment.—At two o'clock, in the morning of the first of January 1758, I a|gain embraced my dearest friend—happy new year, with pleasure would I describe my emotions of joy, could language paint them sufficiently forcible; but the feeble pen shrinks from the task.

CHARLESTOWN was still a frontier town, and suffered from savage depreda|tions, which rendered it an improper resi|dence for me; consequently I went to Lancaster.

MR. Johnson, in a few days, sat out for Newyork, to adjust his Canada accounts.

But, on his journey, he was persuaded by Gov. Pownal to take a Captain's commis|sion, and join the forces, bound for Ticon|deroga; where he was killed on the 8th of July following, while fighting for his country. Humanity will weep with me. The cup of sorrow, was now replete with bitter drops. All my former miseries were lost in the affliction of the widow.

IN the October following, I had the happiness to embrace rny son Sylvanus; he had been above three years with the Indians, followed them in all their hunt|ing excursions and learnt too many of their habits; to civilize him, and learn him his native language was a severe task.

I lived in Lancaster till October 1759, when I returned to old Charlestown.— The sight of my former residence afforded a strange mixture of joy and grief, while

the desolations of war, and the loss of a number of dear and valuable friends, com|bined to give the place an air of melan|choly. Soon after my arrival, Major Rogers returned from an expedition against the village St. Francis, which he had destroy|ed and killed most of the inhabitants. He brought with him a young Indian prison|er, who stopped at my house, the moment he saw me, he cried, my God, my God here is my sister; it was my little brother Sabatis, who formerly used to bring the cows for me, when I lived at my Indian masters. He was transported to see me, and declared that he was still my brother, and I must be his sister. Poor fellow! The fortune of war had left him without a single relation, but with his country's enemies, he could find one who too sensi|bly felt his miseries; I felt the purest pleasure in administering to his comfort.

MY daughter Susanna, was still in Can|ada—but as I had the fullest assurances that every attention was paid to her edu|cation and welfare, by her three mothers, I felt less anxiety than I otherwise might have done.

EVERY one will imagine, that I have paid affliction her utmost demand, the pains of imprisonment, the separation from my children, the keen sorrow occasioned by the death of a butchered father, and the severe grief arising from my husband's death, will amount to a sum, perhaps, un|equaled. But still my family must be doomed to further, and severe persecu|tions, from the savages. In the com|mencement of the summer of seventeen hundred and sixty, my brother in law, Mr. Joseph Willard, with his wife and five children, who lived but two miles dis|tant from me, were taken by a party of

Indians. They were carried much the same rout that I was, to Montreal. Their journey of fourteen days, through the wil|derness, was a series of miseries, unknown to any but those who suffered with me, they lost two children, whose deaths were owing to savage barbarity. The history of their captivity would almost equal my own, but the reader's commiseration and pity must now be exhausted. No more of anguish, no more of sufferings.

THEY arrived at Montreal, a few days before the French surrendered it to the English; and after four Month's absence, returned home, and brought my daughter Susanna to my arms; while I rejoiced at again meeting my child, whom I had not seen for above four years, I felt extremely grateful to the Mrs. Jaissons, for the af|fectionate attention they had bestowed her. As they had received her as their

child, they had made their affluent for|tune subservient to her best interest. To give her the accomplishments of a polite education had been their principal care, she had contracted an ardent love for them, which never will be obliterated. Their parting was an affecting scene of tears.

MR. Farnsworth, my only fellow prison|er whose return I have not mentioned, came home a little before.

THUS, by the goodness of Providence, we all returned in the course of six pain|ful years, to the place from whence we were taken. The long period of our cap|tivity, and the severity of our sufferings, will be called uncommon and unprece|dented. But we even found some friends to pity, among our most persecuting ene|mies; and from the various shapes, in which mankind appeared, we learned ma|ny

valuable lessons. Whether in the wilds of Canada, the horrid jails of Quebec, or in our voyage to Europe, daily occur|rences happened, to convince us, that the passions of men are as various as their complexions. And, although my suffer|ings were often increased by the selfish|ness of this world's spirit, yet the numerous testimonies of generosity I received, bids me suppress the charge of neglect, or want of benevolence. That I have been an un|fortunate woman, all will grant; yet, my misfortunes, while they enriched my ex|perience, and taught me the value of pa|tience, have increased my gratitude to the author of all blessings, whose goodness and mercy have preserved my life to the pres|ent time.

I am now in the winter of life, and feel sensibly the effects of old age, my vacant hours I often employ in reflecting on the

various scenes, that have marked the dif|ferent stages of my life. When viewing the present rising generation, in the bloom of health, and enjoying those gay pleas|ures which shed their exhilerating influ|ence, so plentifully in the morn of life, I look back to my early days, when I too was happy, and basked in the sunshine of good fortune: Little do they think, that the meridian of their lives, can possibly be rendered miserable by captivity or a pris|on; as little too did I think, that my gild|ed prospects could be obscured, but it was the happy delusion of youth; and I fer|vently wish there was no deception. But that Being, who "sits upon the circle of the earth, and views the inhabitants as grasshoppers," allots our fortunes.

ALTHOUGH I have drank so largely, from the cup of sorrow, yet my present happiness is a small compensation. Twice

has my country been ravaged by war, since my remembrance; I have detailed the share I bore in the first; in the last, al|though the place in which I live, was not a field of bloody battle, yet its vicinity to Ticonderoga, and the savages that ravaged the Coos country, rendered it perilous and distressing. But now, no one can set a higher value on the smiles of peace, than myself. The savages are driven beyond the Lakes, and our country has no ene|mies. The gloomy wilderness, that forty years ago, secreted the Indian and the beast of prey, has vanished away; and the thrifty farm smiles in its stead; the sun|days, that were then employed in guard|ing a fort, are now quietly devoted to wor|ship; the tomahawk and scalping knife, have given place to the sickle and plough|share; and prosperous husbandry now thrives, where the terrors of death once chilled us with fear.

MY numerous progeny, often gather a|round me, to hear the sufferings once felt by their aunt or grandmother, and wonder at their magnitude. My daughter, Cap|tive, still keeps the dress she appeared in, when brought to my bed side, by the French nurse, at the Ticonderoga hospi|tal; and often refreshes my memory with past scenes, when showing it to her chil|dren. These things yield a kind of mel|ancholy pleasure.

INSTANCES of longevity are remarkable in my family. My aged mother says to me, arise daughter and go to thy daughter, for your daughter's daughter, has got a daughter; a command which few mothers can make and be obeyed.

AND now reader, after sincerely wish|ing that your days may be as happy, as mine have been unfortunate, I bid you adieu.

Charlestown, June 20, 1796.

Notes

• * 1.1

  This, as we afterwards found, was occasioned by his meeting Mr. Osmer at the door of the house, who lodged in the chamber, and had secreted him|self behind a box, and was then making his es|cape. He run directly to the fort, and the alarm guns were fired. My father, Mr. James Willard, was then second in command. Captain Stevens was for sallying out with a party for our relief; but my father begged him to desist, as the Indians made it an invari|able practice to kill their prisoners when attacked.
• * 1.2

  Mr. Labarree is very positive, and I think Mr. Johnson was of the same opinion, that seven|teen Indians attacked the house; the other six might have been a scouting party, that watched till we were out of danger, and then took another rout.
• * 4.1

  Two children from Mr. H. Grout's family, and two children belonging to Mrs. How, the fair captive, celebrated in Col. Humphrey's life of Putnam. Their names were Polly and Submit Phips. Mrs. How was then a prisoner at St. Johns, with six other children, and one Garfield. They were all taken at Hinsdale.—Mrs. How's daugh|ters were purchased by Mons. Vaudrieul, the Governor, and had every attention paid their ed|ucation. After a year's residence in Montreal, they were sent to the grand nunnery in Quebec, where my sister and I, made them a visit; they were beautiful girls, cheerful and well taught. We here found two aged English ladies, who had been taken in former wars. One, by the name of Wheel|right, who had a brother in Boston, on whom she requested me to call, if ever I went to that place; I complied with her request afterwards, and receiv|ed many civilities from her brother.
• * 8.1

  Miss Miriam Willard, was afterwards married to the Reverend Mr. Whitney, of Shirley, Massa|chusetts.