con 
A Story of the Old Frontier. 
BY ROWLAND E. ROBINSON. 
Near the southern border of Vermont a little brook 
leaps and races down the hills to an intervale, through 
which It creeps in devious windings to a tributary of the 
Connecticut. One unacquainted with the industries of 
the pioneer settlers might be puzzled to account for the 
origin of Its name. Potash Brook, which it has borne sincp 
the first settler here gathered the ashes of the fallow 
burnings and turned them to account in the manufacture 
of a marketable commodity. 
One hundred and. fifty years have passed since Simeon 
Draper made a clearing and built a rude potashery on 
the bank of the brook, half a mile up the larger stream 
from his home. It consisted of a rough stone chimney 
and fireplace, in wh'ch a great potash kettle was set. shel- 
tered by a bark-roofed shed that was inclosed with logs 
on three sides. Near this and close by the brook, for the 
sake of the necessary water, three leach tubs, sawn from a 
large hollow elm, stood on a slanting platform of hewn 
plank or puncheons, from which the lye dripped into- a 
great log trough, and near by was the important ash bin, 
carefuly roofed. 
Simeon Draper and his son, Stephen, a lad of thir- 
teen, tended the works by day, as far as possible, when 
there was less of the alwaj^s imminent danger of murder 
or capture by prowl ng bands of Canadian Indians. One 
or the other dreadful fate was predicted by the less 
venturesome settlers who lived further down the valley 
nearer the shelter of the fortified blockhouse, but Simeon, 
brave to the verge of fcolhardiness, and impelled by the 
hope of a bountiful reward, declared that he would not 
abandon the enterprise until obliged to do so by some- 
thing more than fear of danger. 
One forenoon early in May. after a busy night, Simeon 
stood regarding the bciling kettle with critical satisfac- 
tion for a moment before speaking to his son. 
"Now, Stevy, I'll go to the hoiise an' fetch some din- 
ner an' supper, an' fill the vinegar bottle that's e'enamost 
empty. We'll need it bad if we get a speck o' potash or 
a drop o' lye spattered in our eyes. You keep the kettle 
u-wollopm', for we want to 'salts down' afore dark, so's 
not to have to stay here over night, only don't let it bile 
over, '^u needn't put no more water on the leaches, for 
the lye is g'ttin' so weak it won't sca'ccly bear an egg, 
now; you won't have nothin' to do but keep the fire goin' 
an' the kittle from b'ilin' over, an', of course, keep an eye 
out for Injuns. I don't b'lieve there's one in fifty mile, 
but if you see any sign, clioper for home. I'll leave the 
gun wi' you an' '11 be back to rights," and taking the 
empty vinegar bottle, he set forth at a brisk pace along the 
footpath. 
Stephen fed another stick of wood to the roaring fire 
and then went to the back of the shanty, where the long- 
barreled smoothbore leaned in a corner, from which he 
lifted it and fondled it with more than mere boyish ad- 
miration of a firearm, for now it was his sole com- 
panion and faithful protector. He rested it across the 
projecting end of a log of the side wall, and took a 
long aim at an imaginary Indian in the form of a stump 
on the rocky hillside beyond the leach tubs, then drew 
a finer bead on a moose flower that shone in bright relief 
against a black shadoAv, and wished that he might prove 
his marksmanship by actual test. But such a waste of 
precious ammunition was not to be thought of even if the 
report would not be certain to bring his father ihurrying 
back in needless alarm. As a bear would not shamble 
forth nor a wolf sneak into the open from the wood- 
side where a company of jays were berating some object 
of their dislike, he contented himself with opening the 
pan and examining the priming and adding a few grains 
of powder from the engraved powder horn given his 
father in Connecticut. 
A premonitory slop of lye on the hot embers hastily 
summoned him to his duty. He partially quelled the 
riotous liquid by vigorous dipping and pouring with the 
long-handled dipper. He paused in his work to listen to 
an unfamiliar bird song that caught his ear above the 
crackling roar of the fire and the muffled wolloping of 
the kettle and the churning of the little waterfall in its 
hollow basin. It was a merrier sound even than the 
babble of the brook or the mu.sical tinkle of the lye in 
the great trough, for it was the song of the first bobo- 
link that had discovered the new clearing, rejoicing over 
its desolation of blackened stumps and withered fireweed. 
wherein, perhaps, it saw the greenness and bloom of 
future summer meadows. Three years had passed since 
the young pioneer heard a bobolink singing its blythe 
chorus in the sunny fields of old Connecticut, and it 
brought an ache of yearning for the pleasanter and easier 
life in the older settlement Yet it was a signal of con- 
quest well begun, and a promise of victory over savage 
nature. The bo3r's abstracted gaze rested, on the scathed 
clearing, the brook, robbed of all its beauty and choked 
with brush, the greening border of the forest, yet he saw 
not there but a vision of smooth meadows and pas- 
tures and a clear stream winding between green banks. 
The turmoil of the boiling lye recalled him to his duty, 
and he began dipping and pouring again, too intent upon 
his work to look behind him for the cause of a nearer 
outbreak of clamor from the jays. A moment later a 
.smart tap on the shoulder made him turn his head with a 
sudden start, which was succeeded by a sinking horror 
when he found himself in the presence of two stalwart 
Indians, the face of the nearest W'ore an almost good- 
natured expression as he regarded Stephen's consterna- 
tion and complete helplessness. The other was a wicked- 
looking savage whose beady little eyes glittered with a 
snaky, murderous light, and he fingered his tomahawk in 
his belt as if he could hardly restrain the desire to use it. 
"Boy no good watchman camp," said the first, broaden- 
ing his grin. "Injun ketch now. Boy walk in woods 
'long me. i^'Ie makum good Injun." 
As he spoke he handled a thong of moose hide, the 
use of M'hich Stephen understood, and to "walk the 
woods" he knew meant to be taken through the wilder- 
ness to Canada. Both Indians cast furtive glances upon 
the boiling lye with a curiosity their stoicism could not 
conceal, until abandoning the attempt the spokesman 
asked, pointing to the kettle : ' 
FOREST AND STREA M. 
What call um? Pastoniac make um lum?" 
Impelled by an impulse of self-preservation, the 
sequences of which he did not pause to consider, Stephen 
answered : 
£.i"'T^^1* y^^"*^ ^'■'"^ some?" and raised the half- 
tilled dipper With a gesture of invitation. 
_ Both stooped toward the proffered draught, each blow- 
ing at the steam and shrinking a little from immediate 
contact with the hot vessel. A means of escape flashed 
through the boy's mind which he put in execution as soon 
as conceived. Withdrawing the dipper a little, he flung 
the contents full in the faces of the Indian, then leaping 
out at the opposite side of the shed, he sprang away at full 
speed for home. 
The one on the further side received the larger share 
of the scalding caustic fairly in the face, and was com-' 
pletely blmded by it, wh le the other was struck upon 
one side and made immediate use of his uninjured eye to 
take a flying shot at Stephen. Half-blinded, wholly sur- 
prised and tortured with excruciating pain, his aim was 
wild, and the ball went whistling high over Stephen's 
head. His companion, bewildered by the sudden blindness 
and suffering torture as exquisite as any his people had 
e\'er inflicted on their captives, groped away from the 
noise of fire and seething kettle till the sound of the run- 
ning brook caught his ear, when he staggered toward it 
and plunged into the water. 
Simeon Draper, alarmed by the report of the gun, was 
hurrying back with provisions, the refilled vinegar bottle 
and the spare gun from, the house, when he was met by 
his sen, who with few words told of his adventure. 
Stealthily approaching the camp by a circuitous route, 
they discovered the Indians still at the brook and so en- 
gaged in bathing their injured faces and with but one eye 
between them to apprise them of danger, that they were 
easily captured. There was small chance of escape when 
one half-bl nd man had to lead another totally blind, and 
they submitted stoically to their fate, whatever it might be. 
"Red water burn plenty bad," said the spokesman. 
' Water no put um out." 
Draper gave him the vinegar and directed him to bathe 
his own and his comrade's eyes with it, which, though it 
smarted terribly for a time, stopped the biting of the 
caustic and gave grateful relief. 
Then Stephen, with the long smoothbore, stood guard 
over the captives while his father completed the boiling 
down of the lye to "black salts." This was set to cool 
and harden in a smaller kettle. Then as the sun was 
going down; with their prisoners before them, they 
marched home, hungry as wolves, for the pork and corn- 
bread had been fairly divided with the Indians, whose 
appetite seemed unimpaired by their misfortunes. 
Great was the surpri.se and thankfulness of Patience 
Draper when she saw her husband and son returning, safe 
and unharmed, although accompanied by the two savages, 
for she had heard the gun and had passed two hours of 
such agonizing dread as frontier life often brought to 
v.omenkind. The deliverance gained by her son's bold 
stroke aroused her devout thankfulness, yet her womanly 
heart pitied the suffering plight of the stolid captives, and 
she dressed their wounds as carefully as if these men 
were friends and not the relentless foes of her people. 
The news of Stephen's exploit soon spread among the 
scattered settlers, and they came to seek confirmation of 
the story by sight of the captives, with their heads 
bandaged by good iiVIistress Draper, whose kindness met 
slight approval from most of the visitors. 
"If I'd ha' ketched 'em, I'd jest ha' knocked 'em in the 
head wi' my ax or beetle," declared old Ephraim Long, 
who had been a scalp hunter and had borne a part in 
Lovewell's famous fight. "Sarve Injuns that sass an' they 
won't never pester nob'dy ag'in." 
The opinion of the majority of the settlers coincided 
with that of "ol' man Long," yet Patience Draper con- 
tinued her benevolent work, and the condition of the 
captives improved so rapidly that the neighbors predicted 
they would soon be able to murder their benefactors and 
then make their escape, and all increased their vigilance 
and strengthened their means of protection. The silent 
Indian indeed seemed vicious enough to fulfill the 
prophecy if he had the power, but the other made simple 
and apparently sincere expressions of gratitude. 
"You good squaw. iMe Cap'n Joe," he said, standing 
erect and pounding the breast of his blanket coat with his 
fist. "IMe fight, plenty. Me ketch Pastoniac, plenty. 
Make um walk woods. Me big man. Dodosun," point- 
ing to his comrade, "him good sojer; fight Pastoniac, 
ketch, plenty. Him big man, bose big men, Lee'l Pas- 
toniac boy. half so big, ketch um bose of it 'Ugh! Dat 
shame, plenty," and he laughed as if he relished the joke, 
but the unbandaged lower half of Dodosiin's face looked 
savagely sullen. 
Simeon Draper had no fear of his captives' attempting 
to escape in their present condition, and maintained a 
loose guard over them. So it happened later on that he 
awoke one morning to find them gone, so long departed 
that they must be far l)eyond the verge of the forest, in 
which it would be as useless to search for them as for a 
mouse in a straAv stack. Except for their value as ex- 
changes for English captives, and that they had carried 
away one of the guns, he was not sorry to be rid of them. 
The prediction of the older settlers was verified in part 
and its completion still expected, yet for two years the 
frontier remained ' undisturbed, except by rumors of 
threatened attack, But one midsummer day when the 
men folks were all at work in the meadows, in such 
fancied security that but few had carried their guns with 
them, a strong band of Waubanakees; suddenly swooped 
down upon the place, killed and scalped one man, wounded 
and captured another and carried off three women and five 
children, among whom were Patience Draper and her 
youngest child, a little girl not two years old. No attack 
was. made on the blockhouse, where the families at once 
took shelter, and from which all but a small guard of 
able-bodied men set forth in pursuit of the marauders, 
under the lead of Sergeant Ephraim Long. 
After a sharp pursuit twenty miles up the river, tbe 
Indians were about to be overtaken when they sent back 
one of the captured children with the threat that if they 
were attacked they would at once put all the captives to 
death. Some of the rescue party were for giving no heed 
to this, but a majority, among whom were those whose 
wives and children were in jeopardy, were unwilling to 
risk its execution, and it was decided to abandon the chase. 
The Indians continued their route, by what was known 
[Nov. IS, 1902. 
a? the "Indian road" up the West or Wantastequet River, 
then across the "height of land" to Otter Creek, where 
their canoes had been secreted. In these they now em- 
barked with their plunder and captives to the great relief 
of the latter, who had been hurried over the rough trail 
11; constant fear that some of the little children would 
give out and be murdered by the savages, according to 
then- well-known custom. No one of the unhappy com- 
LK^ny suffered the horror of this fear more keenly than 
1 atience Draper, whose httle girl was the youngest of the 
captives, and least able to endure the hardships of the 
journey. For many weary miles the mother had carried 
the child, till she was in danger of bringing upon herself 
the fatal stroke, the most dreaded because it would leave 
the child among the savages without her care and pro- 
tection. 
Embarked in the canoes, in comparative bodily com- 
fort, the party glided steadily down the river, winding 
through the ancient forest, past shores that showed no 
trace of former human presence save in the worn trail 
of carrying places, past rock-torn rapids and thunder- 
ous cataracts. Passing the last and greatest of these, at 
what IS now Vergennes, they glided for miles down a 
wide, deep channel so devious that it well deserves the 
name Peconktuk, "Crooked River," by which it was 
known to the Waubanakees as well as by the name 
of Womakahketuk, "Otter River." At length they came 
to the broad expanse of Peton Brook, the beautiful lake 
ot lower Champlain. Here they landed on a low 
promontory sloping gently to the river from the rock- 
walled lakeward shore. In front the ragged steeps of 
a mountain arose from the water's edge. Far to the 
northward, beyond jutting capes of rock and forest, 
lake and sky met where dim islands lay like stranded 
clouds between them. To the southward the blue waters 
seemed compassed by low shores and sheer walls of 
mountain. In all the extended scene there was no 
sign of human life but in the brief encampment of 
marauders. 
The next morning the Indians held an unintelligible 
consultation, which resulted in their embarkation for the 
southward. Coasting along the eastern shore, after two 
hours of continuous paddling, they saw before them the 
emblazoned lilies of France floating over the citadel of 
Fort St Frederick, and half an hour later they landed 
on the beach near the western walls of the fortress. 
Here a motley company of French soldiers, Indians of 
both sexes and all ages, and a similar throng of Canadians 
from the adjacent village, were gathered to receive the 
comers with various expressions of satisfaction. The 
Frenchmen tempered theirs with pity for the unfortunate 
captives, the Canadians vociferously jabbered inquiries 
and comments, the Indians uttered yells of triumph, and 
the squaws crowded about the prisoners, taunting and' 
mocking them, and were only withheld from actual vio- 
lence by the interposition of a French ofiicer. 
Patience noticed one Indian attentively regarding her 
with the only eye that he possessed, by which and by his 
scarred face she presently recognized her old acquaint- 
ance, Captain Joe. She started and would have spoken, 
but with an unmoved countenance he turned his back upon 
her and stalked away with his squaw following three paces 
behind him. 
. _ "An Indian's gratitude I" she sighed, and then grew 
sick with fear that vengeance might be wreaked on her 
and her little daughter for the cruel way her son had 
defended himself against Captain Joe and Dodosun. With 
this dread added to her dismal forebodings of a long and 
miserable captivity, she was led away with her fellow 
prisoners to the fort, where by direction of the ofiicer, they 
were placed in a comfortable though dungeon-like apart- 
ment, and supplied with abundant food. Here they were 
left to themselves, except when some inquisitive visitor 
came to stare at them. Once a black-robed priest with a 
crafty, smooth-shaven face, stole in, cat-like, and closely 
scanned each face, dwelling with open admiration upon 
the pretty features of little Nancy Draper. 
"She is a child of great beauty," he said in EngHsh. 
"We will place her in the convent and the good sisters 
shall make her to be a Christian." 
Patience drew the child closer, as if to shield her from 
a fate so abhorrent to her own belief and the priest 
passed on. 
At night, a small lamp hanging on the wall Avas lighted 
and the captives laid themselves down on a litter of straw 
on the stone floor, the most comfortable beds they had 
enjoyed since their captivity, and soon all were asleep, save 
Patience, whose anxieties were too great for repose. 
Some time had elapsed when she saw an Indian cautiously 
and noiselessly enter the door, followed by a squaw and 
pappoose, both closely wrapped in a blanket. To her sur- 
prise and alarm they came directly to her, and the man 
said in a low voice: 
"Come 'long me. Me take you. Diaper. You know 
me. Cap'n Joe. Me no forgit flien'. Put um squaw 
blanket on. Covel up leeT gal. Come." 
The squaw thrcAv off her blanket and Patience saw that 
what she supposed was a pappoose concealed beneath it 
was only a make-believe bundle. She hesitated a moment, 
then arose and took her sleeping child in her arms, when 
the blanket was thrown over both, covering her head so as 
to conceal her color and features from casual observa- 
tion, The squaw was quietly lying down in her place as 
she followed the Indian. 
They passed a French soldier who stood on guard out- 
s'de the door, but he barely noticed their exit, so freely 
were the Indians permitted to come and go. Her guide 
led on through several rooms and passages to a stone 
staircase, descending to a heavy, oaken door, where 3 
white-coated soldier stood under arms with a lantern at 
his feet. At a word from the Indian he unbarred an-I 
opened the great door, holding the lantern to light the 
way down another short flight of stone steps, the water 
gate of the fortress, and the glitter of wavelets shone at 
their feet. A canoe was lying there, and at a motion of 
her companion. Patience stepped into it, when he drew 
the stern toward him and got on board. 
"My brother and sister go forth late," the soldier said, 
speaking in French, as he stood holding the lantern at the 
bead of the stairs. 
"To spy the Pastoniac. squaw sell um baskets," the In- 
dian answered, laconically. 
"Oh, I comprehend," the soldier laughed, softly. "My 
brother is a fox. Good voyage," 
