Ten American Girls From History

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Powhatan had respected Captain Smith, but for the white men as a race
he had more enmity than liking, and now he and his neighbors, the
Chickahominies, again refused to send any provisions to Jamestown, and
again the colonists faced a famine. Captain Argall, in command of an
English ship, suggested once more going to Werewocomoco to force
Powhatan into giving them corn, and soon sailed up the Potomac toward
the Indian village. One night on the way up, while the ship lay at
anchor near shore, an Indian came aboard with the news that the
Emperor's dearest daughter, Pocahontas, was staying among the
Potomacks visiting a chief named Japazaws. The unscrupulous Captain
had an idea. If he could capture Pocahontas and hold her for a ransom
he would surely be able to gain anything he demanded from Powhatan. No
thought of the kindness and loyalty of the Indian maiden to the white
man interfered with his scheming. Corn he must have, and here was a
way to obtain it. He quickly arranged with the Indian for an interview
with the Chief Japazaws, who proved to be quite as unscrupulous as
Captain Argall, and for a copper kettle promised to deliver Pocahontas
into the Captain's hands--in fact, to bring her aboard his vessel on
the following day.

Having taken his wife into his confidence, Japazaws told her in the
presence of Pocahontas that the white Captain had invited her to visit
his ship. She retorted that she would like to accept, but would not go
unless Pocahontas would go too. Japazaws pretended to be very angry at
this:--

"I wish you to go," he exclaimed; "if you do not accept I will beat
you until you do."

But the squaw was firm.

"I will not go without Pocahontas," she declared.

Pocahontas was very kind-hearted, as the chief and his wife knew, so
at once she said:

"Stop beating her; I will do as she wishes!"

Captain Argall gave them a cordial greeting and had a lavish feast
prepared in their honor, and while they were talking together he asked
Pocahontas if she would not like to see the gun-room. She assented,
entirely unsuspicious of any treachery, and was horrified when she
heard the door fastened behind her, and knew that for some reason she
was a prisoner. Terror-stricken,--brave girl though she was,--she
pounded violently on the door and cried as she had never cried before
in all her care-free life, begging "Let me out!" but in vain. She
could hear Japazaws and his wife weeping even more violently than she
on the other side of the door, and begging for her release, but it
was only a pretense. The door remained locked, and as soon as the
couple were given the copper kettle and a few trinkets, they left the
ship contentedly. After that there was an ominous silence on the
vessel, except for the sobbing of the Indian girl, who was still more
frightened as she felt the motion of the ship and knew they were
getting under way.

But as they sailed down the river to Jamestown, the captain unlocked
the door and the girl was allowed to come out of her prison. She faced
him with a passionate question:

"What wrong have I done that I should be so treated--I who have been
always the loyal friend of the English?"

So noble was she in her youth and innocence, that the captain was
horrified at the deed he had done and could do no less than tell her
the truth. He assured her that she had done no wrong, that he well
knew that she was the white man's friend, and that no harm should
befall her, but that it was necessary to take firm measures to secure
provisions for the starving colonists. Hearing this, she was less
frightened and became quiet, if not in spirit, at least in manner,
giving no cause for trouble as they entered the harbor. But her heart
was filled with sadness when she again saw that fort to which she had
so often gone with aid for her vanished friend whose name now never
passed her lips.

Indian girls mature rapidly, and the maiden who had first attracted
Captain Smith's attention was no less lovely now, but she was in the
full flower of womanliness and her charm and dignity of carriage
compelled respect from all.

Powhatan was in his Place of Council when a messenger from Jamestown
demanded audience with him and gave his message in quick, jerky
sentences:

"Your daughter Pocahontas has been taken captive by the Englishmen,"
he said. "She will be held until you send back to Jamestown all the
guns, tools, and men stolen from them by your warriors."

The old chief, terrified, grief-stricken, and in a dilemma, knew not
what to say, for though he loved his daughter, he was determined to
keep the firearms taken from the English. For a long time he was deep
in thought. Finally he replied:

"The white men will not harm my child, who was their very good friend.
They know my wrath will fall on them if they harm a hair of her head.
Let her remain with them until I shall have made my decision."

Not another word would he say, but strode out from the Council Hall
and was lost in the forest.

Three months went by without the Englishmen receiving a word from him,
and Pocahontas meanwhile became their inspiration and joy, giving no
sign that she feared her captors or objected to her captivity. Then
Powhatan sent seven white men who had been held by the Indians to the
settlement, carrying a gun which had been spoiled for use. Their
leader brought this message from the Indian Emperor:

"If you will send back my daughter I will send you five hundred
bushels of corn and be your friend forever. I have no more guns to
return, as the remainder have been lost."

Prompt was the retort:

"Tell your Chief that his daughter will not be restored to him until
our demand has been complied with. We do not believe that the guns
have been lost."

The runner took back the message, and again nothing more was heard
from Powhatan for several months, during which time the colonists
became so deeply attached to the young captive that they dreaded to
think of the settlement without her cheery presence. Especially did
John Rolfe, a young widower, who was by report "an English gentleman
of approved behavior and honest carriage," feel a special interest in
the charming young savage; in fact he fell in love with her, but felt
that he must convert her to the Christian religion before asking her
to become his wife. So he devoted much time to instructing her in the
doctrines of the white man's faith. Pocahontas accepted the new
religion eagerly, and little did John Rolfe guess that to her it was
the religion of Captain John Smith,--a new tie binding her to the man
who she believed had gone forever beyond her sight, but who would be
forever dearest to her loyal heart, untutored girl of the forest
though she was. It is doubtful, too, whether John Rolfe would ever
have made any headway in her affection had she not believed her
beloved Captain to be dead. However that may have been, she became a
convert to Christianity, and John Rolfe asked her to marry him.

When almost a year had gone by with no word from Powhatan, the
colonists were very angry and decided to force the issue. A party in
command of Sir Thomas Dale, who had come from England to be the leader
of the Jamestown settlement, sailed for Werewocomoco, taking
Pocahontas with them, hoping that when Powhatan heard of the presence
of his dearest daughter at his very door he would relent and yield to
their demands.

But Powhatan was not at Werewocomoco. Anticipating just such a visit,
he was in a safe retreat, and his warriors who thronged to the river
bank to meet the white men at once attacked them, and there was lively
skirmishing until two brothers of Pocahontas heard of her arrival.
Hurrying to the river bank, they quelled the turmoil and hastily
paddled out to the ship, where they were soon standing beside their
sister, seeing with joy that despite her captivity she was well and
happy, with the same merry light in her black eyes as she had in her
forest days. Their feeling deepened into awe when with downcast eyes
and flushed cheeks she told them of John Rolfe's love for her and of
her attachment for him. Their sister girl of the forest, kin of the
red men,--going to marry an Englishman from that marvelous land across
the sea, of which one of their tribe who had visited it had brought
back the report: "Count the stars in the sky, the leaves on the trees,
and the sand upon the seashore--such is the number of the people of
England!" Pocahontas, their little sister, going to marry an
Englishman!--the stalwart Indian boys could scarcely believe the tale,
and on leaving the ship they hurried to their father's forest retreat
to tell their wondrous tale. The old Chief listened with inscrutable
reserve, but his eyes gleamed with exultation and in his heart he
rejoiced. His daughter, child of an Indian Werowance, to become wife
of a white man,--the two races to be united? Surely this would be a
greater advantage than all the firearms that could be bought or
stolen!

But if he expected that the breach between the white men and the red
would be at once healed, he was mistaken. Although Pocahontas greeted
her brothers so cordially, she would have nothing to do with her
father or any of his braves, and when Powhatan desired to see her she
sent back the imperious message:

"Tell him if he had loved his daughter he would not have valued her
less than old swords, pieces, and axes; wherefore will I still dwell
with the Englishmen who love me!"

And back to Jamestown she presently sailed with those men of the race
to which she had been loyal even in her captivity.

That Powhatan did not resent her refusal to see him after his long
silence, but probably admired her for her determination, was soon
shown. Ten days after the party reached Jamestown an Indian warrior,
Opachisco, uncle of Pocahontas, and two of her brothers, arrived
there, sent by Powhatan to show his approval of his daughter's
alliance with an Englishman, although nothing would have induced him
to visit the white man's settlement himself, even to witness the
marriage of his dearest daughter.

Having become a convert to the white man's faith, Pocahontas was
baptized according to the ritual of the Christian church, taking the
name of Rebecca, and as she was the daughter of an Emperor, she was
afterwards called "Lady Rebecca;" but to those who had known her in
childhood she would ever be Pocahontas, the "little romp."

And now the Indian maiden, who by her loyalty to the white race had
changed the course of her life, was about to merge her identity in
that of the colonists:--

"On a balmy April day, with sunshine streaming through the open
windows of the Jamestown chapel, the rude place of worship was filled
to overflowing with colonists, all eagerly interested in the wedding
of John Rolfe with the dusky princess who was the first Christian
Indian in Virginia."

The rustic chapel had been decorated with woodland blossoms, and its
windows garlanded with vines. Its columns were pine-trees cut from the
forest, its rude pews of sweet-smelling cedar, and its simple
Communion table covered with bread made from wheat grown in
neighboring fields, and with wine from the luscious wild grapes picked
in near-by woods.

There, in the beauty and fragrance of the spring day, up the aisle of
the chapel passed the young Indian bride on the arm of John Rolfe, who
looked every inch an English gentleman in his cavalier's costume. And
very lovely was the new-made Lady Rebecca in her gown of white muslin
with its richly embroidered over-dress given by Sir Thomas Dale. Her
head-dress of birds' plumage was banded across her forehead, Indian
fashion, with a jeweled fillet, which also caught her floating veil,
worn in the English way, which emphasized her dark beauty. On her
wrists gleamed many bracelets, and in her deep eyes was the look of
one who glimpses the future and fears it not.

Slowly they advanced up the aisle, and halted before the altar, a
picturesque procession; the grave, dignified Englishman, who now and
again cast adoring glances at his girlish bride, of an alien forest
race; the old Chief of a savage tribe, in his gay ceremonial trappings
and head-dress; the two stalwart, bronzed young braves, keenly
interested in this great event in their sister's life, all in a
strange commingling of Old World and New, auguring good for the future
of both Indians and colonists.

The minister of the colony repeated the simple service, and Lady
Rebecca, in her pretty but imperfect English, repeated her marriage
vows and accepted the wedding-ring of civilized races as calmly as if
she had not been by birth a free forest creature. Then, the service
ended, down the aisle, in the flickering sunlight, passed the
procession, and there at the chapel door, surrounded by the great
forest trees which had been her lifelong comrades, and with the wide
sky spreading over her in blue benediction, we have a last glimpse of
the "little romp," for Pocahontas, the Indian maiden, had become Lady
Rebecca, wife of John Rolfe, the Englishman.

* * * * *

Three years later Pocahontas, for so we still find it in our hearts to
call her, visited England with her husband and little son Thomas, to
see with her own eyes that land across the sea where her husband had
been brought up, and of which she had heard such wonderful tales. One
can well imagine the wonder of the girl of the forest when she found
herself out of sight of land, on the uncharted ocean of which she had
only skirted the shores before, and many a night she stole from her
cabin during that long voyage to watch the mysterious sea in its
majestic swell, and the star-sown heavens, as the ship moved slowly on
to its destination.

London, too, was a revelation to her with its big buildings, its
surging crowds of white men, its marks of civilization everywhere,
and, girl of the outdoors that she had ever been, her presentation at
Court, with all that went before and after of the frivolities and
conventionalities of city life, must have been a still greater marvel
to her. But the greatest surprise of all awaited her. One day at a
public reception a new-comer was announced, and without warning she
found herself face to face with that Captain of her heart's youthful
devotion! There was a moment's silence, a strained expression in the
young wife's dark eyes, then Captain John Smith bent over the hand of
John Rolfe's wife with the courtly deference he had given in Virginian
days to the little Indian girl who was his loyal friend.

"They told me you were dead!"

It was Pocahontas who with quivering lips broke the silence, then
without waiting for a reply she left the room and was not seen for
hours. When she again met and talked with the brave Captain, she was
as composed as usual, and no one could say how deeply her heart was
touched to see again the friend of her girlhood days. Perhaps the
unexpected sight of him brought with it a wave of home-sickness for
the land of her birth and days of care-free happiness, perhaps she
felt a stab of pain that the man to whom she had given so much had not
sent her a message on leaving the country, but had let her believe the
rumor of his death--perhaps the heart of Pocahontas was still loyal to
her first love, devoted wife and mother though she was. Whatever may
have been the truth, Lady Rebecca was proud and calm in the presence
of the Captain after that first moment, and had many conversations
with him which increased his admiration for the gracious forest
Princess, now a lady of distinction in his own land.

The climate of England did not agree with Pocahontas, her health
failed rapidly, and in the hope that a return to Virginia would save
her life, her husband took passage for home. But it was too late;
after a sickness of only a few hours, she died, and John Rolfe was
left without the vivid presence which had been his blessing and his
joy.

Pocahontas was buried at Gravesend on the 21st of March, 1617, and as
night fell, and John Rolfe tossed on a bed of anguished memories, it
is said that a man muffled in a great cloak stole through the darkness
and knelt beside the new-made grave with bowed head and clasped hands.

It was Captain Smith who came to offer reverent tribute to the girl
who had given him so much, asking nothing in return, a girl of savage
lineage, yet of noble character and great charm, whose blossoming into
the flower of civilization had no parallel. Alone there, in the somber
night, the silent figure knelt--the brave Captain of her loyal
devotion paying tardy homage to Pocahontas, the girl of the Virginia
forest, the white man's steadfast friend.

DOROTHY QUINCY: THE GIRL OF COLONIAL DAYS WHO HEARD THE FIRST GUN
FIRED FOR INDEPENDENCE

A small, shapely foot clad in silken hose and satin slipper of palest
gray was thrust from under flowing petticoats of the same pale shade,
as Dorothy Quincy stepped daintily out of church on a Sabbath Day in
June after attending divine service.

John Hancock, also coming from church, noted the small foot with
interest, and his keen eye traveled from the slipper to its owner's
lovely face framed in a gray bonnet, in the depths of which nestled a
bunch of rosebuds. From that moment Hancock's fate as a man was as
surely settled as was his destiny among patriots when the British
seized his sloop, the _Liberty_.

But all that belongs to a later part of our story, and we must first
turn back the pages of history and become better acquainted with that
young person whose slippered foot so diverted a man's thoughts from
the sermon he had heard preached on that Lord's Day in June.

Pretty Dorothy was the youngest daughter of Edmund Quincy, one of a
long line of that same name, who were directly descended from Edmund
Quincy, pioneer, who came to America in 1628. Seven years later the
town of Boston granted him land in the town that was afterward known
as Braintree, Massachusetts, where he built the mansion that became
the home of succeeding generations of Quincys, from whom the North
End of the town was later named.

As his father had been before him, Dorothy's father was a judge, and
he spent a part of each year in his home on Summer Street, Boston,
pursuing his profession. There in the Summer Street home Dorothy was
born on the tenth of May, 1747, the youngest of ten children.
Evidently she was sent to school at an early age, and gave promise of
a quick mind even then, for in a letter written by Judge Quincy, from
Boston to his wife in the country, he writes:

Daughter Dolly looks very Comfortable, and has gone to
School, where she seems to be very high in her Mistresses'
graces.

But the happiest memories of Dorothy's childhood and early girlhood
were not of Boston, but of months spent in the rambling old mansion at
Quincy, which, although it had been remodeled by her grandfather, yet
retained its quaint charm, and boasted more than one secret passage
and cupboard, as well as a "haunted chamber" without which no house of
the period was complete.

There we find the child romping across velvety lawns, picking posies
in the box-bordered garden, drinking water crystal clear drawn from
the old well, and playing many a prank and game in the big, roomy home
which housed such a lively flock of young people. Being the baby of
the family, it was natural that Dorothy should be a great pet, not
only of her brothers and sisters, but of their friends, especially
those young men--some of whom were later the principal men of the
Province--who were attracted to the old mansion by Judge Quincy's
charming daughters. So persistent was little Dolly's interest in her
sisters' friends, that it became a jest among them that he who would
woo and win fascinating Esther, sparkling Sarah, or the equally lovely
Elizabeth or Katherine Quincy, must first gain the good-will of the
little girl who was so much in evidence, many times when the adoring
swain would have preferred to see his lady love alone. Dorothy used to
tell laughingly in later years of the rides she took on the shoulders
of Jonathan Sewall, who married Esther Quincy, of the many small gifts
and subtle devices used by other would-be suitors as bribes either to
enlist the child's sympathies in gaining their end, or as a reward for
her absence at some interesting and sentimental crisis.

Mrs. Quincy, who before her marriage was Elizabeth Wendall, of New
York, was in full sympathy with her light-hearted, lively family of
boys and girls. Although the household had for its deeper inspiration
those Christian principles which were the governing factors in family
life of the colonists, and prayers were offered morning and night by
the assembled family, while the Sabbath was kept strictly as a day for
church-going and quiet reflection, yet the atmosphere of the home was
one of hospitable welcome. This made it a popular gathering-place not
only for the young people of the neighborhood, but also for more than
one youth who came from the town of Boston, ten miles away, attracted
by the bevy of girls in the old mansion.

Judge Quincy was not only a devout Christian and a respected member of
the community, he was also a fine linguist. He was so well informed on
many subjects that, while he was by birth and tradition a
Conservative, giving absolute loyalty to the mother country, and
desirous of obeying her slightest dictate, yet he was so much more
broad-minded than many of his party that he welcomed in his home even
those admirers of his daughters who were determined to resist what
they termed the unjust commands of the English Government. Among these
patriots-to-be who came often to the Quincy home was John Adams, in
later days the second President of the United States, and who was a
boy of old Braintree and a comrade of John Hancock, whose future
history was to be closely linked with the new and independent America.
Hancock was, at the time of his first visit to the old Quincy mansion,
a brilliant young man, drawn to the Judge's home by an overwhelming
desire to see more of pretty Dorothy, whose slippered foot stepping
from the old meeting-house had roused his interest. Up to the time
when he began to come to the house, little Dorothy was still
considered a child by her brothers and sisters, her aims and ambitions
were laughed at, if she voiced them, and she was treated as the family
pet and plaything rather than a girl rapidly blossoming into very
beautiful womanhood.

As she saw one after another of her sisters become engaged to the man
of her choice, watched the happy bustle of preparation in the
household, then took part in the wedding festivities, and saw the
bride pass out of the old mansion to become mistress of a home of her
own, Dorothy was quick to perceive the important part played by man in
a woman's life, and, young as she was, she felt within herself that
power of fascination which was to be hers to so great a degree in the
coming years. Dorothy had dark eyes which were wells of feeling when
she was deeply moved, her hair was velvet smooth, and also dark, and
the play of feelings grave and gay which lighted up her mobile face
when in conversation was a constant charm to those who knew the
vivacious girl. When she first met John Hancock she had won an
enviable popularity by reason of her beauty and grace, and was admired
and sought after even more than her sisters had been; yet no
compliments or admiration spoiled her sweet naturalness or her charm
of manner.

In those days girls married when they were very young, but Dorothy
withstood all the adoration which was poured at her feet beyond the
time when she might naturally have chosen a husband, because her
standards were so high that not one of her admirers came near to
satisfying them. But in her heart there was an Ideal Man who had come
to occupy the first place in her affection.

As she had sat by her father's side, night after night, listening
while John Adams spoke with hot enthusiasm of his friend John Hancock,
the boy of Braintree, now a rising young citizen of Boston, the
resolute advocate of justice for the colonies, who stood unflinchingly
against the demands of the mother country, where he thought them
unfair,--the conversation had roused her enthusiasm for this unknown
hero, until she silently erected an altar within her heart to this
ideal of manly virtues.

Then John Hancock came to the old mansion to seek the girl who had
attracted his attention on that Sabbath Day in June, little dreaming
that in those conversations which Dorothy had heard between her father
and John Adams she had pieced together a complete biography of her
Hero. She knew that in 1737, when the Reverend John Hancock was
minister of the First Church in the North Precinct of Braintree
(afterward Quincy), he had made the following entry in the parish
register of births:

JOHN HANCOCK, MY SON, JANUARY 16, 1737.

Dorothy also knew that there in the simple parsonage the minister's
son grew up, and together with his brother and sister enjoyed the
usual life of a child in the country. When he was seven years old his
father died, leaving very little money for the support of the widow
and three children. Thomas Hancock, his uncle, was at that time the
richest merchant in Boston, and had also married a daughter of a
prosperous bookseller who was heir to no small fortune herself. The
couple being childless, at the death of John Hancock's father they
adopted the boy, who was at once taken from the simple parsonage to
Thomas Hancock's mansion on Beacon Hill, which must have seemed like a
fairy palace to the minister's son, as he "climbed the grand steps and
entered the paneled hall with its broad staircase, carved balusters,
and a chiming clock surmounted with carved figures, gilt with
burnished gold." There were also portraits of dignitaries on the walls
of the great drawing-room, which were very impressive in their lace
ruffles and velvet costumes of the period, and many articles of
furniture of which the country boy did not even know the names.

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