NEWSPAPER ARTICLE; DECEMBER 3, 1899

ONE OF DEERFIELD'S ROMANCES. -LOVE STORY TWO CENTURIES OLD

OF THE SACK OF DEERFIELD BY THE INDIANS IN 1704. OF THE CAPTIVITY

OF SARAH MATTOON, OF HER TWO LOVERS, AND OF HER RETURN YEARS

AFTER.

(Written by Mary Field for the Sunday, Springfield, Mass., Republican, December 3, 1899)

It was February, 17O4. The snow-clad hills that encircled the frontier town of Deerfield stood peacefully and solemnly looking down on the broad valley. Sarah Mattoon, a girl of seventeen summers, had climbed to the top of a low foot-hill near to her father's house, and stood looking over the settlement as it lay shining in the snow. How she loved the winter with its sparkle and cold, its delicate, tender beauty! Surely heaven and earth were never more beautiful than to-night.

Nor was Sarah less than beautiful with her glowing color and deep brown eyes, clad in her simple homespun gown and hood. After a long stint of spinning she had escaped for a few minutes' run over the crust. Shunning the village street, she sped through the home lot to the apple trees on the slope. She sought vainly to find relief from the weight of perplexity and pain that grew and grew within her as she spun. It was but two days since she had promised Matthew Clesson to be his wife, and already those two days were an eternity, -and more terrible. To-morrow he would return from Northampton. and she must meet him. How could she meet him? How could she bear his distress and pain? Dear, good, gentle Matthew, whom she loved so much-yet not enough.

"I can never, never explain it in this wide, dreary world!" How dreary and lonely the world seemed to Sarah on a sudden. The sun was setting in the midst of rising clouds, and the wind grew colder. An oppressive sense of real or fancied danger came over her. Was it so? Were there savages lurking behind those faroff hills, or nearer, close at band? She was rash to have come so far from the settlement, but misery knows no fear. And danger? What was danger to her woe?

But she drew her cloak about her and hurried home, entering the long, low livingroom, lit by the glowing wood fire. How the firelight flickered and danced over the brown boards of the walls and floor, gleaming on the great rafters overhead and projecting a cozy home-like glow on all it touched! It was supper time, and Sarah was soon busily stirring the bubbling kettle of hominy that hung over the coals, then dipping it out into porringers and bowls and helping the children to pour the precious milk from the great blue pitcher brought through so many perils from safer shores. She went on fulfilling one after another the ceaseless round of evening duties, seeing that the boys brought in great armfuls of wood, brushing up the broad hearth, turning the settle to the fire and tucking the youngest child into the low red cradle in the corner. At length all was settled and secure for the night.

"'Sally," said her mother, as she took up her knitting in the chimney corner, "if ye ain't afeer'd o' the dark ye ken go and tell Rebecca I'll be up and help her in the mornin' wi' the weaving. Ye ken stay the night, too, if ye like, and mind to assist Rebecca if ye do. She's frail, poor thing. It's hard on Philip. I allus told him-".

Here Sarah interrupted: "I'll go right off, mother, 'twill be dark soon. Goodnight, mother."

And glad to get out again, she undid the great door and stepped forth. She paused a moment on the broad door stone to look at the sky. The stars were few and faint and the rising wind was from the south and chill, and full of eerie whisperings. The bare branches of the trees tossed and creaked in the wind, darkly silhouetted against snow and sky. As Sarah went on a tall figure met her.

" Sarah!" - "Zechariah!" There was silence for a moment until the girl said, sharply, "Zechariah Field, what do you here?"

"Nay, Sarah, be not so hard. Verily, the fiercest foe is easier met than you in anger. Yet why be angry? I did but pause an instant to cheer my loneliness with the chinks of light between the shutters of your home. Do you know what it is to have no home? Nay, do not interrupt me. Where are you going? I care not. Surely heaven sent you forth to me, waiting so long for speech with you. Do not turn away, why be unkind to me? May I not ask you once in all these weary months why you avoid all friendliness with me? 'Tis strange. 'Tis past all my experience of God's mercies that you should so rebuff me. I, who loved you from the hour I met you yonder on the hill slope as I found my way hither up the great river and across the mountain. Do you recall it, Sarah, that spring day? The sweet pink flowers I'd gathered pleased you then. You were so kind, courteous, yet homelike as a sister in gentleness and spirit. Was it nought to you, that meeting?"

Seeking to detain her, the young man seized Sarah's hand. He found her trembling like a slender aspen, and drawing her arm within his led her to the next home lot, where a new house was rising, and made her sit upon a great felled tree.

"I must not, I must not"' she protested, striving to go.

"No, Sarah-no, you shall not go, you must hear me. The times are ominous and fearful. Who knows what moment we may be set upon, slaughtered, or widely separated? No, dear heart, do not shudder so; all things are bearable, but two things help to make them so: the love of God and love of you. Ah, if you love me, Sarah, what is life or death?"

But Sarah drew herself deep in her cloak and dropped her head upon her knees and shook with sobs, yet spoke no word.

Zechariah bent over her. "And, Sarah, if it be not so; if you have no love in your heart for me, nor ever had, nor will have, say so; tell me. I can bear it, and (heaven help me) love you still. Ah, is it so? Is my dream with all its miracle of sweetness but a dream and not the blest rejection of some deeper bond? Sarah tell me, tell me truly Arm me with desperation, if not with love."

But no sound broke the silence of the night, save the swaying branches overhead rustling in the wind.

"Look up, Sarah, speak to me! just one, word."

In vain she strove to speak, she rose to her feet struggling to overcome her emotion, but Zechariah drew her to him and soothed and hushed her like a little child, until at last she freed herself and said resolutely:-

"No, Zechariah, no-I have no right to let you love me. I have told Matthew I would be his wife."

Zechariah started with a low cry. "Sarah, Sarah"' -he turned away, but again returned to her,

"And do you love him, Sarah? 1 will be silent if you tell, me that."

Her breath came quick; without looking up she repeated: "I have told Matthew I would be his wife."

She turned to go, but Zechariah seized her hand.

"You must not go, you shall not leave me so. Your words are arrows, but your voice trembles and breaks with tenderness--for whom? For what? Oh, is it not for me! Think, Speak' I shall be loving you always and ever, and will you not give me one little word of kindness or of pity?"

Sarah burst into tears "Pity-pity. Oh, Zechariah 'tis I who need your pity! May God help us! My life must be a desert and a waste, with but one gleam of brightness far away--that you have loved me-grudge it not to me, I will be worthy of it if I live; now I must go."

But Zechariah clasped his arms firmly about her. "Not so, Sarah, 'tis not so. You are not Matthew's, you are mine. You love me-'tis all I ask. No power in heaven or earth should part us. I may be poor and Matthew rich, but-"

Sarah stopped him.

"Oh, Zechariah, you cannot think it that; you do not. Blest were captivity with you to all that England's safest, stateliest home could be without you; oh, my love!"

She clung to Zechariah now and her story came bursting forth like some pentup mountain brook whose splash arid foam and hurrying eddies bide its onward course. so overwrought with tears was her tale.

"Oh, Zechariah, when you came two years ago, upon that day-but, no-I cannot speak of that-heaven opened with your eyes meeting mine. I loved you from that moment, and I soon knew I loved you, but that you should love me seemed as far away as the blue sky above me. So I strove against it, and rebelled; it may be in that struggle I was rude to you."

"Indeed you were," he broke in; "a wild rose set with thorns I found you, but I loved you all the same."

"Then," Sarah went on, "you drew to Betty, beautiful Betty. We were inseparable, Betty and 1-1 see it now-but then I did not dream but that 'twas she you sought. I was so miserable, so unhappy, and Matthew all along was kind, too kind to me, though truth to tell, I think 'twas Betty be first loved."

"Aye, verily," Zechariah interrupted angrily," and Mistress Betty, not so shy as you, saw through it all. 'Twas not so difficult for her to blind your eyes, to throw you and Matthew together, and tale the hand held out to you. Ah, but she did forget that I had eyes and that, though they might see the beauty and bloom of the stately damsel. it was the sweet shy rose they dwelt upon."

"Yet she loved you," Sarah went on. "Her whole mind was set upon you, that I knew full well. Ali, what an endless struggle did I have to keep my patience and to curb my tongue. Once-once long ago, it flashed over me that it was me you loved. How that brief flash illumined all my sky and yet I would not, could not, heed it or believe it. When shall we learn to listen to those deep-hidden messages? Meanwhile, confusion grew among us, Matthew, Betty. you and me; and but one word was plain-to promise ', Matthew I would be his wife, making his happiness, helping hers, and perhaps yours; nor did I fancy- my misery could he greater till 'twas done two days ago, since when I have known but torture and slow death -would it were death indeed!"

Sarah became silent; Zechariah, deep in thought, did not speak for many minutes. At length he said--

"And can you marry Matthew feeling so? Can you-" she interrupted him. Nay, Zechariah, nay. I cannot. I but wait his coming to tell him so. I told him I did not, could not love him as I should, as I wished, but he said it mattered not to him; it would come by and by! But no, no, I should hate him were I wed to him. I'll do him no such wrong,-dear, gentle soul! But, Zechariah, how can I be yours? Surely, not now."

"But, dearest, we can wait," he whispered. "Aye, verily, I can live for many a weary day glad in the thought that you have loved me all these years, and you, will love me still?"

Sarah could not speak, she suffered him to draw her to him and kiss her solemnly, -"sealing this," he said, "our love for future time."

The curfew was ringing and they hurried reluctantly to the stockade. and Zechariah left Sarah at her brother's door.

It was late before Sarah slept, but at length, youth and health conquered the tumult of thought within her. Her rest was brief. Horrible sounds awoke her, screams of terror, blood-curdling howls, rang in her ears; a fierce red glare lit up the blackness of night and shone into the low-raftered attic where she slept. She sprang up, trembling, yet resolute. Rushing downstairs she roused her brother:-

" Philip! Philip! the Indians-the Indians' Give me your gun! I'll hold the door a moment while you fly with Rebecca and the babe."

But as she spoke the heavy door was battered down and a wild horde of Indians entered. Seizing Philip, despite his desperate resistance, they bound him, also Sarah; then turning to Philip's wife and seeing her unfit for the journey they instantly tomahawked her before her husband's very eyes and their little child likewise. Plundering the house of all they coveted, they set it on fire, dragging Sarah and Philip away to a neighboring house where they gathered men, women and children bound and captive.

Here, wild with grief and terror, helpless to aid or alarm, they were forced to witness slaughter and ruin until their hideous captors, satiated and fearful of further delay, summoned them to march unwillingly forth out into the wilderness of snow and ice. Desolate, desperate, scarcely knowing who was living and who dead, they were driven mercilessly onward in the cheerless gray of the morning.

Vainly did Sarah search the long, straggling band of captives for Zechariah's erect, fine figure. He was not among them. For a moment she rejoiced, then came a deadly fear that he was slain; and thus, torn between hope and despair, yet sustained by invincible courage, she struggled on. When Philip, maddened beyond endurance, became so unmanageable that the Indians murdered him, poor Sarah sank down beside him, ready to share his fate, but the appeal of '. Mary Field, Zechariah's uncle's wife, to help her to carry her little son of three years, roused her once more; and with greatest exertions she succeeded in carrying him until her savage master, moved by her indomitable pluck, took pity on her and put the child upon the sledges.

From Mary Sarah learned of the brave fight Zechariah and his uncle had made to save her and the children, escaping only at the last minute, and sallying forth from the fort after the departing enemy, following them persistently and perilously till summoned back to the defense of the remaining few. Sarah learned, too, of the safety of her own family. Thankful beyond measure, Sarah strove to comfort the poor mother whose baby had been ruthlessly torn from her, and thus cheering each other as best they could they journeyed on; now many. now few, meeting and parting some to meet no more. Over the frozen river, along whose icy tracks they moved swiftly, over desolate wooded mountains, through forest and fastness for 30() miles they struggled on. Near the end of the journey Sarah fell in with Betty Hurst, -beautiful Betty, already learning to banter a few French words with the young Canadians, amusing and subduing her captors with her playful and vain childishness. She greeted Sarah eagerly and soon began talking of Zechariah and Matthew, contrasting them with the gay young Frenchmen.

This was too much for Sarah. Matthew took possession of her. Was it for this freakish, flippant child she had sacrificed her love and bound herself to Matthew? For, stern Puritan that Sarah was, she felt herself bound still to Matthew. How painfully she longed to tell him of her mistake that she might conscientiously love Zechariah . And now a new terror came over her, Matthew would proclaim her his at home. Indeed, be might venture forth to redeem her. Now despair succeeded to wrath; she heard Betty's hopeful chatter of home-going, but vaguely, distantly -to go home would be to face a more fearful dilemma than now confronted her.

Thus torn and tossed by miserable thoughts, too rigid to accept any easier view of her curious relations to Matthew, Sarah was led to hide herself among the Indians of the tribe who took her, refusing to avail herself of any chance of exchange or redemption, and becoming gradually an Indian in dress and manners, she acquired much of their self-control and dignity, and grew strong in the free outdoor life and often outdid the squaws in wildwood accomplishments.

For five years she dwelt among the Indians, alone and lonely. It chanced one June day at the end of this time that she sat a little apart from the other women, mending a net on the shore of the broad St. Lawrence. The day was cloudless and still. Suddenly a great white river bird rose up from the reeds of the shore and hung for a moment poised over the water close to Sarah. She looked up, startled, and then, entranced by his beauty, she watched his flight upward into the shimmering, shining blue, and as he rose up, up, up into the glorious sky, she sprang to her feet, exclaiming:-

"Home-home! I must go home!"

As if a weight were lifted from her heart, the rushing river, the rising bird, seemed to inspire her. All in one moment she saw the pity of her fate, the desolate years to come, afar from kith and kin, alone among savages.

Her eyes were opened anew to the beauty and gladness of the world The net she was mending dropped from her hand, catching as it fell on wild rose bushes which she now saw encircled the spot where she had been sitting. The blushing blossoms looking up to her brought sweetest memories. Without an instant's pause she sprang to her canoe, and seizing the paddle pushed out and sped away out on to the breast of the great, friendly river. She would trust to its throbbing current and her own strong arm to bear her to Quebec.

Once in Quebec she would be safe from pursuit, and but one day's journey should bring her there.

So on and on she went, fearful yet brave, revolving many things in her mind as the paddle dipped and slipped to the water. In after years Sarah never dwelt upon this journey in recounting her adventures. Too much suspense and strain were crowded into those few hours of incessant labor and fear. When at last the great, crown-like city appeared far away in the mists of the morning, joy almost overcame all Sarah's precautions, and, ceasing to paddle, she was lost in relief and delight. But chancing to glance behind her, she beheld, to her horror, four wellguided canoes just coming into view way up the river. Redoubling every effort and keeping close to the yet dusky shores, she succeeded in reaching the landing before she was perceived. As she jumped from her canoe her pursuers discovered her, and a wild yell rose from them, but friendly Canadians surrounded her and she was soon safely hidden in the convent's shelter. And here, worn out in mind and body. she lay ill of a fever for weeks and months. When Sarah at length slowly recovered she knew no way to show her gratitude to the good sisters but to remain and serve them. and so nearly two years elapsed from the time of her sudden flight before all negotiations were ended and she really embarked for home.

With what strangely mingled feeling did she travel homeward, the only Deerfield captive now returning. Landing at Boston she journeyed to Northampton with a train of wagons bearing goods to the settlements, only one wagon and its convoy continuing up the river to Hatfield and Deerfield.

The long May day was drawing to a close as they left Northampton. The slanting rays of the sun fell softly on the valley and crept gently up the eastern hills. Familiar outlines came in sight, familiar song birds filled the evening air. A joy so deep as to be painful came over Sarah; she was wrapt in contemplation and emotion, and heeded not the approach of a horseman until she heard a voice that sent the warm blood rushing to her heart, ask eagerly, "Does Mistress Sarah Mattoon journey with you?"

A moment later Sarah was helped from the heavy wagon and trembling like a leaf was mounted behind Zechariah. His strong gray horse bore them swiftly forward, leaving the wagon lumbering along in the distance. As the woods shut them from view Zechariah turned and kissed her, looking deep into her eyes.

"Sarah! my Sarah! God be praised!"

And Sarah could not speak, she clung to him, and for many minutes they journeyed on in silence.

At length, as if to emphasize his thankfulness, Zechariah said: "And, Sarah, until one month ago we all believed you dead." He paused and then resumed. "Not one word or trace of you could be obtained in all these seven years. In vain did Ensign Sheldon search for you. You were reported dead when he was first in Canada, and on his second visit no news at all seemed truly to verify the tale, and yet we marveled greatly that he could gain no certain news. Night after night have I pondered over this, ill satisfied and restless, often rising from a sleepless night determined to seek you afar off through the forest. Scarce could the elders keep us from the quest. How was it, Sarah? How did those barbarous, bloodthirsty creatures so conceal you?"

Alas for Sarah, she could not meet his eye; she turned her face away full of remorse for his long years of suffering.

"Ah, Zechariah, blame them not. 'Twas I whose cowardice kept me prisoner there. "

He started and looked strangely at Sarah. She went on: "You cannot comprehend it? Oh, my love! -A great weight lay upon my heart. I Was Still bound to Matthew by my word, yet all my heart was yours, and as each day deepened my love for you so seemed to strengthen the dreaded bond to him, and this it was that kept me in the wigwams of the Indians. Can you forgive me, Zechariah?"

He clasped her hand tighter and she continued "There came a day when suddenly courage came to me. 'My heart said all I would be well and I arose and turned me homeward unto you."

Again she looked into his face and once more the joy of meeting silenced all words, all thought.

The sun had set and the young moon hung brilliant in the clear western sky dipping downward to the dark horizon. To the north rose the great red rock of the Lequamps, rising abruptly in the midst of the wide valley. Here they left the Connecticut and entered the Pocumtuck valley. As they rode on Sarah told Zechariah of her life with the Indians, of the terrible winter march to Canada, of Betty Hurst and her approaching marriage to a young Canadian, of her own long illnesses and the strange homeward voyage. Again and again she strove to ask for Matthew, and again and again her courage failed, and it was not until they were nearing the settlement that she finally asked faintly: "And Matthew-what of Matthew?"

Very quietly Zechariah pointed to the low bank above the meadows where -,he village dead lay sleeping.

"He lies tbere-killed by the Indians."

And turning his horse from the highway he rode thither. No word was spoken. The familiar path, the nestling village beneath the hill, the warm presence of Zechariah filled Sarah's heart with keenest joy, yet the thought of 'Matthew overcame all these, and as they dismounted and entered the burying-ground her tears were failing like a soft, warm rain on a gloomy October day. As they stood beside the long, low mound, Zechariah said -gently:-

"He loved you, Sarah, to the end, deeply and generously. Through all those anxious years we were the best of friends, and, strange to say, the common bond of loving you bound us together."

"And did he know?" asked Sarah wonderingly.

"He knew that I loved you-not that you loved me."

Sarah stopped to trace the letters on the low headstone, brushing aside a wild rosebush which grew beside it.

"Zechariah," she whispered:-"You planted this-"

"I did," he assented. "'Twas all I had to give."

Then by the moon's light Sarah read:-

"MATTHEW CLESSON.

Aged 30.

Killed by ye Indians June 9, 1709."

"June 9," she repeated. "June 9?" She started to her feet with a cry: "Zechariah! It was June 9 that I left the Indians,-June 9 of 1709 that I turned homeward, home to you."

Again Sarah saw the majestic river, the vivid Canadian sunlight, and the great white bird vanishing into the sky. Again the thrill of her joy and freedom came over her. She turned to Zechariah. He, too, was gazing into the sky as if he saw a vision. Long they stood there, silent, wondering. Trembling, Sarah laid her hand upon his arm. At her touch he drew her to him and folded her to his breast, saying with awed voice:-

"He sent you! Oh, my love! He sent you home to me!"

A deeper, holier joy was added to them, a greater peace fell upon them; the long years of pain and separation were as naught, and life was glad and good and love was ever new."

from "Field Genealogy" pages 144-150