STARVATION—DRIFTING DOWN THE AMMONUSUC—FORT NO. 4,
AND GOOD FORTUNE AT LAST

At last we arrived at the Ammonusuc River, where our provisions were to meet us, and found nothing.

Fires were still burning which showed us that the relief party had been there, and had left just before we arrived. We shouted and fired our guns, but got no response. We learned afterward that the lieutenant who had brought the supplies had waited two days for us, and then quitted the place two hours before we arrived, taking the provisions with him. He heard our guns, but thought that they were fired by Indians, and kept on his way down the river.

Our condition was terrible. We had been stumbling along, feeble, gaunt, half crazed by hunger and fatigue. But the expectation of food, the certainty that we should find plenty at the Ammonusuc, had nerved us up to the effort to reach it, and now it was gone. It had been there and was gone. We broke down completely and cried and raved. Some became insane.

I have already said that I did not like Rogers for several good reasons. But he was a man of tremendous nerve, energy, and resource. Though his great strength had been wasted by starvation, so that he could hardly walk, he still remained the leader, and said:—

"Don't lose your courage, men. I'll save all of you. It is sixty miles from here to Fort No. 4. Bring some dry logs. Hurry up. I am going to make a raft, and float down to No. 4 and fetch back food and help."

We brought logs and made a raft.

"You can find enough lily-roots and ground-nuts to keep you alive till I return. If any of you do not know how to clean and cook them, Captain Grant will show you. I promise you I will have all the food you want at this place in ten days."

He got on the raft with Captain Ogden, an Indian boy and Martin, who had been over the river before. They poled and paddled it to the middle of the river, and drifted down the stream out of sight.

The next day two more men crept into camp and reported that the Indians had attacked their party several days before, and had killed Lieutenant Turner of the Rangers, Lieutenant Dunbar of Gage's light infantry, and that of all their party they alone had escaped.

It was horrible to see the wild, haggard men stagger in, and to witness their despair when they received nothing to eat but such lily-roots and ground-nuts as we could find and boil. There was but little nourishment in them.

Ben Bradley left camp with three companions. They put on their packs. Ben looked at his compass, and said:—

"Good-by, boys. In three days we shall be at home."

They were never afterward seen alive. Several years later some hunters from the Merrimac found a skeleton in the White Mountains. They knew it was Bradley's from the hair, and the peculiar leather strap with which his cue was tied.

After Rogers had been gone three days, I said to Edmund:—

"I can't stand this any longer. This place is like a mad-house. We shall go crazy if we stay here. Let us get some logs, make a raft, and drift down the river."

We talked it over that afternoon, and the next morning began building a raft. It was a rickety little affair. We finished it in one day, but were so feeble that we found it hard work. We cut a couple of saplings for poles, and took some wood, from which we whittled a couple of paddles.

One of the men, who had been over the river before, said:—

"Look out for a waterfall and rapids, some twenty miles down, boys. Don't get carried over them, or you'll be lost. And there's another bad fall and rapids below that."

We poled the raft into the current, and let it drift. Toward night we paddled to the shore and camped there.

In the morning we shot a squirrel, and during the day got another. Toward evening we heard the sound of the falls, and poled to the shore. The night was cold. We had no shelter. It rained heavily. We were drenched and almost frozen. In the morning our little strength was gone. We got on our raft, and poled it along till we were close to the falls; and then put in to the shore. Amos held the raft, while Edmund and I went below, in the hope that it might not be badly broken, as it came over, and that we could save it. We waded into the cold water, and Amos let the raft go. It was dashed on the rocks, as it passed over the falls, and was completely broken up. The logs drifted out of our reach. Thoroughly chilled, exhausted, and discouraged, we climbed the bank. We saw that fires had been made and trees burnt down, and then burnt into lengths.

"This is some of Rogers's work," said Edmund."He must have lost his raft as we did, and burned the trees to get logs of the right lengths to make a new raft."

"I hope he didn't spend much time over it. For I can't go any further, and B-Ben is all of a shake, and looks mighty poor."

"I guess last night did for me, Amos. I've got some kind of fever coming on. Start a fire if you can, and let us try to warm ourselves."

The ground was wet, but Amos and Edmund collected an armful of dry wood from sheltered spots. We rubbed some gunpowder into a rag, and sprinkled more over it. We held it near the lock of the gun, and flashed some powder in the pan. This lighted the rag, and we covered it with fine shavings which we had whittled, and made a fire.

"A canoe from below ought to reach here by to-morrow. I can keep up till then."

"Hush! I heard a p-partridge, and I've g-got strength enough to go after him." The tough, wiry fellow took his gun, and went into the woods.

We heard a bang, and he came out with a partridge, which we roasted and divided among us. It only served to sharpen our hunger.

"There must be more of these p-partridges in there. I'm g-going to try again. I feel b-better."

"I will go too," said Edmund.

They walked into the woods, and in half an hour I heard a couple of shots, and they came out with two birds. We roasted them, ate them, and felt that we were saved. We kept a good fire going, built a rough shelter of boughs, and slept quite comfortably that night, though the fever troubled me somewhat. The next morning we made an attempt to find more birds, but were unsuccessful. A little after noon we saw a birch coming up the stream with three men in it. They waved their hands to us, and landed where we were at the foot of the falls. They shook hands, and one of them said:—

"You look pretty peaked, boys. I guess a little food and drink won't hurt you."

We ate greedily, and the food put warmth and life into us. We asked about Rogers."He's at No. 4. His raft was swept over these falls, and he and his men had a narrow escape. Then he made a new raft and was nearly lost at the falls below. We'd like to stop longer with you, boys, but can't. We're carrying food to the fellows up the river."

"You must get there as quick as you can. We left about seventy men up there, starving and going mad for want of food."

"Some more birches are to follow us in a couple of days, and you'll meet them on your way down."

They gave us some food and then made the carry, up by the falls, and left us. We ate and drank some more, and then slept for an hour. When we woke up, we felt much stronger, and went to work making another raft. The next day we completed the raft early in the morning; and drifted down to the waterfall of which they had spoken. We kept our ears and eyes open, and went ashore in time to avoid it. We had built a fire and were making a shelter, when three more canoes came up, and we camped together with the men. We had all that we could eat and it was delightful to us to meet these clean, healthy, robust men, full of life.

In the morning they helped us lower our raft down the fifty feet of rapids. They gave us some nails, and we added to our raft and made it stronger, and then poled it out into the river, and drifted down with the current. We arrived at Fort No. 4 at sunset. It was the 9th of November. We had spent two months in that dreadful, barren wilderness. When we came in sight of the fort, and poled our raft to the shore, men and women in good Christian dress came running down to meet us. Our hearts rose up in our throats. We could not speak from our happiness. The tears rolled down our cheeks and we sobbed from joy.

How fine they looked, those men with their clean-shaven faces, and their hair neatly done up in cues! And how beautiful and kind the women!

Such few clothes as we still had were in rags. Our hair and beards were long and matted together; our faces and hands black from exposure and dirt and grime. We felt ashamed of our appearance and would gladly have sneaked in unseen. But they made of us as if we had been three prodigal sons. And the flesh-pots, the fatted calf, and the honey were all offered to us.

Rogers claimed us for a short time, to get news from the camp, and told us he was going up the next morning.

We had a supper of the best there was in the fort, and you can guess how it looked and tasted to men who had lived for weeks on corn and leather straps and nothing; and who had watched with greedy eyes the cutting up of an old white owl.

They gave us a room, with soap and tubs of warm water, and we got rid of some of the grime, cut off our beards, shaved our faces, and put on the clothes they left for us. Amos said:—

"B-Ben, I feel as if No. 4 must be p-pretty near h-heaven."

"Yes! But it isn't up the river."

When we came out, the men crowded round to hear our adventures. Amos started to tell the story, and when he got hung up on a word, Edmund would go on with the tale.

I felt hot and feeble and sick. My head ached. I became dizzy, and finally asked some one to take me to a room where I could lie down, and I went to bed. I haven't any clear idea of what happened afterward. I have a faint recollection of Edmund and Amos bending over me, saying good-by. But I do remember that Indian who tried again and again to scalp me. John Stark drove him off several times, but he kept coming back, and at last caught me by the hair, ran his knife round my head, braced his foot on my shoulder, pulled, and I felt my scalp go. Then I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes, and saw the rafters above, and the bedclothes about me.

I smelt smoke, and heard the wood snap and crackle. Beside the fireplace a girl was seated, knitting. Such a pretty girl, the loveliest I had ever seen. I watched her knit, and then stop and count the stitches. How beautiful she was, with her light brown hair, the pretty side face, with the fresh colour in it! Her figure was lithe, supple, full of grace. I thought at once of Shakespeare's Rosalind. My heart went out to her. As I gazed, she looked up, and turned a pair of big brown eyes at me. I had never been in love before. But, as she rose and came over to the bed, I said to myself:—

"This is she. This is the one for whom I have waited."

She smiled, and a little dimple came in her cheek.

"Ah! I'm glad you've come to your senses again. How do you feel?"

"Perfectly content and happy. I seem to be in a pleasant dream."

"That's good. You've had dreams enough, in the last month, that didn't seem pleasant. You must keep quiet. I'll be back in a minute."

She returned with her mother, who gave me some medicine, and a drink of broth, and I fell asleep. When I awoke, the pretty girl was knitting by the fire. She got me some broth, and after I had drunk it brought a flax-wheel and sat down by it. I was sick and weak, but the joy of Michael Wigglesworth's saints in heaven was nothing compared to mine. That is, until the dreadful thought occurred that she might have been already sought and won by some one else. But I said: "Keep your courage up, Ben. She isn't over seventeen. I'm sick, and she's here, and I won't get well in a hurry."

How well I remember her, sitting by the flax-wheel, spinning,—even the pepper and salt homespun dress, the blue and white checked apron, the little shoes with the silver buckles, and the glimpse of gray stocking.

"Will you please tell me your name?"

"Ruth. Ruth Elliot."

"Ruth? That's the sweetest name of all. It suits you too. But where am I, and what good fortune brought me here?"

"You are at Fort No. 4, or Charlestown as they call it now. You were with Rogers in the woods, and floated down the river with Sergeant Munro and Amos Locke. You have been out of your head with a fever for nearly a month.""Yes, yes. I remember now. How many of the Rangers got back?"

"About one hundred. They came in at different places. Twelve days after you arrived, Rogers came down with those who were at the Ammonusuc. Some were insane, and some had died before he reached them. It was good to see them back again. But they were terribly wasted and worn. After they had been here a few days, they started for Crown Point, over the road which Captain Stark has just cut through the woods."

"One hundred out of one hundred and forty-five? Well, it might have been worse. And what news is there of General Wolfe and his army? When I last heard of them, they were on their way up the St. Lawrence to Quebec."

"Quebec is taken."

"That's good. General Wolfe will get great praise and reward for that."

"If he were alive, he might, but there was a desperate fight, and Wolfe was killed in it, and Montcalm too."

"Both dead? They were brave men and skilful soldiers. Cut off in their prime like Lord Howe. And what is Amherst doing?"

"Amherst is rebuilding the fort at Crown Point. He will do nothing more this year. It is too late. In the spring he will go down and take Montreal, and end the war."

"And the Rangers—what about them?"

"Most of them have gone home. Sergeant Munro and Mr. Locke passed through here a few days ago. They would have stopped, but the fort is full of sick soldiers, and as they could be of no help, they went on their way."

When she had given me the news, it was her turn to question, and mine to answer. I had to tell her all of our adventures during the war, and she laughed and cried over them. I grew more and more deeply in love. I was in no haste to get well, but nature was against me. Every bit of food she gave me seemed to have some wonderful life-giving power in it and my health came back in bounds. After it returned, I nearly fell sick again from the dreadful fear that I might lose her. As the time for my departure approached, our conversation would halt and stop, and we sat in silence. I felt down-hearted and hadn't the courage to test my fate, till one day I saw the tears gather in her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. Then we soon had an understanding, and our light-heartedness came back.

"Oh, Ben, I couldn't bear to have you leave, and now I'm so happy."

But she was a wilful thing, and though her name was Ruth, she objected to following the example of her namesake in the Bible.

"I may be Ruth, but you're not Boaz."

I stoutly asserted that I was baptized Benjamin Boaz Comee, but I could not bring her to see that she should leave all and follow me.

"No, no, Benjamin Boaz. You're a pretender, and times have changed. I might not like your people, and they might not like me. Father thinks a deal of you, and mother loves you as if you were her own son. And you repay their love by trying to steal me away from them. Is that fair to them, Boaz? Don't you think they would miss their little girl? And that their life would be gloomy without me? And besides, Ben, you told me that they had all the blacksmiths in Lexington that were needed, and that your chances would be poor. And here we're just pining for another blacksmith. The new road through the woods puts us on the main highway to Canada, and there's no better place for a blacksmith than this. Now that the Indians are gone, you could take up some of that intervale land up the river, that they talk about, and then I'm here, and if Benjamin Boaz Comee wants Ruth, he must follow her. Ben, I like my own way."

"I like your own way too, and will live wherever you please, provided it be with you."

I returned home, and found Amos telling Davy of our adventures. For a time Davy had little to say about his hunting stories.

I went back to No. 4, opened a blacksmith's shop, and in the fall married Ruth. We have lived here ever since, and have prospered. Much of my success is due to my wife's clear head and wonderful common sense. Folks regard Colonel Comee as a very shrewd and able business man. But my friends laugh, and say:—

"Colonel Ben's just a figure-head. He never takes an important step without talking it over with Aunt Ruth."

John Stark and I have always remained close friends. When he was a colonel at Bunker's Hill, I was a lieutenant in his regiment, and served under him throughout the Revolution. He became a general, and showed the ability that we recognized in the French War.

By the end of the Revolution I had risen to the rank of colonel. Hardly a year has passed since that time that one of us has not made the other a visit of a few days. He has always retained a great admiration and tender affection for Lord Howe.

After the French War was over, Rogers was appointed to the command of the post at Michilimackinac. His accounts did not come out right. He always had that failing, and he went to England to explain matters. While over there, he was riding one night in a stage-coach over Hounslow Heath, when a masked highwayman stopped the coach, and thrusting his pistols in at the window, told the passengers to hand over their money and watches. They were doing so, when Rogers, who was wonderfully strong, quickly reached out, grabbed the highwayman by the collar of his coat, pulled him into the coach, sat on him, took away his pistols, tied him up, and delivered him over to the authorities. He was an old offender, for whose apprehension a reward of £50 had been offered, which Rogers claimed and received.

Rogers remained in England till the Revolution, and then came over here, and after a while offered his services to Washington. He came to Stark's headquarters at Medford, and John and I had a long talk with him.

Stark believed he would be true to us, and so did I. But he had been on such close terms of intimacy with the British that Washington distrusted him and would not give him a command.

Soon after he received a commission from the British, and raised the Queen's Rangers, who were badly defeated in a fight in Connecticut.

Rogers then returned to England, and led a rather shady life; and I believe was finally killed while fighting in Algiers. He was a curious compound. If he had only been a man of honour, he would have become a great man. But his tricky, unscrupulous nature was his ruin.

Edmund Munro served again at Crown Point in 1762-63, as a lieutenant, and as adjutant of the four provincial regiments stationed there.

I met him often in the Revolution. He was captain of the Lexington company. Poor fellow, he was killed by a cannon ball at Monmouth, at the head of his company. He died poor, and his widow had a hard time till the little ones grew up.

Of our old playmate, John Hancock, you have all heard, how he inherited the wealth of his Uncle Thomas, and in his turn was the richest man in Boston, and lived in the stone house on Beacon Hill.

You remember how he risked his great fortune and his head, and sided with his countrymen. His bold signature heads the signers of the Declaration of Independence. Riches and honours came to him. Year after year he was chosen governor of Massachusetts.

I did not meet him from the time I went to the French War till some ten years after the Revolution.

I called on him in Boston, and he was glad to see me, and had me up to his house to dinner and to spend the night.

Everything was magnificent. John was kind, but condescending—something like a great mogul receiving an inferior.

I had no favour to ask of him. I saw no reason why I should look up to and revere him. I had played my own part in life well and boldly and stood firm on my feet. When John found I was not in awe of his rank and magnificence, he gave up his grand airs and was again the bright, lively fellow I knew as a boy.

Hector and Donald Munro remained in this country. After the French War was over, they visited their kinsmen in Lexington, and then went to Rehoboth, where there is another branch of the family, and settled in that town.

My old wrestling-master, Jonas Parker, was killed on the common at Lexington, on the 19th of April, 1775. He had said in his grim way, "Some may run from the British, but I won't budge a foot."

He was in the front rank of the minutemen. He laid his hat on the ground before him, and in it placed his powder-horn and bullets.

When the British fired, he was wounded, and fell to his knees. He returned their fire, and was reloading, when the regulars ran forward and killed him with their bayonets.

Amos and Davy were in the Revolution, too. They never got over their love for fox-hunting and pigeon-shooting.

As I finish this record, sixty years have passed since we had the pigeon shoot on Bull Meadow Hill. Those of us who survive are old, but some of us are still hale and hearty.

I received a letter the other day from a friend in Lexington, in which he says:—

"About a week ago I saw your old friend, Amos Locke, ploughing in a field which joins on to my farm. I walked over to the wall. When he saw me, he left his plough, came to the wall, and said,—

"'Morning! M-mighty good day to go after p-pigeons. P-Puts me in mind of the d-day I was with Weaver David and B-Ben Comee, up on Bull Meadow Hill, and shot fifty-two p-pigeons at one shot. One for every week in the year. I'll t-tell you about it.'"

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