The French, for some reason or other, did not follow up their advantage and descend1 upon the lower Valley; but had they done so there could scarcely have been a greater panic among the Palatines. All during the year there had been seen at times, darkly flitting through the woods near the sparse2 settlements, little bands of hostile Indians. It was said that their purpose was to seize and abduct3 Sir William; failing in this, they did what other mischief4 they could, so that the whole Valley was kept in constant alarm. No household knew, on going to bed, that they would not be roused before morning by savage5 war-cries. No man ventured out of sight of his home without entertaining the idea that he might never get back alive. Hence, when the long-expected blow was really struck, and the town on the German Flatts devastated6, everybody was in an agony of fear. To make matters worse, Sir William was at his home ill in bed, and there was some trouble between him and the English commanders, which stood in the way of troops being sent to our aid.
Those few days following the dreadful news of the attack above us seem still like a nightmare. The settlers up the river began sending their household goods down to Albany; women and children, too, passed us in great parties, to take refuge in Fort Hunter or at Schenectady. The river suddenly became covered with boats once more, but this time representing the affrighted flight of whole communities instead of a peaceful commerce.
During this season of terror I was, as may be conceived, indeed unhappy. I had no stomach even for play with the new addition to our household, yet scarcely dared to show my nose outside the stockade7. Mr. Stewart spent his days abroad, either with Sir William, or up at Caughnawaga concerting means of defence with our friends the Fondas. He did, however, find time to cross the river and reassure8 my mother, who trembled with apprehension9 for her great brood of young, but was brave as a lion for herself. Weeks afterward10, when I visited her once more, I saw baskets of lime in the attic12 which this devoted13 woman had stored there, to throw with water on the Indians when they came. This device she had learned from the family traditions of her ancestors' doings, when the Spaniards were in Holland.
Gradually the alarm wore away. The French and Indians, after killing14 fifty Palatines and taking thrice that number prisoners, turned tail and marched back to the Lake again, with some of Honikol Herkimer's lead in their miserable15 bodies. The Valley was rarely to be cursed with their presence again. It was as if a long fever had come to its climax16 in a tremendous convulsion, and then gone off altogether. We regained17 confidence, and faced the long winter of '57 with content.
Before the next snowfall succeeded to that first November flurry, and the season closed in in earnest, Mr. Stewart was able, by the aid of a number of neighbors, to build and roof over two additions to his house. The structure was still all of logs, but with its new wings became almost as large, if not as imposing18, as any frame-house round about. One of these wings was set aside for Dame19 Kronk and the little girl. The other, much to my surprise, was given to me. At the same time my benefactor20 formally presented me with my little black playmate, Tulp. He had heretofore been my friend; henceforth he was my slave, yet, let me add, none the less my friend.
All this was equivalent to my formal adoption21 as Mr. Stewart's son. It was the custom in those days, when a slave child came of a certain age, to present it to the child of the family who should be of the same age and sex. The presentation was made at New Year's, ordinarily, and the white child acknowledged it by giving the little black a piece of money and a pair of shoes. My mother rather illogically shed some tears at this token that I was to belong henceforth to Mr. Stewart; but she gave me a bright Spanish dollar out of her small hoard22, for Tulp, and she had old William Dietz, the itinerant23 cobbler of Schoharie, construct for him a very notable pair of shoes, which did him no good since his father promptly24 sold them over at Fort Hunter for rum. The old rascal25 would have made away with the coin as well, no doubt, but that Mr. Stewart threatened him with a hiding, and so Tulp wore it on a leather string about his neck.
I did not change my name, but continued to be Douw Mauverensen. This was at the wish of both Mr. Stewart and my mother, for the name I bore was an honorable one. My father had been for years a clergyman in the Valley, preaching now in Dutch, now in German, according to the nationality of the people, and leading a life of much hardship, travelling up and down among them. It is not my business to insist that he was a great man, but it is certain that through all my younger years I received kindnesses from many people because I was my father's son. For my own part I but faintly remember him, he having been killed by a fractious horse when I was a very small boy.
As he had had no fixed26 charge during life, but had ministered to half a dozen communities, so it was nobody's business in particular to care for his family after his death. The owner of the horse did send my mother a bushel of apples, and the congregation at Stone Arabia took up a little money for her. But they were all poor people in those days, wresting27 a scanty28 livelihood29 from the wilderness30, and besides, I have never noticed that to be free with their money is in the nature of either the Dutch or the Palatines. The new dominie, too, who came up from Albany to take my father's place, was of the opinion that there was quite little enough coming in for the living pastor31, without shearing32 it, as he said, to keep alive dead folk's memories. Thus sadly a prospect33 of great destitution34 opened before my mother.
But she was, if I say it myself, a superior woman. Her father, Captain Baltus Van Hoorn, had been a burgher of substance in old Dorp, until the knavery35 of a sea-captain who turned pirate with a ship owned by my grandfather drove the old gentleman into poverty and idleness. For years his younger daughter, my mother, kept watch over him, contrived36 by hook or by crook37 to collect his old credits outstanding, and maintained at least enough of his business to ward11 the wolf from the door. It was only after his death, and after her older sister Margaret had gone to Coeymans with her husband, Kronk, that my mother married the elderly Dominie Mauverensen. When he was so untowardly38 killed, fifteen years later, she was left with eight children, of whom I, a toddling39 urchin40, was among the youngest. She had no money save the pittance41 from Stone Arabia, no means of livelihood, nor even a roof of her own over her head, since the new dominie made harsh remarks about her keeping him out of his own every time he visited our village. To add to the wretchedness of her plight42, at this very time her sister Margaret came back in destitution and weakness to her, having been both widowed and sorely shaken in wits by the small-pox.
It was then that Mr. Stewart, who had known my father, came to our relief. He first lent my mother a small sum of money--she would take no more, and was afterward very proud to repay him penny for penny. He further interested Sir William Johnson, Mr. Douw Fonda, Mr. John Butler, and others in the project of aiding her to establish a small school at Fort Hunter, where little children might be taught pure Dutch.
This language, which I have lived to see almost entirely43 fade from use, was even then thought to be most probably the tongue of the future in the colony, and there was the more need to teach it correctly, since, by the barbarous commingling44 of Rhenish peasant dialects, Irish and Scotch45 perversions46 of English, Indian phrases, the lingo47 of the slaves, and the curious expressions of the Yankees from the East, the most villanous jargon48 ever heard was commonly spoken in our Valley. My mother knew the noble language of her fathers in all its strength and sweetness, and her teaching was so highly prized that soon the school became a source of steady support to us all. Old "Uncle" Conrad--or Coonrod as we used to call him--the high-shouldered old pedagogue49 who was at once teacher, tithing-man, herb-doctor, and fiddler for our section, grumbled50 a little at the start; but either he had not the heart to take the bread from our mouths, or his own lips were soon silenced by the persuasion51 of our patrons.
It was out of respect for one of these, good old Douw Fonda, who came from Schenectady to live at Caughnawaga when I was two years old, that I had been named. But even more we all owed to the quiet, lonely man who had built the log house opposite Aries Creek52, and who used so often to come over on Sunday afternoons in the warm weather and pay us a friendly visit.
My earliest recollections are of this Mr. Stewart, out of whom my boyish fancy created a beneficent sort of St. Nicholas, who could be good all the year round instead of only at New Year's. As I grew older his visits seemed more and more to be connected with me, for he paid little attention to my sisters, and rarely missed taking me on his knee, or, later on, leading me out for a walk. Finally I was asked to go over and stay with him for a week, and this practically was the last of my life with my mother. Soon afterward my aunt was engaged as his housekeeper53, and I tacitly became a part of the household as well. Last of all, on my eighth birthday, in this same November of '57, I was formally installed as son of the house.
It was a memorable54 day, as I have said, in that Tulp was given me for my own. But I think that at the time I was even more affected55 by the fact that I was presented with a coat, and allowed to forever lay aside my odious56 aprons57. These garments, made by my mother's own hands, had long been the bane of my existence. To all my entreaties58 to be dressed as the other boys of my age were, like Matthew Wormuth or Walter Butler instead of like a Dutch infant, she was accustomed to retort that young Peter Hansenius, the son of the dominie at Schenectady, had worn aprons until he was twelve. I had never seen Peter Hansenius, nor has it ever since been my fortune so to do, but I hated him bitterly as the cause of my humiliation59.
Yet when I had got my coat, and wore it, along with breeches of the same pearl-gray color, dark woollen stockings, copper60 buckles61 on my shoes, and plain lace at my wrists and neck and on my new hat, I somehow did not feel any more like the other boys than before.
It was my bringing up, I fancy, which made me a solitary62 lad. Continual contact with Mr. Stewart had made me older than my years. I knew the history of Holland almost as well, I imagine, as any grown man in the neighborhood, and I had read many valuable books on the history of other countries and the lives of famous men, which were in Mr. Stewart's possession. Sir William also loaned me numerous books, including the Gentleman's Magazine, which I studied with delight. I had also from him Roderick Random63, which I did not at all enjoy, nor do I even now understand how it, or for that matter any of its rowdy fellows, found favor with sensible people.
My reading was all very serious--strangely so, no doubt, for a little boy--but in truth reading of any sort would have served to make me an odd sheep among my comrades. I wonder still at the unlettered condition of the boys about me. John Johnson, though seven years my senior, was so ignorant as scarcely to be able to tell the difference between the Dutch and the Germans, and whence they respectively came. He told me once, some years after this, when I was bringing an armful of volumes from his father's mansion64, that a boy was a fool to pore over books when he could ride and fish and hunt instead. Young Butler was of a better sort mentally, but he too never cared to read much. Both he and the Groats, the Nellises, the Cosselmans, young Wormuth--in fact, all the boys of good families I knew in the Valley--derided education, and preferred instead to go into the woods with a negro, and hunt squirrels while he chopped, or to play with their traps.
Perhaps they were not to be blamed much, for the attractions of the rough out-of-door life which they saw men leading all about them might very easily outweigh65 the quiet pleasures of a book. But it was a misfortune none the less in after-years to some of them, when they allowed uninformed prejudices to lead them into a terrible course of crime against their country and their neighbors, and paid their estates or their lives as the penalty for their ignorance and folly66.
Fortunately, things are better ordered for the youth of the land in these days.
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1
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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sparse
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| adj.稀疏的，稀稀落落的，薄的 | |
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abduct
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| vt.诱拐，拐带，绑架 | |
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mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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6
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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7
stockade
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| n.栅栏，围栏；v.用栅栏防护 | |
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8
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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attic
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| n.顶楼，屋顶室 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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dame
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| n.女士 | |
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benefactor
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| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
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adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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itinerant
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| adj.巡回的；流动的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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wresting
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| 动词wrest的现在进行式 | |
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28
scanty
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| adj.缺乏的，仅有的，节省的，狭小的，不够的 | |
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livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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32
shearing
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| n.剪羊毛，剪取的羊毛v.剪羊毛( shear的现在分词 )；切断；剪切 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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destitution
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| n.穷困，缺乏，贫穷 | |
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knavery
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| n.恶行，欺诈的行为 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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crook
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| v.使弯曲；n.小偷，骗子，贼；弯曲(处) | |
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untowardly
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| adj.意外的； 不顺利的；倔强的；难对付的 | |
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39
toddling
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| v.（幼儿等）东倒西歪地走( toddle的现在分词 )；蹒跚行走；溜达；散步 | |
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40
urchin
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| n.顽童；海胆 | |
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41
pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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42
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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43
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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44
commingling
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的现在分词 ) | |
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45
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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46
perversions
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| n.歪曲( perversion的名词复数 )；变坏；变态心理 | |
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47
lingo
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| n.语言不知所云，外国话，隐语 | |
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48
jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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49
pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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50
grumbled
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| 抱怨( grumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 发牢骚； 咕哝； 发哼声 | |
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51
persuasion
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| n.劝说；说服；持有某种信仰的宗派 | |
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52
creek
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| n.小溪，小河，小湾 | |
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53
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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54
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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57
aprons
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| 围裙( apron的名词复数 )； 停机坪，台口（舞台幕前的部份） | |
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entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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59
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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60
copper
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| n.铜；铜币；铜器；adj.铜(制)的；(紫)铜色的 | |
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61
buckles
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| 搭扣，扣环( buckle的名词复数 ) | |
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62
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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64
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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65
outweigh
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| vt.比...更重，...更重要 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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