 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
| |
 |
American colonies were established, yet at the time, European subjects paid a shilling in tax, while men such as my father were forced to pay 26
shillings per household to help defray the cost of supporting the British King’s military force on our coastline. There were hysterical rumors of war with
the French (besides the Indians, which was ongoing) and farms were plundered by righteous British militia, famished French scouts, and fierce Indian
raiding parties.
Even failed pioneers stole food from us. Paupers had to rely on their own wits to live in such abject poverty. Of course, there were hysterical rumors of
war with the French (besides the skirmishes with Indians, which were ongoing), and farms also were plundered by righteous British militia, famished
French scouts, and fierce Indian raiding parties. Even failed pioneers stole food from us. Paupers had to rely on their own wits to exist in such abject
poverty with so many others, equally poor and desperate, ready to pounce. Forget the bears and wolves waiting just outside the door; we had plenty
to fear from the two-legged variety of varmint back then, too.
My father faced these and many more worries when I was born. His name was Samuel, and Samuel could not afford to support 12 children
indefinitely. At the age of 15, I was sent from the family farm to learn the tailoring trade. I had no right to protest the apprenticeship agreement signed,
putting my care entirely in the trust of a man who would be my master for the next seven years. In return, I was expected to give him my labor for any
task assigned, regardless of the request.
I nonetheless was blessed that my family was not as poor as other families. Children born to the very poor were often put into apprenticeship as young
as six years of age, and they would usually stay in that situation until they were 21 years old. I knew apprentices who were left behind when their
families moved westward -- boys who never again saw their kin.
Before I left home, my father told me that I could not marry until after the contract was fulfilled. I was legally barred from seeing a theatre play, from
playing a dice game, or from any other folly that might affect my master’s good name. I could not be disruptive in any way or bring any harm to my
master or his belongings. If I did, he could physically discipline me or, worse, bring me before a magistrate and extend the length of my apprenticeship.
My parents were no longer responsible for me. If I ran away, I could be hunted down and whipped. My father could be made to pay for the value of
my services for the years of the contract — in which case, he promised that he would hunt me down and whip me himself. He had given his word, and
he expected that we both would keep it. Honor was everything.
My master did not whip me excessively, but we both knew our stations in life. I was seldom shown the kindness he reserved for his children, but Sir
was kind enough to let me return to my own family on the occasional Saturday and Sabbath. In this manner I remained connected to my brothers and
my sisters. I still had the benefit of my father's sound advice and the sweet voice of my mother reading from the Bible before bedtime.
Over the next years, my labors were not limited to the insufferably long hours I spent with needle and beeswax thread. Whatever Sir could find for me
to do at any time of the day or night became my duty. I felt like rebelling on many a summer night for the pleasures to be found in town. On autumn
days, I longed to join the youth skipping off to school or sneaking off to a favorite fishing hole. Still, I kept the bargain agreed to by my father on my
behalf. In other words, I conformed my nature to my master’s whims.
For those seven years, then, I lived in another’s home and enjoyed the warmth of his fire and the company of his family. I was sent to sleep in the barn
when guests appeared on their doorstep but I did not complain, knowing other apprentices were beaten within an inch of their lives without
provocation or warning. By comparison, I had a good life. Before I left my master’s house, I, too, could sew the fine, invisible stitches that separated
masters of the trade from those just born handy with a needle.
The Indenture Ends.
When I was finally free to make my own way in the world, my first adult decision was to marry Phebe Tucker, a kind and sweet-tempered young
woman. I was 22 years old and she was five years younger. My bride and I settled in Hill, a town that became known in 1753 as New Chester, New
Hampshire. There, I was able to make a modest living by sewing for the townspeople. The times were hard and our existence was meager, but we
were happy and soon the Lord blessed us with four children. Our first-born son was named for my father, and our first daughter was named for my
wife. Our son Asa was named for my youngest brother, and my wife named our fourth child “Susanne.”
A better opportunity prompted the move to Hampstead, Massachusetts. Between sunrise and sunset, I made clothing for the townspeople while my
wife fashioned clothes and quilts to keep our own family warm. My namesake, Ephraim, Jr., was born in Hampstead, and son Parker came next, in
1764. Then we were blessed with Mary, Sarah, and little Moses.
Our lives assumed an orderly fashion, though our small log home was filled with the endless sound of children crying and laughing all at the same time. It
filled my heart, and Phebe was constant in her patience and care. She kept close watch over them all, lest they burn themselves with the candles she
made for our light, or fall into the fire that she lit for our warmth. The fear of death by fire was real. But we had the fellowship of our neighbors, the
respect of the community, the comfort of the church, and the companionship that only a couple who face trials and troubles can truly appreciate. Yet I
felt something was lacking, a need going unfulfilled. A selfish desire.
While in Hampstead, I told my wife of my dream to return to the farming life that I had known before my father set me out to learn a trade. My
brothers had grown into men who had chosen different lives than those decided for them, and I was encouraged to do the same by my brother Samuel,
who was a preacher of the Word of God. I took Samuel’s blessing as a sign that our Heavenly Father’s plan for me was in keeping with the yearning in
my heart to raise crops and cattle. Even so, breaking with tradition was hard, particularly since I had just put my oldest son, Samuel, into
apprenticeship with a tanner to learn the art of curing leather. He tried to resist, but my income was limited. He was 14 — old enough to be steered
into a trade. It would not be my desire that he follow my path as a tailor, and so I set him on a different course. I reminded him of an unchanging
doctrine commanded and reaffirmed by God, with no answering back (Job 40:4-5; Titus 2:9) and no compromise or exception to His rule: Honor thy
father and thy mother, as Yahweh thy God hath commanded thee: that thy days may be prolonged, and that it may go well with thee, in the
land which Yahweh thy God giveth thee. It was not his place to question my decisions.
I saved what little money I could with the vision of pioneering in Vermont. Soon my dream became Phebe’s dream. We whispered at night, after the
children were asleep, of the “good life” that awaited us if only I could become a man of property. A trade was respectable, but owning land was
honorable, and I wanted to plant roots for my children. I wanted a life independent of the needs and fortunes of others. It would be hard, and at the
cost of what little comforts we had only just begun to accumulate, but it was my American dream.
The Move to Newbury
When we first caught sight of Newberry, Vermont, I could barely contain my excitement. The Connecticut River flowed through a dense forest, and
here and there were Indian clearings a few acres in size. Pine trees covered the plain on which Newbury village was just barely becoming established.
From my position on the riverbank, I could hear the sharp whack of a settler’s ax. A crude trail meandered from river to woods, likely an Indian trail
that would serve as a cow path to those who followed their way. I climbed a tall tree for a better view of the lay of the land. From that vantage point, I
could see smoke arising from a few log dwellings. “We have neighbors!” I shouted down to Phebe.
“Praise the Lord,” my wife answered softly. Her tone put a fear in my heart that she did not share my excitement, but when I looked down into her
upturned face, she was smiling, squinting her eyes against the setting sun.
There was no sawmill, no place to buy hewn lumber, and so we would need to raise a home of logs. I dropped out of the tree and climbed into the
wagon, reappearing with the ax given to me by my brother John. From my perch in the tree, I had spotted the place I would homestead. There I would
mark four corner trees and stake our claim.
“Keep traveling just a little further,” I urged the children. “We’re going to stop just over the top of that ridge in front of us. That’s where we'll build our
home.” The need to keep moving pressed down upon me because there was so much to do and precious little time to spend daydreaming. The nearest
white settlement was at least 60 miles away, and the nearest doctor would be in Caterbury or Charleston, New Hampshire. The woods were full of
wild beasts, and I was apprehensive of the nature of the Indians. I wanted my animals tended and my family fed, sheltered and settled as soon as
possible.
Young Samuel followed bear tracks along the river, pretending to be a great hunter. The warmth of the nearby cabin likely lured wolves. From my
vantage point in the tree, I had noticed a cabin that lacked a door; the owner had suspended a coverlet over the entrance to keep out some of the
cold... and to serve as a barrier to him and whatever meandered into range. If I was of a mind to raise cattle, they would have to be shut in pens strong
enough to resist a bear attack.
Samuel cocked his head to one side, listening to noises that I was too tired to even want to hear. There was little doubt in my mind that my boy would
likely kill both bear and wolf before his next birthday. This was the life I chose, and difficulties would be faced as they arose. Perhaps we might find the
neighbor to be merciful and we might be given shelter from the elements on this night, when we were so exhausted from the trek. I had invested
everything we owned in coming this far. I glanced at our team of oxen and the wagon that carried our few pieces of furniture — at my travel-weary
wife and dirt-streaked children.
Over the next coming months, my brothers joined the few men in the region to hoist the logs of my home. They all helped as often as they were able to
abandon their own families and chores for the benefit of mine. We finished just in time: the house was barely put in order before my wife was bringing
our tenth child into this world. True, it meant another small mouth to feed, and the child would come only a couple years since we welcomed little
Moses, but we would prosper as a family in this new, precious land. As my responsibilities increased, so would our rewards.
Tragedy Takes My Heart
The life I had envisioned with my wife was not the life intended for me. Phebe died just after the baby was born, and the newborn child soon joined its
mother in Our Eternal Home. It is too painful, even now, to hear even in my own mind the sweet infant’s name. It was with a broken heart that I
privately grieved these greatest losses of my life, but there were nine children to feed and seeds to plant. I didn’t want to bury them next, so I turned
my attention to putting seeds in the ground, fowl on the table.
The oldest children were put in charge of the youngest. I toiled from sunrise to well after sunset, grateful for the opportunity to work my little piece of
land. However, a great despair remained my constant companion — until Providence saw fit to lift me out of misery. A woman I had known in Chester
came to Newberry to visit friends and we happened to meet again in church. Sarah was the widow of Henry Wells. Henry had fallen down dead in a fit
of apoplexy, in the road on a return trip from a mill in Salisbury, leaving Sarah with four young children.
It took some convincing for Sarah to leave the farm she had lived on all during her married life, but soon we wed and she brought her children to my
farm. Though I loved Sarah as much as I could in Phebe’s shadow, her children needed a father and my children needed a mother, and it was to that
end we married.
In the Service of Country
Our troubles were not ended with our simple wedding. While we were blessed with two more children of our own — Ebinezer and John — we were
cursed with the Revolutionary War. We knew and trusted many of the Indians living in our area, but the British often encouraged other, hostile tribes to
capture a neighbor and carry them off to Canada. There were too few soldiers and British loyalists aplenty in our region. The Indian raids were vicious
and we were never sure who living amongst us might turn on us if given the opportunity of a British raid.
Worries and guilt kept me awake those long nights of uncertainty, especially when muskets boomed or cabins blazed. Where are Samuel and Asa
sleeping tonight? I wondered.
My wife Sarah was brave for a woman and she thought well of her militia-bound step-sons; however, she feared American soldiers even more than the
Indians. Soldiers, too, raided, raped, and exacted a high price for their frustrations of war from the ones they were entrusted to protect. There was little
harmony in the house when the ever-present topic of war was raised. Given the encroaching dangers on all sides, and wanting peace in my own home,
I thought it best to join my few male neighbors to form a committee on safety, if only to put Sarah’s fears to rest. It was our duty to decide the best
course to follow to protect our families at the first sound of alarm. We made our plans and we all slept better, as if plans alone could keep us safe.
Meanwhile, there were other dissensions to settle.
My son Ephraim had been born with a good intellect and a strong constitution. When the other children fell to disease or cough, he remained healthy in
every way. I envisioned him as a shoemaker, and when old enough, I insured he learned the trade. It was during this time, while we lived in Newberry
and he was serving his apprenticeship, that Ephraim took a great fancy to the Indians who stopped at our house to exchange furs and other trade for
rum. He often left his master to run home and beg me to grant permission for him to take leave of his apprenticeship to go on a hunting party with his
Indian friends. I refused his every entreaty, reminding of his obligations. “Until you are a man with means enough to do as you wish, you will do as I
instruct,” I scolded Ephraim. His brothers Parker and John were apprenticed to a joiner, and Susannah was learning a tailor’s work. My children
would learn a trade because there was no extra land to give them. They would earn, as I did, the honor to farm. It was the only way I knew to help
them. Someday, I told Sarah, he would thank me.
Fearing Indians, We Flee!
One morning soon after daylight, I saw a man coming on horseback at full speed. He shouted upon approach that 300 Indians were on the road only
eight miles off and were coming to burn down the town. In that instant, as I sounded our alarm, I thought not of the men who would protect themselves
with any handy weapon, but rather of the feeble elderly and of our infants. Our youngest child was but six weeks old. My oldest son’s wife was only
three weeks past childbirth, still unable to walk. By our plan, the men of the Safety Committee commenced at once to move the women and children
across the river to Haverhill, New Hampshire, where there was a fort. We had no choice but flee. What could 30 or 40 men hope to accomplish
against 300 Indians?
The whole town scurried into motion – every yoke of oxen and every cart hurried along. The women threw in beds and bedding, and we packed these
carts with the sick and infirm, and the women and children unable to run or ride a horse. I hid our furniture as best I could, and drove our cattle before
us. Women wept and children cried, but there was no time for comfort. Haste was required and in this confused manner, we tried to determine who
had food and who did not, and to see to it that the party continued moving. Some stayed behind, saying they would rather take their chances being
tomahawked by the Indians than enter the fort with the regular soldiers.
We set a guard over the boats in the river, and the flank returned to the town to scout the danger approaching behind us. We expected any moment to
be overtaken and either marched to Canada or killed on the spot. I also expected to see the blaze of the town burning. Only later would we learn that
two hunters taken captive by the Indians convinced them that Newberry was heavily guarded by soldiers sent by Haverhill. They were believable
enough that the Indians turned their course toward Royalton, which they burned that night instead of Newberry.
The townspeople soon returned to reclaim their homes, but my family had suffered enough for my dream of independence in Vermont. I accepted
Sarah’s plea to return to the farm she still owned in New Chester. It was better protected. There, she gave birth to our son Henry, and our last child,
Betsey.
Henry Struggles to Survive
Henry, our youngest son, was stricken with diphtheria at age thirteen. We saw many a child die from the affliction and it was our belief that he was
taken from us for moments himself, and that only Providence saw fit to spare him. We sent for Doc Kelly, who gave him an emetic and other
medicines, but for four week following his treatment, he could speak only in a whisper. He kept to his bed and one day it seemed too difficult for him
to continue breathing. Our neighboring friends came to say their goodbyes to this favored son, and I admit that I had turned away from prayer to
despair myself.
Seeing my wife’s tears, I raised our son up, hoping to make his last breath perhaps a little easier to let go, when he put his fingers down his throat,
pulled out a piece of skin four inches by an inch, and collapsed in my arms. I laid him down in amazement and he began to breathe, each breath
stronger than his last. However, from then on, Henry had nosebleeds that often lasted from nine in the evening until daylight. Still, his voice returned and
within three months, he began to venture outside. He was left with a hacking cough that would last all his life, but at 14, he was capable of entering into
an apprenticeship with his kin, Ebenezer Kimball in New Chester, where he learned how to tend a store. If he was intended to live, God intended him
to make his own way.
Henry later suffered spotted fever and nearly died yet again from a bleeding cut which refused to stop for 16 hours. He seemed to come back to us,
only to fall sick with pleurisy fever. He was unable to do any sort of labor for many weeks at a time.
This continued throughout his life. When times were most difficult for Henry and his young wife and family, he worked a day’s labor for a peck of corn.
He sold his land and moved in with friends. He worked and turned one job into a second, and eventually bought his own land again — but then lost it
again due to inflammation of the lungs putting him to rest for months. A daughter died, leaving him broken physically and also emotionally, and soon
thereafter was reduced to peddling tin ware.
I was long in my grave by the time Henry drew his last breath. Sarah’s farm became my home, where I lived until the very old age of 73. If you want to
find where my home stood, look for the Congregational Meeting House of Hill, New Hampshire.
shillings per household to help defray the cost of supporting the British King’s military force on our coastline. There were hysterical rumors of war with
the French (besides the Indians, which was ongoing) and farms were plundered by righteous British militia, famished French scouts, and fierce Indian
raiding parties.
Even failed pioneers stole food from us. Paupers had to rely on their own wits to live in such abject poverty. Of course, there were hysterical rumors of
war with the French (besides the skirmishes with Indians, which were ongoing), and farms also were plundered by righteous British militia, famished
French scouts, and fierce Indian raiding parties. Even failed pioneers stole food from us. Paupers had to rely on their own wits to exist in such abject
poverty with so many others, equally poor and desperate, ready to pounce. Forget the bears and wolves waiting just outside the door; we had plenty
to fear from the two-legged variety of varmint back then, too.
My father faced these and many more worries when I was born. His name was Samuel, and Samuel could not afford to support 12 children
indefinitely. At the age of 15, I was sent from the family farm to learn the tailoring trade. I had no right to protest the apprenticeship agreement signed,
putting my care entirely in the trust of a man who would be my master for the next seven years. In return, I was expected to give him my labor for any
task assigned, regardless of the request.
I nonetheless was blessed that my family was not as poor as other families. Children born to the very poor were often put into apprenticeship as young
as six years of age, and they would usually stay in that situation until they were 21 years old. I knew apprentices who were left behind when their
families moved westward -- boys who never again saw their kin.
Before I left home, my father told me that I could not marry until after the contract was fulfilled. I was legally barred from seeing a theatre play, from
playing a dice game, or from any other folly that might affect my master’s good name. I could not be disruptive in any way or bring any harm to my
master or his belongings. If I did, he could physically discipline me or, worse, bring me before a magistrate and extend the length of my apprenticeship.
My parents were no longer responsible for me. If I ran away, I could be hunted down and whipped. My father could be made to pay for the value of
my services for the years of the contract — in which case, he promised that he would hunt me down and whip me himself. He had given his word, and
he expected that we both would keep it. Honor was everything.
My master did not whip me excessively, but we both knew our stations in life. I was seldom shown the kindness he reserved for his children, but Sir
was kind enough to let me return to my own family on the occasional Saturday and Sabbath. In this manner I remained connected to my brothers and
my sisters. I still had the benefit of my father's sound advice and the sweet voice of my mother reading from the Bible before bedtime.
Over the next years, my labors were not limited to the insufferably long hours I spent with needle and beeswax thread. Whatever Sir could find for me
to do at any time of the day or night became my duty. I felt like rebelling on many a summer night for the pleasures to be found in town. On autumn
days, I longed to join the youth skipping off to school or sneaking off to a favorite fishing hole. Still, I kept the bargain agreed to by my father on my
behalf. In other words, I conformed my nature to my master’s whims.
For those seven years, then, I lived in another’s home and enjoyed the warmth of his fire and the company of his family. I was sent to sleep in the barn
when guests appeared on their doorstep but I did not complain, knowing other apprentices were beaten within an inch of their lives without
provocation or warning. By comparison, I had a good life. Before I left my master’s house, I, too, could sew the fine, invisible stitches that separated
masters of the trade from those just born handy with a needle.
The Indenture Ends.
When I was finally free to make my own way in the world, my first adult decision was to marry Phebe Tucker, a kind and sweet-tempered young
woman. I was 22 years old and she was five years younger. My bride and I settled in Hill, a town that became known in 1753 as New Chester, New
Hampshire. There, I was able to make a modest living by sewing for the townspeople. The times were hard and our existence was meager, but we
were happy and soon the Lord blessed us with four children. Our first-born son was named for my father, and our first daughter was named for my
wife. Our son Asa was named for my youngest brother, and my wife named our fourth child “Susanne.”
A better opportunity prompted the move to Hampstead, Massachusetts. Between sunrise and sunset, I made clothing for the townspeople while my
wife fashioned clothes and quilts to keep our own family warm. My namesake, Ephraim, Jr., was born in Hampstead, and son Parker came next, in
1764. Then we were blessed with Mary, Sarah, and little Moses.
Our lives assumed an orderly fashion, though our small log home was filled with the endless sound of children crying and laughing all at the same time. It
filled my heart, and Phebe was constant in her patience and care. She kept close watch over them all, lest they burn themselves with the candles she
made for our light, or fall into the fire that she lit for our warmth. The fear of death by fire was real. But we had the fellowship of our neighbors, the
respect of the community, the comfort of the church, and the companionship that only a couple who face trials and troubles can truly appreciate. Yet I
felt something was lacking, a need going unfulfilled. A selfish desire.
While in Hampstead, I told my wife of my dream to return to the farming life that I had known before my father set me out to learn a trade. My
brothers had grown into men who had chosen different lives than those decided for them, and I was encouraged to do the same by my brother Samuel,
who was a preacher of the Word of God. I took Samuel’s blessing as a sign that our Heavenly Father’s plan for me was in keeping with the yearning in
my heart to raise crops and cattle. Even so, breaking with tradition was hard, particularly since I had just put my oldest son, Samuel, into
apprenticeship with a tanner to learn the art of curing leather. He tried to resist, but my income was limited. He was 14 — old enough to be steered
into a trade. It would not be my desire that he follow my path as a tailor, and so I set him on a different course. I reminded him of an unchanging
doctrine commanded and reaffirmed by God, with no answering back (Job 40:4-5; Titus 2:9) and no compromise or exception to His rule: Honor thy
father and thy mother, as Yahweh thy God hath commanded thee: that thy days may be prolonged, and that it may go well with thee, in the
land which Yahweh thy God giveth thee. It was not his place to question my decisions.
I saved what little money I could with the vision of pioneering in Vermont. Soon my dream became Phebe’s dream. We whispered at night, after the
children were asleep, of the “good life” that awaited us if only I could become a man of property. A trade was respectable, but owning land was
honorable, and I wanted to plant roots for my children. I wanted a life independent of the needs and fortunes of others. It would be hard, and at the
cost of what little comforts we had only just begun to accumulate, but it was my American dream.
The Move to Newbury
When we first caught sight of Newberry, Vermont, I could barely contain my excitement. The Connecticut River flowed through a dense forest, and
here and there were Indian clearings a few acres in size. Pine trees covered the plain on which Newbury village was just barely becoming established.
From my position on the riverbank, I could hear the sharp whack of a settler’s ax. A crude trail meandered from river to woods, likely an Indian trail
that would serve as a cow path to those who followed their way. I climbed a tall tree for a better view of the lay of the land. From that vantage point, I
could see smoke arising from a few log dwellings. “We have neighbors!” I shouted down to Phebe.
“Praise the Lord,” my wife answered softly. Her tone put a fear in my heart that she did not share my excitement, but when I looked down into her
upturned face, she was smiling, squinting her eyes against the setting sun.
There was no sawmill, no place to buy hewn lumber, and so we would need to raise a home of logs. I dropped out of the tree and climbed into the
wagon, reappearing with the ax given to me by my brother John. From my perch in the tree, I had spotted the place I would homestead. There I would
mark four corner trees and stake our claim.
“Keep traveling just a little further,” I urged the children. “We’re going to stop just over the top of that ridge in front of us. That’s where we'll build our
home.” The need to keep moving pressed down upon me because there was so much to do and precious little time to spend daydreaming. The nearest
white settlement was at least 60 miles away, and the nearest doctor would be in Caterbury or Charleston, New Hampshire. The woods were full of
wild beasts, and I was apprehensive of the nature of the Indians. I wanted my animals tended and my family fed, sheltered and settled as soon as
possible.
Young Samuel followed bear tracks along the river, pretending to be a great hunter. The warmth of the nearby cabin likely lured wolves. From my
vantage point in the tree, I had noticed a cabin that lacked a door; the owner had suspended a coverlet over the entrance to keep out some of the
cold... and to serve as a barrier to him and whatever meandered into range. If I was of a mind to raise cattle, they would have to be shut in pens strong
enough to resist a bear attack.
Samuel cocked his head to one side, listening to noises that I was too tired to even want to hear. There was little doubt in my mind that my boy would
likely kill both bear and wolf before his next birthday. This was the life I chose, and difficulties would be faced as they arose. Perhaps we might find the
neighbor to be merciful and we might be given shelter from the elements on this night, when we were so exhausted from the trek. I had invested
everything we owned in coming this far. I glanced at our team of oxen and the wagon that carried our few pieces of furniture — at my travel-weary
wife and dirt-streaked children.
Over the next coming months, my brothers joined the few men in the region to hoist the logs of my home. They all helped as often as they were able to
abandon their own families and chores for the benefit of mine. We finished just in time: the house was barely put in order before my wife was bringing
our tenth child into this world. True, it meant another small mouth to feed, and the child would come only a couple years since we welcomed little
Moses, but we would prosper as a family in this new, precious land. As my responsibilities increased, so would our rewards.
Tragedy Takes My Heart
The life I had envisioned with my wife was not the life intended for me. Phebe died just after the baby was born, and the newborn child soon joined its
mother in Our Eternal Home. It is too painful, even now, to hear even in my own mind the sweet infant’s name. It was with a broken heart that I
privately grieved these greatest losses of my life, but there were nine children to feed and seeds to plant. I didn’t want to bury them next, so I turned
my attention to putting seeds in the ground, fowl on the table.
The oldest children were put in charge of the youngest. I toiled from sunrise to well after sunset, grateful for the opportunity to work my little piece of
land. However, a great despair remained my constant companion — until Providence saw fit to lift me out of misery. A woman I had known in Chester
came to Newberry to visit friends and we happened to meet again in church. Sarah was the widow of Henry Wells. Henry had fallen down dead in a fit
of apoplexy, in the road on a return trip from a mill in Salisbury, leaving Sarah with four young children.
It took some convincing for Sarah to leave the farm she had lived on all during her married life, but soon we wed and she brought her children to my
farm. Though I loved Sarah as much as I could in Phebe’s shadow, her children needed a father and my children needed a mother, and it was to that
end we married.
In the Service of Country
Our troubles were not ended with our simple wedding. While we were blessed with two more children of our own — Ebinezer and John — we were
cursed with the Revolutionary War. We knew and trusted many of the Indians living in our area, but the British often encouraged other, hostile tribes to
capture a neighbor and carry them off to Canada. There were too few soldiers and British loyalists aplenty in our region. The Indian raids were vicious
and we were never sure who living amongst us might turn on us if given the opportunity of a British raid.
Worries and guilt kept me awake those long nights of uncertainty, especially when muskets boomed or cabins blazed. Where are Samuel and Asa
sleeping tonight? I wondered.
My wife Sarah was brave for a woman and she thought well of her militia-bound step-sons; however, she feared American soldiers even more than the
Indians. Soldiers, too, raided, raped, and exacted a high price for their frustrations of war from the ones they were entrusted to protect. There was little
harmony in the house when the ever-present topic of war was raised. Given the encroaching dangers on all sides, and wanting peace in my own home,
I thought it best to join my few male neighbors to form a committee on safety, if only to put Sarah’s fears to rest. It was our duty to decide the best
course to follow to protect our families at the first sound of alarm. We made our plans and we all slept better, as if plans alone could keep us safe.
Meanwhile, there were other dissensions to settle.
My son Ephraim had been born with a good intellect and a strong constitution. When the other children fell to disease or cough, he remained healthy in
every way. I envisioned him as a shoemaker, and when old enough, I insured he learned the trade. It was during this time, while we lived in Newberry
and he was serving his apprenticeship, that Ephraim took a great fancy to the Indians who stopped at our house to exchange furs and other trade for
rum. He often left his master to run home and beg me to grant permission for him to take leave of his apprenticeship to go on a hunting party with his
Indian friends. I refused his every entreaty, reminding of his obligations. “Until you are a man with means enough to do as you wish, you will do as I
instruct,” I scolded Ephraim. His brothers Parker and John were apprenticed to a joiner, and Susannah was learning a tailor’s work. My children
would learn a trade because there was no extra land to give them. They would earn, as I did, the honor to farm. It was the only way I knew to help
them. Someday, I told Sarah, he would thank me.
Fearing Indians, We Flee!
One morning soon after daylight, I saw a man coming on horseback at full speed. He shouted upon approach that 300 Indians were on the road only
eight miles off and were coming to burn down the town. In that instant, as I sounded our alarm, I thought not of the men who would protect themselves
with any handy weapon, but rather of the feeble elderly and of our infants. Our youngest child was but six weeks old. My oldest son’s wife was only
three weeks past childbirth, still unable to walk. By our plan, the men of the Safety Committee commenced at once to move the women and children
across the river to Haverhill, New Hampshire, where there was a fort. We had no choice but flee. What could 30 or 40 men hope to accomplish
against 300 Indians?
The whole town scurried into motion – every yoke of oxen and every cart hurried along. The women threw in beds and bedding, and we packed these
carts with the sick and infirm, and the women and children unable to run or ride a horse. I hid our furniture as best I could, and drove our cattle before
us. Women wept and children cried, but there was no time for comfort. Haste was required and in this confused manner, we tried to determine who
had food and who did not, and to see to it that the party continued moving. Some stayed behind, saying they would rather take their chances being
tomahawked by the Indians than enter the fort with the regular soldiers.
We set a guard over the boats in the river, and the flank returned to the town to scout the danger approaching behind us. We expected any moment to
be overtaken and either marched to Canada or killed on the spot. I also expected to see the blaze of the town burning. Only later would we learn that
two hunters taken captive by the Indians convinced them that Newberry was heavily guarded by soldiers sent by Haverhill. They were believable
enough that the Indians turned their course toward Royalton, which they burned that night instead of Newberry.
The townspeople soon returned to reclaim their homes, but my family had suffered enough for my dream of independence in Vermont. I accepted
Sarah’s plea to return to the farm she still owned in New Chester. It was better protected. There, she gave birth to our son Henry, and our last child,
Betsey.
Henry Struggles to Survive
Henry, our youngest son, was stricken with diphtheria at age thirteen. We saw many a child die from the affliction and it was our belief that he was
taken from us for moments himself, and that only Providence saw fit to spare him. We sent for Doc Kelly, who gave him an emetic and other
medicines, but for four week following his treatment, he could speak only in a whisper. He kept to his bed and one day it seemed too difficult for him
to continue breathing. Our neighboring friends came to say their goodbyes to this favored son, and I admit that I had turned away from prayer to
despair myself.
Seeing my wife’s tears, I raised our son up, hoping to make his last breath perhaps a little easier to let go, when he put his fingers down his throat,
pulled out a piece of skin four inches by an inch, and collapsed in my arms. I laid him down in amazement and he began to breathe, each breath
stronger than his last. However, from then on, Henry had nosebleeds that often lasted from nine in the evening until daylight. Still, his voice returned and
within three months, he began to venture outside. He was left with a hacking cough that would last all his life, but at 14, he was capable of entering into
an apprenticeship with his kin, Ebenezer Kimball in New Chester, where he learned how to tend a store. If he was intended to live, God intended him
to make his own way.
Henry later suffered spotted fever and nearly died yet again from a bleeding cut which refused to stop for 16 hours. He seemed to come back to us,
only to fall sick with pleurisy fever. He was unable to do any sort of labor for many weeks at a time.
This continued throughout his life. When times were most difficult for Henry and his young wife and family, he worked a day’s labor for a peck of corn.
He sold his land and moved in with friends. He worked and turned one job into a second, and eventually bought his own land again — but then lost it
again due to inflammation of the lungs putting him to rest for months. A daughter died, leaving him broken physically and also emotionally, and soon
thereafter was reduced to peddling tin ware.
I was long in my grave by the time Henry drew his last breath. Sarah’s farm became my home, where I lived until the very old age of 73. If you want to
find where my home stood, look for the Congregational Meeting House of Hill, New Hampshire.
| Ephraim Webster: Apprentice |
Apprentice: One bound by indenture to serve another for a
prescribed period of time. In return, the apprentice is given food,
shelter, clothing, and the opportunity to learn an art or trade.
prescribed period of time. In return, the apprentice is given food,
shelter, clothing, and the opportunity to learn an art or trade.
Ephraim Webster Family:
A Historical Biography
Storyline copyright 2006: Jody Glynn Patrick
Glynn Patrick & Associates: Capturing Forever
A Historical Biography
Storyline copyright 2006: Jody Glynn Patrick
Glynn Patrick & Associates: Capturing Forever
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |