LUCY KEYES.

A STORY OF MOUNT WACHUSETT.

BY A. P. MARBLE.

I.

Lucy Keyes was the daughter of Robert Keyes, who lived in the town of Princeton, in Massachusetts, about the year 1755. At the age of two and a half or three years, she disappeared one night at sunset, and was never afterwards heard of by her parents. Her father spent the greater part of his life in a fruitless search for her among the various tribes of Indians; and her mother lost her reason in the contemplation of the unknown fate which had befallen her little daughter. This is an account of the little girl's disappearance, and the elucidation of a mystery which, for three-quarters of a century, baffled all search. The story is derived from traditions in the neighborhood, from allusions to Lucy in the local histories, and from the dying statement of a chief actor in the tragedy.

The fourth settler in the town was Robert Keyes. It is well known that our ancestors had frequent trouble with the Indians, and that white people were stolen, to be either put to death or returned to their friends for a ransom. Lancaster had been burned seventy-five years before, and Mrs. Rowlandson, the minister's wife, was carried into captivity. She was taken to New Hampshire, and after wandering with her captors thirty days or more, she was returned to the foot of Mount Wachusett; and on a rock near the shore of Wachusett Lake, where the chiefs held their councils, she was purchased of her captors by John Hoar, an ancestor of the distinguished Senator Hoar, for thirty dollars in silver, together with some trinkets and provisions. King Philip himself was present, and opposed the release of Mrs. Rowlandson; but even his influence did not overcome the cupidity of the petty chief who held her. From this circumstance the rock is known as Redemption Rock. It has been purchased by Senator Hoar, and its southern face now bears an appropriate inscription to commemorate the release, and the courage and diplomacy of John Hoar.

The Inscription.

"Upon this rock, May 2d, 1676, was made the agreement for the ransom of Mrs. Mary Rowlandson of Lancaster, between the Indians and John Hoar of Concord.

"King Philip was with the Indians, but refused his consent."

It was on Pine Hill, a mile or two south of this rock, and at the eastern base of the mountain, that Robert Keyes cut down the forest, and made a home for his little family. The spot is picturesque and sightly. To the north, and seen through the clearing, nestles Lake Wachusett among its woody banks; while far in the horizon are seen the New Hampshire hills, and beyond, the blue summits of the White Mountains; to the east the landscape stretches away, diversified with lake and valley and woody slope, till it is lost to sight in the dimly distant line of the misty ocean; to the south is the dome-like knoll of Pine Hill covered with evergreen trees; and on the west rises the steep acclivity of Mount Wachusett, while between these two may be seen the hills, twenty miles away, that divide the waters of the Connecticut from the streams that supply the Nashua and the Merrimac.

On a sunny afternoon in summer Mr. Keyes and his boys were in the field some distance from the house, picking up logs and burning them with the stumps and brush, to enlarge the farm. Around the house were fields of corn and flax and waving grain. The cows and sheep were browsing in the edge of the woods. Mrs. Keyes was spinning flax in front of the cabin door, seated on a low, home-made stool upon the hard and smoothly swept ground. Within, the neatly kept log cabin had a rough floor strewn with white sand. On one side of the single large room there was a settee stuffed with shavings of birch-bark; and a cat lay curled up and dozing in the sun, which streamed in through the open lattice that took the place of a window. Around the room were the rough tables and the benches which used to serve as furniture in such primitive dwellings. Shelves and cupboards were fastened upon the wall. Dried apples and pumpkins, pieces of venison and smoked ham, hung upon poles at the top of the room. The wide fireplace and large, open chimney stood at one side. The embers smouldered between the great andirons, ready to be kindled for preparing the evening meal. Aloft, and reached by a ladder that rested against an opening, was the chamber where the family used to sleep. This was the happy home of Robert Keyes, where comfort and busy contentment reigned.

On the afternoon in question two older daughters were at play with little Lucy under the trellis of hop-vines that shaded their mother from the sun. Those were not the days of carpets or of painted floors. Neat housewives would sprinkle the boards with clean white sand; and this, under the tread of feet, would scour the wood and then be swept away. The brooms were made by stripping the sapling birch and tying these strips in a bundle over the end of the stick, or by tying cedar or hemlock boughs at the end of a pointed handle. Housekeepers were unacquainted with boughten brushes and corn-brooms and sweeping-machines.

At their mother's call the two older girls started with a bucket to go to the shore of the lake to fetch some sand for the floor. Little Lucy, thus left alone, soon tired of her play, and wandered away among the vines and the corn around the door, till she came to the path that led to the lake. She followed her sisters a long way behind them, and was never again seen by her friends.

Soon the sun had disappeared behind the summit of the mountain, and the deepening shadows were beginning to creep towards the cabin. The mother had put away her spinning-wheel, and the smoke was curling up from out the wide-mouthed chimney, in preparation of her supper. The farmer and his sons had left the field and gone to a little blacksmith shop a few rods down the hill, where he had mended a broken buck-scythe. The two girls had joined them there; and now they all came trooping together to the house. The boys and their father were washing their hands and faces from the sweat of the forge and the burnt logs. The mother was busy with her cooking. The girls had put away the bucket of sand and gone out to play, when they missed Lucy, and began to search for her among the hills of corn. Not finding her, they came back to the log cabin and told their mother. She thought the little girl must be near, and sent the sisters to look again, while she arranged the wooden plates and the pewter dippers and the iron knives and wooden spoons upon the table. The girls soon came back without finding Lucy, but the mother even then supposed that she had fallen asleep, overcome by her play and the heat of the sun. She stepped to the door and called loudly for Lucy; and the family sat down to supper, expecting her every minute to walk in. She did not come; and hastily finishing their meal, they all went to search the farm. Not finding Lucy, they became thoroughly alarmed.

Adjoining Mr. Keyes' farm, and between it and the foot of the mountain, was the clearing of a Mr. Littlejohn. He had no family. His farm was but little cultivated, and his cabin had not the air of home and comfort which Mrs. Keyes had put into hers. He was a hunter also, and he had a brace or two of dogs. Bearskins were tacked to the walls of his hut, to dry; and deer-horns, and fox-skins still further showed the hunter. This man was of a morose and hermit-like nature. There was a mystery about his early history; he had come from the old world, where he had mingled in affairs of state, and whence he had fled. Little children were afraid of him. He was quarrelsome, too; and before this time he had claimed a part of Mr. Keyes' land. As the two farmers could not agree upon the boundary line, they had called in two of their neighbors, and a surveyor from Lancaster, to fix the boundary. These had decided in favor of Mr. Keyes. The two neighbors had very little to do with each other after that; and the hermit became still more unsocial and morose. But in his distress Mr. Keyes called upon this man for help, and Mr. Littlejohn appeared to enter heartily into the search. The frequency of captures by the Indians, at once led to the suspicion that they had stolen Lucy. Mr. Littlejohn, as a hunter, assumed direction of the searching party. He sent the father and boys to follow the path towards the lake, the mother and daughters to go down the hill towards the east, while he went to the south and up the mountain. All hunted fast and far till late in the evening, when the gathering darkness had settled on the woods and hills; and then they turned their weary steps homeward. About this time all the members of the Keyes family saw the light of a huge bonfire, northwesterly from their house, and turned their steps towards the spot; for this was a signal that the lost was found. On reaching the place, however, they found Mr. Littlejohn, but no Lucy. He said that the darkness prevented further search that night, and he had lighted the fire, in order if possible, to attract the attention of the child, and also to bring together all the inhabitants around, to institute a more thorough search in the morning.

Afterwards others came in; and when they heard the story, one of them proposed to give a shoe or an apron of Lucy's to one of the dogs and let him follow the scent. But Mr. Littlejohn said this would not do, for the dogs were fierce and used to hunting for prey only. They would tear the little girl in pieces if they were to find her. And Mrs. Keyes would not consent to have the dogs set on the track. Another proposed to hunt with torches. With this plan all fell in; and the party, now swelled to ten or fifteen, were divided into squads and sent to hunt, each in a different direction. All night they kept up the search. They called aloud for Lucy again and again, and in all directions; they scoured the woods for miles around; they hunted on the shore of the lake for the tracks of little feet. Behind rocks and trees, under logs and clumps of bushes, they peered; but no trace was to be seen—nothing but darkness and gloomy night. Now and then the hoot of an owl would be mistaken for a child's cry, and hope would momentarily rise in the breast of a hunter only to fall as the sound became more distinct. And thus the night dragged on. When morning came, the various squads of hunters came back to the houses all with the same story of failure. They were weary with wakefulness and the heavy tramp. After a hasty meal they carefully searched the ground within two or three miles of the house. The whole day was spent in this; and at nightfall the party came back to the desolate house without hope. The mother, almost frantic, called for Lucy, and nothing but the echoes gave answer. One by one the neighbors went to their own homes and cares. The conviction forced itself upon the minds of all, that Lucy had been captured by the Indians. Mr. Keyes and his boys hunted in the woods for days afterwards, till the only hope that Lucy was alive lay in her being captured. Otherwise she must have died from exposure or starvation.

Sorrow and desolation now surrounded the cabin of Mr. Keyes. The sanded floor remained unswept; the trellis was broken by the wind; the vines hung straggling; the smooth, spacious front of the door was cluttered; the mewing cat gave voice to the general gloom. Mrs. Keyes could not forget her grief. All day she worked listlessly; and as the shadows from the mountain crept towards the cottage, she would stand in the doorway, and call, "Lucy, Lucy." For years the echoes daily sent back that sunset cry.

A few months after the loss of little Lucy, a hunter returned from the region of Lake George. On hearing the story, he reported that a white child had been seen in that neighborhood with a tribe of Indians; and the rumor reached the ears of Mr. Keyes. The autumn leaves had put on their dying robes of yellow and crimson and gold when, leaving the rest of his harvest to be gathered by his sons, he went to Lake George. After great risks, and many a hair-breadth escape, he found a captive maiden; but she was many years older than Lucy, and she knew only the life of the Indians. He reached his home late in the winter. In the spring a friendly Indian reported that a white girl was held captive by a tribe on the St. Lawrence; and again Mr. Keyes started in pursuit. Six months or more he spent in the search; but when he found the tribe and their captive, it was a black-eyed little girl that he saw; but Lucy's eyes were blue, and he travelled home. With each new rumor of a captive child among the Indian tribes in Maine or Connecticut, in New York or Canada, Mr. Keyes would start again on one of those sad pilgrimages; and he always came back disappointed and alone. Mr. Littlejohn had now left his farm, and it was occupied by strangers.

Meantime, the boys had grown to be men. They no longer had any sympathy with the fruitless search. They made homes for themselves in the now farther remote frontier. And the girls had grown to womanhood and married. Old, and poor, and alone,—for his wife had died, and long ago ceased her plaintive evening call for her long-lost little Lucy,—Mr. Keyes petitioned the "Great and General Court" for the grant of a tract of public land which lay near his home. In this petition, now to be found in the archives of the State, he sets forth that he is poor in consequence of the prolonged search for his daughter, and too feeble to maintain himself.