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BROADCASTING HOLLYWOOD

•
BROADCASTING
HOLLYWOOD
•
THE STRUG­G LE
OVER FEATURE FILMS
ON EARLY TV

Jen n ifer Porst

rutgers u niversity press

new bru nswick, camden, and newark,
new jersey, and london
Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data
Names: Porst, Jennifer, author.
Title: Broadcasting Hollywood: the strug­gle over feature films on early TV / Jennifer Porst.
Description: New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, [2021] | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020052283 | ISBN 9780813596228 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780813596211
(paperback) | ISBN 9780813596235 (epub) | ISBN 9780813596242 (mobi) |
ISBN 9780813596259 (pdf)
Subjects: LCSH: Tele­v i­sion broadcasting of films—­United States—­History—20th c­ entury. |
Copyright—­Broadcasting rights—­United States. | License agreements—­United States. |
Motion pictures—­United States—­Distribution. | Motion picture audiences—­
United States. | Tele­v i­sion viewers—­United States. | Motion picture industry—­
United States—­History—20th ­century. | Tele­v i­sion broadcasting—­United
States—­History—20th ­century.
Classification: LCC PN1992.8.F5 P67 2021 | DDC 791.45/750973—­dc23
LC rec­ord available at https://­lccn​.­loc​.g­ ov​/2­ 020052283
A British Cataloging-­in-­Publication rec­ord for this book is available from the
British Library.
Copyright © 2021 by Jennifer Porst
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic
or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written
permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset
Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as
defined by U.S. copyright law.
The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National
Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials,
ANSI Z39.48-1992.
www​.­rutgersuniversitypress​.­org
Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca
For Asher, Madison, Griffin, Stella, Ellie, and Mikey
 Contents

List of Abbreviations ​ ​ ​ix

Introduction: Media Disruption and Convergence ​ ​ ​1

1 Systems of Authority and Evaluation ​ ​ ​18
2 Exhibition, Audiences, and Media Consumption ​ ​ ​46
3 Contracts, Rights, Residuals, and ­Labor ​ ​ ​70
4 Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and the Intervention
of the Courts ​ ​ ​96
5 Antitrust, Market Dominance, and Emerging Media ​ ​ ​121
6 Feature Films Make Their Way to Tele­v i­sion ​ ​ ​144
Conclusion: Disrupting a Big Market Can Be Bumpy ​ ​ ​171

Acknowl­edgments ​ ​ ​183
Abbreviations Used in Notes ​ ​ ​185
Notes ​ ​ ​187
Bibliography ​ ​ ​223
Index ​ ​ 229

vii
 Abbreviations

ABC American Broadcasting Com­pany

AFL American Federation of ­Labor
AFM American Federation of Musicians
AFRA American Federation of Radio Artists
AFTRA American Federation of Tele­v i­sion and Radio Artists
AGVA American Guild of Variety Artists
ASCAP American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers
BBDO Batten, Barton, Durstine & Osborn Advertising Agency
BOA Bank of Amer­ic­ a
CBS Columbia Broadcasting System
COMPO Council of Motion Picture Organ­izations
DGA Directors Guild of Amer­i­ca
DOJ Department of Justice
FCC Federal Communications Commission
Four A’s Associated Actors and Artists of Amer­i­ca
FRC Federal Radio Commission
HUAC House Un-­American Activities Committee
IATSE International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees
IMPPA In­de­pen­dent Motion Picture Producers Association
JWT J. Walter Thompson Advertising Agency
MCA ­Music Corporation of Amer­i­ca
MGM Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer
MPAA Motion Picture Association of Amer­i­ca

ix
x A b b r e v i at i o n s

MPPDA Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of Amer­i­ca

NAB National Association of Broadcasters
NARTB National Association of Radio and Tele­v i­sion Broadcasters
NBC National Broadcasting Company
O&O owned and operated
PCA Production Code Administration
RCA Radio Corporation of Amer­i­ca
RKO Radio-­Keith-­Orpheum Pictures
SAG Screen Actors Guild
SCTOA Southern California Theatre ­Owners Association
SEG Screen Extras Guild
SIMPP Society of In­de­pen­dent Motion Picture Producers
SWG Screen Writers Guild
TBA Tele­v i­sion Broadcasters Association
TOA Theatre O
­ wners of Amer­ic­ a
TVA Tele­v i­sion Authority
U.A. United Artists
WGA Writers Guild of Amer­i­ca
BROADCASTING HOLLYWOOD

•
 Introduction
Media Disruption and Convergence

When Disney launched their streaming platform Disney+ in November 2019, the
strength of the ser­vice’s content library, which includes properties from Lucasfilm,
Marvel Studios, Pixar, Walt Disney Studios, Disney Channel, and National Geo-
graphic, and the optimistic projections of the platform’s subscriber numbers
resulted in Disney’s stock closing at its highest price ever, at $152 a share.1 The launch
may have seemed to be an overnight success, but in fact, it was the culmination of
de­cades of attempts by the conglomerate to establish itself in the digital world. They
first created their Disney Online unit in the summer of 1995, but while digital native
companies like Google, Amazon, and Facebook thrived and grew, many legacy
media companies like Disney strug­gled to adapt to the digital world. In 2010, Bob
Iger, former CEO of Disney, who was largely responsible for seeing Disney+ to frui-
tion, explained, “I have tried to keep two obvious philosophies. First, that our
current business not get in the way of adopting new technologies, and second, that
our business belongs on t­ hese new platforms.”2
The emergence and proliferation of digital technologies and the internet in the
1990s and the first de­cade of the twenty-­first c­ entury led to the theorization of ­these
pro­cesses as convergence, which, as defined by Henry Jenkins, describes the ways
that content flows across multiple media platforms, the cooperation between mul-
tiple media industries, and the migratory be­hav­ior of media audiences.3 This frame-
work becomes particularly relevant when a new technology or medium emerges
­because the “old” media must find ways to engage with the new media. Oftentimes,
as Disney experienced, that transition is not particularly smooth, and as Netflix
acknowledged in a July 2016 press release, “disrupting a big market can be bumpy.”4
In the wake of the many successful media companies that strug­gled or failed in
the face of digital media, many observers asked why the legacy media industries—­
film and tele­v i­sion in particular—­failed to take advantage of the potentials of
digital media by not making more extensive, and timely, efforts to converge. It
appeared as though the existing titans of media had their heads in the sand when
it came to digital technologies, and when they fi­nally stole a look, it was too late.
1
2 B r o a d c a s t i n g H o l ly w o o d

Take, for instance, the transformation of Netflix from a DVD-­by-­mail com­pany

that demolished the home video rental industry (let us lower our flags to half-­mast
for Blockbuster Video and the many local video stores left in Netflix’s wake) to a
streaming video platform whose aggressive push into the development and pro-
duction of original content on a global scale reportedly had media titans like Dis-
ney scrambling to launch their own streaming platforms. The press spilled a lot of
ink over the fact that Disney was supposedly caught unawares when it came to their
challengers in the streaming space, but companies like Disney and the p ­ eople who
lead them did not achieve success through ignorance or a lack of intelligence. That
is not to say they have never made a bad decision, but it does prompt the question,
Why have companies like Disney strug­g led to successfully defend their market
dominance in the face of ­these new innovations? What prevented them from
quickly adapting and taking advantage of ­t hese new technologies?
Although the recent academic interest in convergence would imply that it is a
digital native phenomenon, the notion that the seemingly distinct industries of
film, tele­v i­sion, and digital media work cooperatively is neither new nor exclusive
to the twenty-­first ­century. ­Earlier strug­gles between old and new media bear an
uncanny resemblance to t­ hose occurring between legacy and digital media t­ oday.
In looking back at the period of technological change when tele­v i­sion emerged as
a ­v iable, commercial media form, we can see that many of the same questions and
issues of convergence w ­ ere at play. Analyzing the moments throughout the his-
tory of the media industries when a disruptive technology was introduced and the
existing industry e­ ither adapted or failed to innovate can help us understand t­ hose
impor­tant moments in history and illuminate the issue of con­temporary media
innovation and disruption. William Uricchio has argued for the importance of this
kind of work by claiming that in this moment when con­temporary media is under-
going transitions wrought by digital technologies, scholars should adopt a new
view of media that benefits from considering other moments of media in transi-
tion, and one that demands new sorts of conceptual focus.5 That conceptual focus
should move away from the isolated study of specific media (e.g., film) and ­toward
a view of media as a “web of pre-­existing, competing, and alternative media prac-
tices,” which would enrich the pos­si­ble meanings that the study of an isolated
medium can generate.6 Similarly, Mark Williams outlined the need for new work
in media history that he called “intermedial studies,” or the “examinations of rela-
tions between and across specific media at significant historical junctures.”7 Wil-
liams, like Uricchio, sees the rise of digital culture as an impetus to “reunderstand”
the history of media and media culture, and he argues t­ here is an emerging empha-
sis on the “fissures, discontinuities, and synecdoche” of history.8 One of ­those
significant historical junctures occurred in the 1940s and 1950s when tele­vi­sion dis-
rupted the film industry. Over the past few de­cades, media scholars have worked
to illuminate the tumultuous relationship between the film and tele­v i­sion indus-
tries in that period. For example, Christopher Anderson, Tino Balio, Michele
Hilmes, William Boddy, Edward Buscombe, Robert Vianello, and Douglas Gom-
ery advanced the understanding of Hollywood’s relationship with early tele­v i­sion
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Metipom's
hostage
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
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ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
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Title: Metipom's hostage

Being a Narrative of certain surprising adventures befalling
one David Lindall in the first year of King Philip's War

Author: Ralph Henry Barbour

Illustrator: Remington Schuyler

Release date: July 28, 2024 [eBook #74148]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1921

Credits: Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK METIPOM'S

HOSTAGE ***
METIPOM’S HOSTAGE
KING PHILIP
 METIPOM’S HOSTAGE
BEING A NARRATIVE OF CERTAIN SURPRISING
ADVENTURES BEFALLING ONE DAVID LINDALL
IN THE FIRST YEAR OF KING PHILIP’S WAR

BY

RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY RALPH HENRY BARBOUR

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 CONTENTS
I. The Red Omen 1
II. The Meeting in the Woods 14
III. Down the Winding River 27
IV. The Spotted Arrow 41
V. David visits the Praying Village 53
VI. What happened at the Pool 69
VII. Captured 82
VIII. Metipom questions 93
IX. The Village of the Wachoosetts 105
X. Sequanawah pledges Friendship 122
XI. The Cave in the Forest 135
XII. David faces Death 147
XIII. A Friend in Strange Guise 159
XIV. Emissaries from King Philip 172
XV. The Sachem decides 180
XVI. Monapikot’s Message 193
XVII. Metipom takes the War-Path 204
XVIII. In King Philip’s Power 219
XIX. The Island in the Swamp 234
XX. David bears a Message 249
 XXI. To the Rescue 260
XXII. The Attack on the Garrison 272
XXIII. Straight Arrow returns 281
 ILLUSTRATIONS
King Philip Frontispiece
In that instant David knew, and his heart leaped into his
throat 80
There was a swift whiz-zt beside him and an arrow
embedded itself in a sapling 224
Then David was half pushing, half carrying Monapikot
through the doorway 282
METIPOM’S HOSTAGE
∙ ∙
∙
 CHAPTER I
THE RED OMEN
David Lindall stirred uneasily in his sleep, sighed, muttered, and
presently became partly awake. Thereupon he was conscious that all
was not as it had been when slumber had overtaken him, for,
beyond his closed lids, the attic, which should have been as dark at
this hour as the inside of any pocket, was illuminated. He opened his
eyes. The rafters a few feet above his head were visible in a strange
radiance. He raised himself on an elbow, blinking and curious. The
light did not come from the room below, nor was it the yellow glow
of a pine-knot. No sound came to him save the loud breathing of his
father and Obid, the servant, the former near at hand, the latter at
the other end of the attic: no sound, that is, save the soft sighing of
the night breeze in the pines and hemlocks at the eastern edge of
the clearing. That was ever-present and so accustomed that David
had to listen hard to hear it. But this strange red glow was new and
disturbing, and now, wide awake, the boy sought the explanation of
it and found it once his gaze had moved to the north window.
Above the tops of the distant trees beyond the plantation, the sky
was like the mouth of a furnace, and against the unearthly glow the
topmost branches of the taller trees stood sharply, like forms cut
from black paper.
“Father!” called the boy.
Nathan Lindall was awake on the instant.
“You called, David?” he asked.
“Yes, father. The forest is afire!”
“Nay, ’tis not the forest,” answered Nathan Lindall when he had
looked from the window. “The woods are too damp at this season,
and I have never heard of the Indians firing them save in the fall.
’Tis some one’s house, lad, and I fear—” He did not finish, but
turned instead to Obid Dawkin who had joined them. “What say you,
Obid?” he questioned.
“I say as you, master,” replied Obid in his thin, rusty voice. “And
’tis the work of the heathens, I doubt not. But whose house it may
be I do not know, for it seems too much east to be any in Sudbury,
and—”
“And how far, think you?”
“Maybe four miles, sir, or maybe but two. ’Tis hard to say.”
“Three, then, Obid: and that brings us to Master William
Vernham’s, for none other lies in that direction and so near. Whether
it be set afire by the Indians we shall know in time. But don your
clothing, for there may be work for us, although I misdoubt that we
arrive in time.”
“And may I go with you, father?” asked David eagerly.
“Nay, lad, for we must travel fast and ’twill be hard going. Do you
bolt well the door when we are gone and then go back to bed. ’Tis
nigh on three already and ’twill soon be dawn. Art ready, Obid?”
“Nay, for Sathan has hidden my breeches, Master Lindall,”
grumbled the man, “and without breeches I will not venture forth.”
“Do you find them quickly or a clout upon your thick skull may aid
you,” responded Nathan Lindall grimly.
“I have them, master,” piped Obid hurriedly.
“Look, sir, the fire is dying out,” said David. “The sky is far less
red, I think.”
“Maybe ’tis but a wild-goose chase we go on,” replied his father,
“and yet ’tis best to go. David, do you slip down and set out the
muskets and see that there be ammunition to hand. Doubtless in
time this jabbering knave will be clothed.”
“I be ready now, master! And as for jabbering—”
 “Cease, cease, and get you down!”
A minute or two later David watched their forms melt into the
darkness beyond the barn. Then, closing the door, he shot home the
heavy iron bolt and dropped the stout oak bar as well. In the wide
chimney-place a few live embers glowed amidst the gray ashes and
he coaxed them to life with the bellows and dropped splinters of
resinous pine upon them until a cheery fire was crackling there.
Then, rubbing out the lighted knot against the stones of the hearth,
he drew a bench to the blaze and warmed himself, for the night,
although May was a week old, was chill.
The room, which took up the whole lower floor of the house, was
nearly square, perhaps six paces one way by seven the other. The
ceiling was low, so low that Nathan Lindall’s head but scantily
escaped the rough-hewn beams. The furnishings would to-day be
rude and scanty, but in the year 1675 they were considered proper
and sufficient. In fact Nathan Lindall’s dwelling was rather better
furnished than most of its kind. The table and the two benches
flanking it had been fashioned in Boston by the best cabinet-maker
in the Colony. The four chairs were comfortable and sightly, the
chest of drawers was finely carved and had come over from
England, and the few articles that were of home manufacture were
well and strongly made. Six windows, guarded by heavy shutters,
gave light to the room, and one end was almost entirely taken up by
the wide chimney-place. At the other end a steep flight of steps led
to the room above, no more than an attic under the high sloping
roof.
David had lived in the house seven years, and he was now
sixteen, a tall, well-made boy with pleasing countenance and ways
which, for having dwelt so long on the edge of the wilderness, were
older than his age warranted. His father had taken up his grant of
one hundred acres in 1668, removing from the Plymouth Colony
after the death of his wife. David’s recollection of his mother was
undimmed in spite of the more than eight years that had passed,
but, as he had been but a small lad at the time of her death, his
memory of her, unlike his father’s, held little pain. The grant, part
woodland and part meadow, lay sixteen miles from Boston and north
of Natick. It was a pleasant tract, with much fine timber and a
stream which, rising in a spring-fed pond not far from the house,
meandered southward and ultimately entered the Charles River. The
river lay a long mile to the east and was the highway on which they
traveled, whether to Boston or Dedham.
Nathan Lindall had brought some forty acres of his land under
cultivation, and for the wheat, corn, and potatoes that he raised
found a ready market in Boston.
The household consisted of Nathan Lindall, David, and Obid
Dawkin. Obid had come to the Colony many years before as a “bond
servant,” had served his term and then hired to Master Lindall. In
England he had been a school-teacher, although of small
attainments, and now to his duties of helping till and sow and
harvest was added that of instructing David. Considering the lack of
books, he had done none so badly, and David possessed more of an
education than was common in those days for a boy of his position.
It may be said of Obid that he was a better farmer than teacher and
a better cook than either!
It was a lonely life that David led, although he was never
lonesome. There was work and study always, and play at times. His
play was hunting and fishing and fashioning things with the few rude
tools at hand. Of hunting there was plenty, for at that time and for
many years later eastern Massachusetts abounded in animals and
birds valuable for food as well as many others sought for pelt or
plumage. Red deer were plentiful, and beyond the Sudbury Marshes
only the winter before some of the Natick Indians had slain a moose
of gigantic size. Wolves caused much trouble to those who kept
cattle or sheep, and in Dedham a bounty of ten shillings had lately
been offered for such as were killed within the town. Foxes, both red
and gray, raccoons, porcupines, woodchucks, and rabbits were
numerous, while the ponds and streams supplied beavers, muskrats,
and otters. Bears there were, as well, and sometimes panthers; and
many lynxes and martens. Turkeys, grouse, and pigeons were
common, the latter flying in flocks of many hundreds. Geese, swans,
ducks, and cranes and many smaller birds frequented streams and
marshes, and there were trout in the brooks and bass, pickerel, and
perch in the ponds. At certain seasons the alewives ascended the
streams in thousands and were literally scooped from the water to
be used as fertilizer.
There was, therefore, no dearth of flesh for food nor skins for
clothing so long as one could shoot a gun, set a trap, or drop a
hook. Of traps David had many, and the south end of the house was
never without several skins in process of curing. Larger game had
fallen to his prowess, for he had twice shot a bear and once a
panther: the skins of these lay on the floor in evidence. He was a
good shot, but there was scant virtue in that at a time when the use
of the musket, both for hunting and for defense against the Indians,
was universal amongst the settlers. Rather, he prided himself on his
skill in the making of traps and snowshoes and such things as were
needed about the house. He had clever hands for such work. He
could draw, too, not very skillfully, but so well that Obid could
distinguish at the first glance which was the pig and which the ox!
And at such times his teacher would grumblingly regret that his
talent did not run more to the art of writing. But, since Obid’s own
signature looked more like a rat’s nest than an autograph, the
complaint came none too well.
Sitting before the fire to-night, David followed in thought the
journey of his father and Obid and wished himself with them.
Nathan Lindall had spoken truly when he had predicted hard going,
for the ice, which still lay in the swamps because of an unseasonable
spell of frost the week gone, was too thin to bear one and the trail
to Master Vernham’s must keep to the high ground and the longer
distance. The three miles, David reflected, would become four ere
the men reached their destination, and in the darkness the ill-
defined trail through the woods would be hard to follow. It was far
easier to sit here at home, toasting his knees, but no boy of sixteen
will choose ease before adventure, and the possibility of the fire
having been set by the Indians suggested real adventure.
A year and more ago such a possibility would have been little
considered, for the tribes had been long at peace with the colonists,
but to-day matters were changed. It had been suspected for some
time that Pometacom, or King Philip, as he was called, sachem of
the Wampanoags, was secretly unfriendly toward the English.
Indeed, nearly four years since he had been summoned to Taunton
and persuaded to sign articles of submission, which he did with
apparent good grace, but with secret dissatisfaction. Real uneasiness
on the part of the English was not bred, however, until the year
before our story. Then Sassamon, a Massachusett Indian who had
become a convert of John Eliot’s at the village of Praying Indians at
Natick, brought word to Plymouth of intended treachery by Philip.
Sassamon had been with Philip at Mount Hope acting as his
interpreter. Philip had learned of Sassamon’s treachery and had
caused his death. Three Indians suspected of killing Sassamon were
apprehended, tried, convicted, and, in June of the following year,
executed. Of the three one was a counselor of Philip’s, and the latter,
although avoiding any acts of hostility pending the court’s decision,
was bitterly resentful and began to prepare for war. During the
winter various annoyances had been visited upon the settlers by
roaming Indians. In some cases the savages were known to be
Wampanoags; in other cases the friendly Indians of the villages and
settlements were suspected, perhaps often unjustly. Even John
Eliot’s disciples at Natick did not escape suspicion. Rumors of
threatening signs were everywhere heard. Exaggerated stories of
Indian depredations traveled about the sparsely settled districts.
From the south came the tale of disaffection amongst the
Narragansetts, and from the north like rumors regarding the
Abenakis. There was a feeling of alarm everywhere amongst the
English, and even in Boston there were timorous souls who feared
an attack on that town. As yet, however, nothing untoward had
occurred in the Massachusetts-Bay Colony, and the only Indians that
David knew were harmless and frequently rather sorry-looking
specimens who led a precarious existence by trading furs with the
English or who dwelt in the village at Natick. Most of them were
Nipmucks, although other neighboring tribes were represented as
well. Save that they not infrequently stole from his traps—sometimes
taking trap as well as catch—David knew nothing to the discredit of
the Indians. Often they came to the house, more often he ran across
them on the river or in the forest. Always they were friendly. One or
two he counted as friends; Monapikot, a Pegan youth of near his
own age who dwelt at Natick, and Mattatanopet, or Joe Tanopet as
he was known, who came and went as it pleased him, bartering
skins for food and tobacco, and who claimed to be the son of a
Wamesit chief; a claim very generally discredited. It is not to be
wondered at, therefore, that David added a good seasoning of salt
to the tales of Indian unfriendliness, nor that to-night he was little
inclined to lay the burning of William Vernham’s house at the door of
the savages.
And yet, since where there is much smoke there must be some
fire, he realized that Obid’s surmise might hold more than prejudice.
Obid was firmly of the belief that the Indian was little if any better
than the beast of the forest and had no sympathy with the Reverend
John Eliot’s earnest endeavors to convert them to Christianity,
arguing that an Indian had no soul and that none, not even John
Eliot, could save what didn’t exist! Nathan Lindall held opposite
views both of the Indian and of John Eliot’s efforts, and many a long
and warm argument took place about the fire of a winter evening,
while David, longing to champion his father’s contentions,
maintained the silence becoming one of his years.
The fire dwindled and David presently became aware of the chill,
and, yawning, climbed the stair and sought his bed with many
shivers at the touch of the cold clothing. A fox barked in the
distance, but save for that all was silent. Northward the red glow
had faded from the sky and the blacker darkness that precedes the
first sign of dawn wrapped the world.
 CHAPTER II
THE MEETING IN THE WOODS

It was broad daylight when David awoke, rudely summoned from

slumber by the loud tattoo on the door below. He tumbled sleepily
down the stair and admitted his father and Obid, their boots wet
with the dew that hung sparkling in the pale sunlight from every
spray of sedge and blade of grass. While Obid, setting aside his
musket, began the preparation of breakfast, David questioned his
father.
“By God’s favor ’twas not the house, David, but the barn and a
goodly store of hay that was burned. Fortunately these were far
enough away so that the flames but scorched the house. Master
Vernham and the servants drew water from the well and so kept the
roof wet. The worst of it was over ere we arrived. Some folks from
the settlement at Sudbury came also: John Longstaff and a Master
Warren, of Salem, who is on a visit there, and two Indians.”
“How did the fire catch, sir?” asked David.
“’Twas set,” replied Nathan Lindall grimly. “Indians were seen
skulking about the woods late in the afternoon, and ’tis thought they
were some that have set up their wigwams above the Beaver Pond
since autumn.”
“But why, sir?”
“I know not, save that Master Vernham tells me that of late they
have shown much insolence and have frequently come to his house
begging for food and cloth. At first he gave, but soon their
importunity wearied him and he refused. They are, he says, a
povern and worthless lot; renegade Mohegans he thinks. But dress
yourself, lad, and be about your duties.”
 Shortly after the midday meal, Nathan Lindall and Obid again set
forth, this time taking the Sudbury path, and David, left to his own
devices, finished the ploughing of the south field which was later to
be sown to corn, and then, unyoking the oxen and returning them to
the barn, he took his gun and made his way along the little brook
toward the swamp woods. The afternoon, half gone, was warm and
still, and a bluish haze lay over the distant hills to the southeast. A
rabbit sprang up from almost beneath his feet as he entered the
white birch and alder thicket, but he forbore to shoot, since its flesh
was not esteemed as food and the pelt was too soft for use at that
season of the year. For that matter, there was little game worth the
taking in May, and David had brought his gun with him more from
force of habit than aught else. It was enough to be abroad on such a
day, for the spring was waking the world and it seemed that he
could almost see the tender young leaves of the white birches
unfold. Birds chattered and sang as he skirted the marsh and
approached the deeper forest beyond. A chestnut stump had been
clawed but recently by a bear in search of the fat white worms that
dwelt in the decaying wood, and David found the prints of the
beast’s paws and followed them until they became lost in the
swamp. Turning back, his ears detected the rustling of feet on the
dead leaves a few rods distant, and he paused and peered through
the greening forest. After a moment an Indian came into view, a
rather thick-set, middle-aged savage with a round countenance. He
wore the English clothes save that his feet were fitted to moccasins
instead of shoes and had no doublet above a frayed and stained
waistcoat that had once been bright green. Nor did he wear any hat,
but, instead, three blue feathers woven into his hair. He carried a
bow and arrows and a hunting-knife hung at his girdle. A string of
wampum encircled his neck. That he had seen David as soon as
David had seen him was evident, for his hand was already raised in
greeting.
“’Tis you, Tanopet,” called David. “For the moment I took you for
the bear that has been dining at yonder stump.”
 “Aye,” grunted the Indian, approaching. “Greeting, brother. Where
see bear?”
David explained, Joe Tanopet listening gravely the while. Then,
“No good,” he said. “No catch um in swamp. What shoot, David?” He
pointed to the boy’s musket.
“Nothing, Joe. I brought gun along for friend to talk to. Where you
been so long? You haven’t been here since winter.”
Tanopet’s gaze wandered and he waved a hand vaguely. “Me go
my people,” he answered. “All very glad see me. Make feast, make
dance, make good time.”
“Is your father Big Chief still living, Joe?”
“Aye, but um very old. Soon um die. Then Joe be chief. How your
father, David?”
“Well, I thank you; and so is Obid.”
Joe Tanopet scowled and spat.
“Um little man talk foolish, no good. You see fire last night?”
“Aye. Father and Obid Dawkin went to give aid, but the flames
were out when they reached Master Vernham’s. They say that the
fire was set, Joe.”
“Aye.”
“They suspect some Indians who have been living near the Beaver
Pond,” continued David questioningly.
Joe Tanopet shook his head. “Not Beaver Pond people.”
“Who then, Joe?”
“Maybe Manitou make fire,” replied the Indian evasively.
“Man or two, rather,” laughed David. “Anyhow, father and Obid
have gone to Sudbury where they are to confer with others, and I
fear it may go hard with the Beaver Pond Indians. How do you know
that they did not set the fire, Joe?”
 “Me know. You tell father me say.”
“Aye, but with no more proof than that I fear ’twill make little
difference,” answered the boy dubiously. “Joe, they say that there
are many strange Indians in the forest this spring; that Mohegans
have been seen as far north as Meadfield. Is it true?”
“Me no see um Mohegans. Me see um Wampanoags. Me see um
Niantiks. Much trouble soon. Maybe when leaves on trees.”
“Trouble? You mean King Philip?”
“Aye. Him bite um nails long time. Him want um fight. Him great
sachem. Him got many friends. Much trouble in summer.” Tanopet
gazed past David as though seeing a vision in the shadowed forest
beyond. “Big war soon, but no good. English win. Philip listen bad
counsel. Um squaw Wootonekanuske tell um fight. Um Peebe tell um
fight. All um powwows tell um make war. Tell um drive English into
sea, no come back here. All um lands belong Indians once more.
Philip um think so too. No good. Wampanoags big fools. Me know.”
“I hope you are mistaken, Joe, for such a war would be very
foolish and very wrong. That Philip has cause for complaint against
the Plymouth Colony I do not doubt, but it is true, too, my father
says, that he has failed to abide by the promises he made. As for
driving the English out of the country, that is indeed an idle dream,
for now that the Colonies are leagued together their strength of
arms is too great. Not all the Indian Nations combined could bring
that about. Philip should take warning of what happened to the
Pequots forty years ago.”
“Um big war,” grunted Tanopet. “Many Indians die. Joe um little
boy, but um see. Indians um fight arrow and spear, but now um
fight guns. English much kind to Indian. Um sell um gun, um sell um
bullet, um sell um powder.” Tanopet’s wrinkled face was slyly ironical.
“Philip got plenty guns, plenty bullet.”
“But how can that be, Joe? ’Tis but four years gone that his guns
were taken from him.”
 “Um catch more maybe. Maybe um not give up all guns. Good-
bye.”
Tanopet made a sign of farewell, turned and strode lightly away
into the darkening forest, and David, his gun across his shoulder,
sought his home, his thoughts busy with what the Indian had said.
Joe Tanopet was held trustworthy by the colonists thereabouts, and,
since he was forever on the move and having discourse with Indians
of many tribes, it might well be that his words were worthy of
consideration. For the first time David found reason to fear that the
dismal prophecies of Obid Dawkin might come true. He determined
to tell his father of Tanopet’s talk when he returned.
But when David reached the house, he found only Obid there,
preparing supper.
“Master Lindall will not be back until the morrow,” explained Obid.
“He and Master Vernham have gone to Boston with four Indians that
we made prisoners of, and who, I pray, will be hung to the gallows-
tree.”
“Prisoners!” exclaimed David. “Mean you that there has been
fighting, then?”
“Fighting? Nay, the infidels had no stomach for fighting. They
surrendered themselves readily enough, I promise, when they saw in
what force we had come. But some had already gone away,
doubtless having warning of our intention, and only a handful were
there when we reached their village. Squaws and children mostly,
they were, and there was great howling and dismay when we
burned the wigwams.”
“But is it known, Obid, that it was indeed they who did the
mischief to Master Vernham’s place?”
“Well enough, Master David. They made denial, but so they would
in any case, and always do. One brave who appeared to be their
leader—his name is Noosawah, an I have it right—told a wild tale of
strange Indians from the north and how they had been seen near
the High Hill two days since, and proclaimed his innocence most
loudly.”
“And might he not have been telling the truth?”
“’Tis thought not, Master David. At least, it was deemed best to
disperse them, for they were but a Gypsy-sort and would not say
plainly from whence they came.”
“It sounds not just,” protested David. “Indeed, Obid, ’tis such acts
that put us English in the wrong and give grounds for complaint to
the savages. And now, when, by all accounts, there is ill-feeling
enough, I say that it was badly done.”
Obid snorted indignantly. “Would you put your judgment against
that of your father and Master Vernham and such men of wisdom as
John Grafton, of Sudbury, and Richard Wight, Master David?”
“I know not,” answered David troubledly. “And yet it seems to me
that a gentler policy were better. It may be that we shall need all the
friends we can secure before many months, Obid.”
“Aye, but trustworthy friends, not these Sons of Sathan who offer
peace with one hand and hide a knife in t’other! An I were this
Governor Leverett I would not wait, I promise you, for the savages
to strike the first blow, but would fall upon them with all the strength
of the united Colonies and drive the ungodly creatures from the face
of the earth.”
“Then it pleases me well that you are not he,” laughed David as he
sat himself to the table. “But tell me, Obid, what of the Indians that
father and Master Vernham are taking to Boston? Surely they will
not execute them on such poor evidence!”
“Nay,” grumbled Obid, “they will doubtless be sold into the West
Indies.”
“Sold as slaves? A hard sentence, methinks. And the women and
children, what of them? You say the village was burned?”
 “Aye, to the ground; and a seemly work, too. The squaws and the
children and a few young men made off as fast as they might. I
doubt they will be seen hereabouts again,” he concluded grimly. “For
my part, I hold that Master Lindall and the rest were far too lenient,
since they took but four prisoners, they being the older men, and let
all others go free. I thought to see Master Vernham use better
wisdom, but ’tis well known that he has much respect for Preacher
Eliot, and doubtless hearkened to his intercessions. If this Eliot
chooses to waste his time teaching the gospel to the savages, ’tis his
own affair, perchance, but ’twould be well for him to refrain from
interfering with affairs outside his villages. Mark my words, Master
David: if trouble comes with Philip’s Indians these wastrel hypocrites
of Eliot’s will be murdering us in our beds so soon as they get the
word.”
“That I do not believe,” answered David stoutly.
“An your scalp dangles some day from the belt of one of these
same Praying Indians you will believe,” replied Obid dryly.
Nathan Lindall returned in the afternoon from Boston and heard
David’s account of his talk with Joe Tanopet in silence. Nathan
Lindall was a large man, well over six feet in height and broad of
shoulder, and David promised to equal him for size ere he stopped
his growth. A quiet man he was, with calm brown eyes deeply set
and a grave countenance, who could be stern when occasion
warranted, but who was at heart, as David well knew, kind and even
tender. He wore his hair shorter than was then the prevailing
fashion, and his beard longer. His father, for whom David was
named, had come to the Plymouth Colony from Lincolnshire,
England, in 1625, by profession a ship’s-carpenter, and had married
a woman of well-to-do family in the Colony, thereafter setting up in
business there. Both he and his wife were now dead, and of their
children, a son and daughter, only David’s father remained. The
daughter had married William Elkins, of Boston, and there had been
one child, Raph, who still lived with his father near the King’s Head
Tavern. When David had ended his recital, his father shook his head
as one in doubt.
“You did well to tell me, David,” he said. “It may be that Tanopet
speaks the truth and that we are indeed destined to suffer strife with
the Indians, though I pray not. In Boston I heard much talk of it,
and there are many there who fear for their safety. I would that I
had myself spoken with Tanopet. Whither did he go?”
“I do not know, father. Should I meet him again I will bid him see
you.”
“Do so, for I doubt not he could tell much were he minded to, and
whether Philip means well or ill we shall be the better for knowing.
So certain are some of the settlers to the south that war is brewing,
according to your Uncle William—with whom I spent the night in
Boston—that they even hesitate to plant their fields this spring.
Much foolish and ungodly talk there is of strange portents, too, with
which I have no patience. Well, we shall see what we shall see, my
son, and meanwhile there is work to be done. Did you finish the
south field?”
“Yes, father. The soil is yet too wet for good ploughing save on the
higher places. What of the Indians you took to Boston, sir? Obid
prays that they be hung, but I do not, since it seems to me that
none has proven their guilt.”
“They will be justly tried, David. If deemed guilty they will
doubtless be sold for slaves. A harsher punishment would be fitter, I
think, for this is no time to quibble. Stern measures alone have
weight with the Indians, so long as Justice dictates them. Now be off
to your duties ere it be too dark.”
 CHAPTER III
DOWN THE WINDING RIVER

A fortnight later David set out early one morning for Boston to
make purchases. Warm and dry weather had made fit the soil for
ploughing and tilling, and Nathan Lindall and Obid were up to their
necks in work, and of the household David could best be spared. He
was to lodge overnight with his Uncle William Elkins and return on
the morrow. The sun was just showing above the trees to the
eastward when he left the house and made his way along the path
that led to the river. He wore his best doublet, as was befitting the
occasion, but for the rest had clothed himself for the journey rather
than for the visit in the town. His musket lay in the hollow of his arm
and a leather bag slung about his shoulder held both ammunition
and food.
His spirits were high as he left the clearing behind and entered the
winding path through the forest of pines and hemlocks, maples and
beeches. The sunlight filtered through the upper branches and laid a
pattern of pale gold on the needle-carpeted ground. Birds sang
about him, and presently a covey of partridges whirred into air
beyond a beech thicket. It was good to be alive on such a morning,
and better still to be adventuring, and David’s heart sang as he
strode blithely along. The voyage down the river would be pleasant,
the town held much to excite interest, and the visit to his uncle and
cousin would be delightful. He only wished that his stay in the town
was to be longer, for he and Raph, who was two years his elder,
were firm friends, and the infrequent occasions spent with his cousin
were always the most enjoyable of his life. This morning he refused
to think of the trip back when, with a laden canoe, he would have to
toil hard against the current. The immediate future was enough.
Midges were abroad and attacked him bloodthirstily, but he plucked
a hemlock spray and fought them off until, presently, the path ended
at the bank of the river, here narrow and swift and to-day swollen
with the spring freshets. Concealed under the trees near by lay a
bark canoe and a pair of paddles, and David soon had the craft
afloat and, his gun and bag at his feet, was guiding it down the
stream.
The sun was well up by the time he had passed the first turns and
entered the lake above Nonantum which was well over a half-mile in
width, although it seemed less because of a large island that lay
near its lower end. There were several deserted wigwams built of
poles and bark on the shores of the island, left by Indians who a few
years before had dwelt there to fish. David used his paddle now, for
the current was lost when the river widened, and, keeping close to
the nearer shore, glided from sunlight to shadow, humming a tune
as he went. Once he surprised a young deer drinking where a
meadow stretched down to the river, and was within a few rods of
him before he took alarm and went bounding into a coppice. Again
the river narrowed and he laid the paddle over the side as a rudder.
A clearing running well back from the stream showed a dwelling of
logs, and a yellow-and-white dog barked at him from beside the
doorway. Then the tall trees closed in again and the swift water was
shadowed and looked black beneath the banks.
At noon, then well below the settlement at Watertown, David
turned toward the shore and ran the bow of the canoe up on a little
pebbly beach and ate the provender he had brought. It was but
bread and meat, but hunger was an excellent sauce for it, and with
draughts of water scooped from the river in his hand it was soon
finished. Then, because there was no haste needed and because the
sunshine was warm and pleasant, he leaned back and dreamily
watched the white clouds float overhead, borne on a gentle
southwesterly breeze. Behind him the narrow beach ended at a bank
whereon alders and willows and low trees made a thin hedge that
partly screened the wide expanse of fresh green meadow that here
followed the river for more than five miles. Through it meandered
little brooks between muddy banks, and here and there a rounded