USA > Rhode Island > Washington County > North Kingstown > Facts and fancies concerning North Kingstown, Rhode Island > Part 8
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"You do not know it," said the Indian, "but you shall. Wait."
Then we both climbed the bar-way and walked across the field, not toward the house but to the wall at one side, in which was a gate. Coming to this he opened it, and there was the road. It was the old road that I knew, and looking much as I knew it, except that the stone walls were in better repair and that in all directions was a greater appearance of thrift. Then of a sudden, I saw the whole thing; there was the dip in the road, and, just beyond, the place where another road turned off from it, down the hill. What was here now, I had seen many times before, but wearing a very different aspect: broken-down walls; neglected fields grown thick with brush; an old stone chimney standing in a hollow filled with briers; all the mute evidences of a life long passed away. There was no time given me, however, to speak or even to think much, upon what was perhaps the most exciting of all the strange occurances that were taking place, for no sooner had we come to the roadside than I heard a gay whistling, and a young man, or rather a grown boy, came trudging along the road with a great bundle slung upon his back. When he came up to us he stopped and looking at me with a pleasant smile, said as he tossed his bundle onto the grass, "My word, but it's hot." And he took off his hat and mopped his sweat- ing face.
His look was so engaging, his smile so friendly and natural that I instantly felt a glow of genial liking for the lad, and lost all the sense I had had throughout the previous wild happenings of assisting at a scene. It was real, and vivid, and of the moment, and remarkably pleasant. So I
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smiled back at him and said, with a little laugh, "Well, my lad, you look it."
He was slender, but well set-up; dressed in simple home-spun jacket and knee-breeches, knit wool stocking and low shoes. He had good fea- tures; a rather large but very straight and handsome nose, broad sensitive mouth, firm chin. His eyes had the look which is not easily described, but which we know so well in the portraits of artists-the look of curious vision, of seeing carefully. He spoke with a slight Scotch accent. As he went on mopping his face, and pulling up his sleeves away from his hot wrists, meanwhile seating himself upon his bundle, I continued, "You look to me as though you'd been taking a bit of a walk."
"I have that," he said, "to Little Rest and back. That's a good fourteen miles or so this morning."
"Well, are you home now?" I asked him, pointing to the farmhouse.
"Oh, no," he answered, "not yet. We live at the mill just above the pond. You must know it?"
"Yes," I replied, "I know it well," as it began to dawn upon me who he might be. And I didn't say anything about how I knew it, or why I cared for it.
But I went on, "By the time you are home you'll have done a day's work I should think. Do you often have to take such long walks?"
"Well, I walk a good bit, and when things are needed they must be fetched-and there was no horse to spare. So father sent me to Little Rest and here are the things," he said, giving the bundle a punch with his fist. "And I got something for myself that I was wanting rather badly." He looked up at me as he said this, with a keen twinkle in his eye and the same delightful smile, so I was moved at once to ask him,
"Won't you tell me what it is?"
"Oh," he said, "paper-fine good paper to draw on; and crayons- beautiful things that you can't find anywhere about here for love or money."
"Ah, then," said I, "you draw-you are an artist?"
"Not yet an artist," he answered, "though I do try to draw a little, when I have the chance."
"You have all sorts of lovely scenes to portray, all about you here," I said to him. But with a good deal of animation he replied, "Yes, yes-fair enough, I dare say, though that is not what I much care for. It's people I'd like to draw and paint; men and women, faces, expressions. Oh, if I could but set down what I see in them. I say," he suddenly changed his tone and spoke in a bashful but impulsive way that was quite charming, "you know you look rather different to the people about here. I wonder if it's your clothes. Where do you come from? You don't mind my asking, do you?" and he blushed.
"Not the least in the world," I said, "I am from Newport," which was near enough to the truth for the present situation.
"Newport!" he cried, "Now, there's a fine town. I like it well over there; I think I'd like to live there. And there's a gentleman there, a Scotch gentleman, Mr. Alexander, who has been mighty kind to me. He's a painter, or says he is, though some think that he's here spying out political affairs for the King's government. But anyway, he knows well how to paint and he gave me some good lessons. He says I must go to England and study, and work hard at it; my, but I'd like that."
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"Of course you would," I said. "You must-indeed, you shall." And he really didn't know that I was telling him that out of knowledge.
"Oh, do you think so, sir? But nobody dare say now what may happen. Everything is so disturbed and people set against one another. Father says we may be quite sure there will be war, and if there is that this will be no place to live in for such as we. He says there will be wild doings for a time, though of course, if the King seriously determines to put down rebellion it won't take long. But he is vastly upset, and my poor mother in great distress. Father has been in sore discontent ever since they burned the effigy of his partner at Newport, for taking office under the Stamp Act. But you know all about that, I dare say."
"Yes, I do," said I, "though I was not there when it happened. But I've no doubt at all that things will go as your father says, except as to putting down the rebellion. There'll be a lot more trouble over that than he thinks. I see from what you say that he is on the King's side-now how do you feel about it?"
"Well, I'm rather young, sir-still, though I suppose I should follow father's views, I must say I feel rather differently about it. I can't help the thought that we should be independent, or that this is my country. But I dare say what I think is not of much consequence-and I shall have time to learn."
"Yes, my boy," I answered him, "you will learn. You'll have to take your own stand about all that one day, but just now it is the pictures that are filling your mind."
"Always," said he, eagerly. "I don't think I ever see a face without asking myself if I could draw it. And I've been looking at the old redskin there; who's he? I never saw one that looked quite like that: we have them about here, but they are a rather dull lot. He's fine-looking -- I hope he doesn't speak English? Do you know who he is? Of course, you must, for he is with you."
"Here, here," I laughed at him, "hold on-you go too fast for me. He's a recent acquaintance of mine and I wouldn't undertake to say whether he speaks English or not. I have only heard him use his native tongue. His name is Canonicus." The Sachem's eyes glowed like twin fires, but his face never moved.
"Canonicus," cried the boy, in a puzzled way, "I've heard of him. But that one has been dead these hundred years or more. I didn't know there was another about nowadays. But these Indian names are barbarous affairs. · I say, though, he's got a fine face for a savage."
"Come," I said, "show me what you can do. Draw it."
"I will that," he replied on the instant. "tell hini to stand for me," and he at once untied his bundle, pulled out his paper and some flat parcel which he set on the bundle as a rest, spread the paper up it and kneeling down, stared at the old man, who at a merest word from me nodded and stood motionless. Then he began to draw.
I watched the two of them. the eager youth, utterly absorbed in his task; the stately figure of the ancient chief. and I thought that of all the extraordinary events of this strange day I now saw the most amazing. The boy, so fresh, so keen, so perfectly of that period in what had once been his life, so utterly unconscious of aught else; the old, old man, the untutored
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primitive savage, so wise, so revealing, so completely conscious of everything. It was so real and so impossible. Every nerve in me was drawn taut as I felt it to the full.
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He worked quite rapidly and surely, and after a short while exclaimed, "There-that's the best I can do, and I must not spend any more time." It was a sketch, but a good one, lifelike and with real quality, and I told him it was good. He looked pleased and, handing it to me said, "Keep it, won't you? Come and see us when you're up our way. Now I must go on."
"I take it with great pleasure," I said, "and I thank you. Now before you go, let me say something to you. Do not seek to understand me, but accept my statement, for I deal with facts, not prophecies." He paused in the tying-up of his bundle and knelt there upon one knee, looking up at me, his face fallen grave as no doubt my voice was. "You will go to England to study and you will work. You will have hard trials, the lot of all those who sincerely follow the path you have chosen. But you will prevail. Along this road will pass many men whose names will be famous, just as passed here Canonicus the Great Sachem with his braves, long since gone, and as did the generation of his fathers before him. Here will pass again one whom you may already know of, though you do not yet know his fame, Franklin. Then others whose names mean nothing to you yet, Washington, Lafayette, Perry; British troops and troops of ragged American volunteers. And at last, long years after your day, people like myself, to whom this Pequot Path will tell its old story of great days and great men. And they will pause a little when they pass the mill, because once you lived there, and among your great achievements will be a very famous picture of a very wonderful, wise, patient and noble man, whom they will call the Father of his Country. Goodbye, for we shall not meet again."
"Goodbye," he said, "I don't think I understand-and you frighten me a little," and he picked up his bundle and walked away quickly and silently, while I watched him till a bend in the road hid him. Then I turned to the Indian, and as I did so I heard a little rustling sound like the wind in dry leaves; but he was gone.
I suddenly felt lonely and deserted, and my first thought was to get back to the pond and cross in the canoe. So I went again through the field into the woods and struck a line for where I thought I should best come upon the shore. As I struggled through thickets down the hill it grew in- tensely hot and the going was bad, and I began to feel almost exhausted, so when I came to a little clear brook I was glad to stoop down and drink. Then it occurred to me that I should find no canoe, for surely if the Sachem had so melted away, his belongings would hardly remain. That meant a long walk to the lower end of the pond, where I supposed there must have been a bridge at that time, as there is now. And somehow the thought of that walk, the heat, the babble of the brook, were too much for me -- I gave way to the desire for rest, and so fell asleep.
I was awakened by the dog licking my face and whining. It was almost dark and growing cold. A little night wind had risen and the corn was rustling. So I picked up my gun and started for home. It had surely · been an interesting day, and-oh, what had I done with that drawing that Gilbert Stuart made of Canonicus? But did he?
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SWAMPTOWN-A QUEER LOCALITY GEORGE W. GARDINER Kettle Hole-Swamptown City-Some of the Local Celebrities and Stories
AS S ONE enters the old Kettle Hole grist mill, he sees staring at him the rules and regulations of the premises. Kettle Hole mill is to Swamptown what the latter is to North Kingstown, a necessary feature. What does it matter if the town cannot be the shire town of Washington county, as long as it can treasure the realms of Swamptown with its legends, traditions and characters? From this section of the town, many of the most noted local statesmen have come, (as evidenced at the present time by the representation in the General Assembly).
The mill rules are strongly characteristic, and read as follows:
KETTLE HOLE MILL, NOV. 1, 1886
On and after the above date and until further notice the mill will be governed by the following rules and regulations, weather and health permitting:
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Start at 9 o'clock a. m. Stop at 4 o'clock p. m. For tole 1/4 part of each grist. . 2.
No one will spit on the mill floor or otherwise defile the same. All tidy persons are requested to assist the miller in enforseing these rules.
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The mill will not hold itself responsible for any property that may be stolen, lost or missent, unless the owners name is marked plain and in full on such property.
4. Those coming first will be first waited on as far as possible. (signed) Per Order. CHARLES HENRY ROSE.
The name Swamptown is not a verbal caricature, as one might be led to suppose, but, nevertheless, it is aptly descriptive. It is found in one of the old deeds, bearing date of 1708, in the celebrated Bly purchase, and in the Kingsley purchase. It includes the land bounded on the north and west by the Ten Road road, on the east by the Post road, and on the south and southwest by the road leading from Allen's corner to Robber's corner. At the present time noted points of interest within its borders are Swamp- town City, the lighthouse, Hell Hollow, Pork Hill, Kettle Hole and Indian Corner. Of all these localities, Kettle Hole is, perhaps, the most fascinating and wild, and the fact that Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, has seen fit to grace the place with her presence is shown by a visit to the lone miller
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by the lonely pond. Strictly speaking, there are five "kettle holes" or springs, three of which are continually boiling. These supply the pond proper, and thence the water makes its way to Narragansett Bay through a continuous swamp. By reason of the experiments of a noted journalist of South Kings- town, there is authority for the statement that the "holes" have no bottom, as far as practical measurements are concerned. But this feature may, perhaps, be legendary. Surrounded on nearly all sides by wooded hills, these holes present a rather wild appearance, and the smooth, solemn blackness of water is unruffled save by the gentle kiss of a falling leaf.
On the eastern edge of the pond is located Kettle Hole mill. This is a ·small wooden structure, two stories in height, with basement. It was first built for a cotton mill, but was never used much in that line, and finally was converted into a grist mill to pulverize the corn that matured so luxuriantly on the neighboring plains. The fame of this meal has so extended that one large firm in Providence has a standing order with the miller for the supply ·of genuine "johnny cake" meal. Since 1867 the mill has been owned and operated by Charles Henry Rose, a well-known person in the region of Swamptown. Mr. Rose lives entirely alone, and when not busy grinding spends his time in the study of the Greek Testament and in writing poetry. He has a remarkable faculty for remembering dates and names, especially those that have connection with the family whose name he bears. His great uncle, Col. Samuel Rose, was an officer in the Revolution and, accord- ing to tradition, members of this same Rose family fought bravely at Mon- mouth and Red Bank. The old miller relates with much pride a visit of the immortal George Washington at the Rose homestead at Mooresfield. It was '"between daylight and dark" when a stranger rode up to the house and asked where the father of Col. Samuel Rose lived. He was informed that he was at the right house and was cordially invited in. He took supper with the family and then spent the evening in pleasant conversation with them, relating the news from the scenes of conflict farther south and giving the prospects of the great struggles the colonies were making for freedom. Before retiring, the head of the family invited the stranger to participate in reading a chapter of Holy Writ and in prayer, and it is said that the stranger prayed long and earnestly for the success of the American cause. He was shown to the "spare room" and there enjoyed the blissful pleasures of slumber beneath the ventilated roof where the gentle showers of summer dripped through or the drifted snow of winter ribbed the coverlets. In the morning before departing, he made offers of payment for his lodging and meals, but, with true Narragansett hospitality, this offer was refused. The stranger then told the family that he was Gen. George Washington, Com- mander-in-Chief of the American army, and was then on his way to New- port, by the way of Narragansett Ferry, to meet Count Rochambeau, who had come to Newport with the French fleet. After profuse thanks for the hospitality shown him, Washington departed on his journey. Besides having the satisfaction of "entertaining angels unawares", the family became justly . celebrated for this act.
Charles H. Rose was born November 7, 1826, in Swamptown, and has passed most of his life in this vicinity. During the war, he was a nurse at Portsmouth Grove hospital, and served for five years. With the earnings of this service, he purchased the Kettle Hole estate, in 1867, and has since
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lived practically the life of a hermit, his only company being the occasional patrons of the mill, and his domestic animals. Fishing parties that essay the capture of the huge pickerel that swim the unmeasurable depths of the Kettle Holes, find at his mill the best of entertainment, and he is always seemingly glad to welcome visitors. He has a perfect abhorrence of pork, in any form, and of the products of the hog. He uses no tobacco or liquor, and is temperate in all things. In religion, he is a devout follower of the Episcopalian faith, and has at times incurred the displeasures of the neigh- boring Second Adventists by instilling into the susceptible minds of weak professors of that faith arguments to destroy the fundamental faith of the near second coming of Christ. Six months before such an occasion, he- expects the Kettle Holes to dry up, a thing that has never happened within the memory of man.
The Methodist church at Wickford once appointed a committee to investigate the case of the Swamptown miller, who was at one time faithful in his attendance there, for the purpose of discovering alleged irregularities in his character, but the old miller claims to have come off victorious in the struggle. It is his special delight to antagonize the baptismal doctrines of the local Baptist church at Allenton, and he substantiates his arguments by liberal quotations from the Greek. His ability to fathom the Scriptures in the original is the result of self-exertion, as Mr. Rose's early education was: extremely limited. But, in spite of that, he has acquired a flow of language equally entertaining in conversation or on paper. Poetry, especially, is a favorite indulgence of the dusty miller, and the community is favored with many such selections. His genealogical epic on the Rose family is really a historical gem. One of the latest effusions from Kettle Hole is quoted.
It seems that in his younger days, when he was more or less thrown into society, he met a woman, who, in his opinion, was a witch, and had the brazen effrontery to ask him to take her for a wife. The offer, of course, was refused, but the imaginary evil spirit still followed him and manifested itself in various ways. Upon the death of the imagined witch the following verse was composed as an epitaph:
This old Has danced her jig, She'll never dance no more She's gone to hell, Where devils dwell Upon the fiery shore.
With traveling phrenologist who perennially heralds to the sur- rounding villages the mental developments of the natives, Mr. Rose is a great favorite, and every one of these professors assures him that but for the sad neglect of his early education, he would be a great poet. But, satisfied with his present condition, the old miller, now 65 years of age, continues on in this hermit life, busy with his books and pen, and occasionally grind- ing johnny-cake meal. Rumor has it that he is comfortably supplied with this world's goods, and has no cause to worry about the future. When he finally passes away, however, he will be greatly missed by the community.
. Across Kettle Hole pond, and over the hill beyond, is the place called Indian corner. It is a meeting of two roads and, just at the junction, is a
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large stone which is the center piece in the stories of the locality. On' bright moonlight nights, it is claimed that blood flows from the rock, and in winter discolors the snow on the ground. Upon investigation, it will be- found that there is a colored liquid which oozes from a vein in the rock during a damp season, and this moisture is supposed to be some sort of an iron compound having a reddish color, which no doubt accounts for the story. Many manifestations of supernatural agencies have been seen at this spot, but it is fair to presume that the little, old tavern a short way down the road is responsible for most of these "spirit" appearances. The name of this corner originated a great many years ago. A certain road supervisor, who, by the way, was the great uncle of the miller, was digging dirt from the bank to repair the road. In the course of the excavations he came across an old Indian burying ground and unearthed several skeletons. Selecting one of the largest skulls, he took it home with him at night and the female inmates of the household were in mortal terror lest, as the com- mon rumor was, the owner of the skull would come after it before morning. To satisfy the fears of the women the skull was taken out of the house and was placed on the top of a leech barrel, beneath the window. During the night the heavy wind blew the barrel over and the noise arounsed the inmates, who were terribly frightened, but they soon found the cause. In the morning, however, no skull was to be found, and it was always thought that the owner had secured it.
Another story about Indian corner tells of a farmer who had been to. Wickford one winter's afternoon, with his old mare and pung. Just before arriving at the rock, the horse stopped and refused to go ahead. Several attempts were made to make her go and, although there was nothing visible, she refused to move. At last, after many trials, "she went by a sailin'" and when the good farmer reached home his horse was trembling violently. Many similar stories are told of the "corner" and to this day it is dreaded, even the rustic swains forsaking it as a trysting place.
A little way below the old tavern is a path leading to some farm houses in the interior. One night, about 10 o'clock. two or three of the Swamp- towners were walking along this path on their way home. It was very dark and a coming thunderstorm threatened to burst upon the party at any moment. All at once there was a sudden glare of bluish light and it remained, lighting up the whole surrounding country. And there. right in the rear of the party, was a huge dog or an animal resembling a dog. Its eyes glistened in the bluish light and its tail beat incessantly on the ground with "dull, resounding thuds," as the poet would say. When the party retreated this animal would follow, and when they timidly advanced it retreated. Finally one of the men, summoning all his courage (it will be remembered that the path led from the tavern), seized a loose fence rail and made a dash at the beast. His efforts were rewarded by the rail's striking the ground with force enough to break and the animal disappeared and it was again pitch dark. It is only a few years since one of the parties alluded to died, and he often related this story to a crowd of interested listeners.
Along this same path, on the side of a wooded hill, was once seen a 'strange apparition. A belated native was stumbling along the path when out of the utter darkness appeared a phosphorescent light. It gradually
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grew brighter and brighter and, finally, in the midst of the column of light, the horrified spectator saw the form of a negro boy, with bared breast and arms, but the head was missing, and the body swayed to and fro as though a gentle breeze fanned it. Suddenly, the light and boy vanished and the lone traveller made quick steps for home. The next day a hole was dug to mark the spot and to this day the hole may be seen on the hillside, strange to say, unfilled by falling leaves.
Swamptown City is in the western part of Swamptown. In former days it was the abode of the aristocrats. Here was the home of the original Daniel Bly, who made the great purchase recorded in history. Today, upon the Walker Brown farm, so-called, is the original Bly orchard, and the celebrated Bly apple is found in its primitive surrounding. The estates of the City are noted for being held so long by one family, as it is only until recent years that the farms have passed from the descendants of the original owners. They cannot exactly be called fertile farms, as the abundance of rocks and stones and swamps precludes fertility, but there are blooming spots where grain and potatoes flourish. And there is the cider mill, too. There are many former Swamptown boys now grown to men who can well remember the old mill where they used to suck cider through a straw. And, talk about chestnuts! The hills of the City are covered with great, noble chestnut trees, that are the victims of countless clubs and stone every fall, when the crowds from the villages come in search of the sweet nut. Cider and chestnuts are characteristics of the City.
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