Tenney Family Archives

Note: Make sure to read the fictional story of John Tenney by using the links to the right!

What is in Your Archives?
By Melanie Tenney
Curator

January 2012
I’ve never been a curator and am finding the job very interesting. Our collection of archives seems pretty vast and varied to me. There are many articles that detail the lives and ancestry of the individual Tenneys, there are histories of towns that were settled and populated by Tenneys, histories of properties lived in and built by Tenneys. There are books written by many Tenney authors we descend from. Some have written on natural history, on the Yankee migration from New England that included Tenneys, books on slavery, cook books, books that are illustrated by Tenneys. We have in our archives Tenney diaries, Tenney correspondence, even audio cassettes of recent Tenney reunions. We have 19th century silverware, some of which was owned by Tenneys, and some was crafted by Tenneys. We have sheet music of hymns composed by Tenneys, many postcards sent all over the world by Tenneys, even an advertisement for “Tenney’s Magic Glycerin Soap!” There are many detailed and fascinating obituaries, some of which can be found in the “Old Original Secretary Ledger Book” which begins in 1891 and ends in 1985.

All of the above is just a smattering of the treasures we have. Those writings, photos, and all other items weave a web of history and genealogy through us all. I ask myself, where should I begin and how should I go about writing about the archives in a way that makes them come alive to all of you?

I have a new found respect for MJ Tenney and her book, and similar regard for Debbie Montgomery and all she has undertaken to keep our history alive. There is also an overwhelming admiration for Debby Bianchi who has done so much to catalog and organize our archives. They are an important part of our Tenney legacy. Future Tenney genealogists and personal historians will be able to use them as resources and each of us will hopefully find that they gave us a sense of the times, the small details of life as a Tenney in the 18th-21st centuries. I think that is what I hope to share with you. A glimpse of the small details as seen through our Archives.

It makes sense to start with the “Old Original Secretary Ledger Book.”This is a 14” x 9” much worn leather bound volume with lined sepia colored pages. The inside front cover is filled with newspaper obituaries from 1904 through 1937. These seem to be some of the Hanover and Plymouth, New Hampshire Tenneys who began our annual meetings in Hanover, NH, in 1891 through 1925. The chronicler is Edith Tenney who I believe was married to Frank Tenney, the son of Norman Tenney (1837-1904), who was the son of Elisha Tenney (1785-1866), who I think descended from David (1759-1851), who was a soldier at Ft Ticonderoga and at Saratoga under General Gates in 1777 at the tender age of 18. In 1770, David and family moved to Hanover from Connecticut and settled on Moose Mountain, where they built a house on “Tenney Hill.”

David was a descendant of John, whose father was Joseph whose father was Deacon Samuel Tenney, son of John, son of Thomas. Imagine my excitement when I figured out Edith Tenney’s 5 times grandfather-in-law was my 6 times grandfather! By her elegant script and fascinating descriptions of the meetings, I can sense she was a person of detail. She always describes the location of the Tenney reunions, frequently at the home of Annie Tenney Withington in Hanover, or at the Hanover Center School House. In 1924, she describes the meetings at the home of George Tenney in West Hartford, VT. There are photographs of the attendees and the comment that the tables were sent in the orchards….”a pretty setting and a fine dinner.”

Reunions of the later 1920’s were held in Lebanon, NH, at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Rubin Tenney, and at Green Acres, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Frank Withington, in North Hartland, VT.

The book is filled with details of collections of a few dollars established to send flowers to those who were ill or to funerals of those that had passed. Many annual meeting pages have notes about those who had passed on, sometimes a commemorative poem was written on the page. In the 1940’s, there is even a comment about fewer attending due to gasoline rationing and the war. The photos are wonderful, many are in their Sunday best clothes, women in long dresses with wonderful hats, men in dark suits and ties or simple white shirts and ties. By the 1930’s, there are children in the photographs, future generations of Tenneys. There are comments about who had new babies during the year between reunions. More Tenneys begin to attend from outside of Vermont and New Hampshire. In 1941, dinner for 63 members cost $12.10 (total!) and there were contributions to the treasury that total $86.06!!

While the record indicates the first reunion was in 1891, it is the sole entry for that time period. However from 1925, when the actual association was formed, there was a reunion noted in the book each year until 1985.

Edith’s writing appears to be less elegant and clear at the end of the 40’s and into the 50’s. Sadly, I read of her passing in 1954 as noted by Alice Tenney, Secretary Pro Tem. Edith spent nearly thirty years keeping track of those Tenneys. It’s quite a legacy. Wish I had met her...


Summer 2011
The past several months have found me up to my elbows in Archives. Mostly reading and digesting the boxes of materials and learning more of our Tenney ancestors. In one box I have come upon a collection of older manuscripts devoted to varying subjects. Some are written by Tenneys, others are about Tenneys. One that has really caught my attention is entitled “Personal Memories of Martha J. Tenney.” It is written by E.P. Tenney and is addressed to the President of the Board of Trustees of the Tenney Memorial Library, Newbury, Vermont. It is dated April 15th 1910 and was written shortly after Martha Jane’s death from a stroke in March 1910.

It seems appropriate to me to focus on this particular document since we now have available our new edition of our Tenney family genealogy for which we owe an enormous debt to Debbie Montgomery and to her predecessor, Martha Jane Tenney.

This document begins with the recollection of the author as a five year old of a time around 1840 when he first met MJ’s (Martha Jane’s) father Colonel Abner B. Tenney. Colonel Tenney was traveling by “pung” from Concord, New Hampshire to Boston. A pung is a low box type sleigh often pulled by one horse. The Colonel had a load of farm goods to trade including butter, cheese, applesauce and pork. The journey to Boston from the family farm in Newbury Vermont was about 160 miles. With a good horse able to go 20 plus miles a day it would have been at least a week’s journey each way. He stopped at the home of his sister Mary in Concord, NH. probably to give a gift of supplies and to spend the night. It was about half way to Boston. Edward, the author of this particular manuscript recalls that on his Uncle’s return trip he also stopped and this time the sleigh was loaded with sugar, molasses and dry goods.

Martha Jane was born on that family farm in Newbury, Vt. in 1832. She was the sixth of six children born to her parents Abner and Sofia (Cutler) Tenney. One of her siblings, Asa, died prior to her birth and a second brother, also named Asa, died of consumption as a 20 year old in 1849. Martha Jane grew up with three sisters on the farm, Mary, Sofia and Hepzibah. Her parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary together on the farm in Newbury and actually the family resided there for 55 years. They called their farm “Upper Meadow” and it bordered the banks of the Connecticut River. MJ’s mother became an invalid in later life and passed away in August of 1873. The Colonel passed away one month later. At the time of their deaths in 1873 the family farm had grown to 515 acres and there were also land holdings in Ohio.

Life for MJ on her parents’ farm sounded idyllic. Edward says in the 1915 manuscript, “In my memory , too, of those delightful days, I still see the lithe figure of their mother moving hither and thither in directing the household ways, always cheery, always swift in perception and efficient in doing the duties nearest. Were I an artist I could paint at this moment the house with its verandah toward the south where these children of the sun abode, the daughters shelling peas on the porch, the mother moving about the living rooms that opened to the July breeze from the north, and the father superintending the hay field.”

Reading the above I wondered about the author and his somewhat romantic style. I had to know a little more about him to satisfy my curiosity. Who was this gentleman who used phrases like “ministering angel” elsewhere in the manuscript to describe MJ?

Reverend Edward Payson was an 8th generation Tenney. The son of Mary Tenney, MJ’s aunt who lived with her husband Asa Tenney in Concord, NH. Interestingly enough Mary was the daughter of a Tenney and married a Tenney. Hmm, I think that will be a different article some months away as it will take me that long to figure it all out.

Edward was educated at Dartmouth College and later at the Bangor and Andover Theological Seminaries. In 1859 at age 24, he became the assistant editor of the “Pacific” a San Francisco based paper. A minister, he was pastor of several congregational churches but also become the president of Colorado College. A many times published author of historical novels and other works one may even find one of his novels, “Constance of Acadia,” 1886 still available on Amazon.com. According to Edward’s manuscript MJ moved to Haverhill, Massachusetts in 1873 upon the passing of both her parents. She moved in with her older sister Hepzibah who was fondly called “Ziba.” Ziba was married to James Davis White, a Haverhill native descended from William White, one of the original twelve men who settled in Haverhill in 1640. The Whites and MJ resided at “Locust Hill,”the family residence on Boardman Street. MJ outlived her sister and brother in law and became the sole resident of Locust Hill. She was financially quite savy, according to Edward she made successful investments which enabled her to establish the Tenney Memorial Library in Newbury Vermont in 1897.

In 1891 MJ’s first edition of “The Tenney Family” was published. Without it we wouldn’t be able to trace our ancestors back to Rowley, England and the several centuries old fabric of the Tenney family would surely have been lost. MJ’s large and detailed volume has given us both a clear and remarkable history and a unique means of connecting ourselves to one another. When I finished Edward’s article I poured through my great grandfather’s 1904 edition of MJ’s book and discovered that MJ’s 3th times great grandfather Deacon Samuel Tenney is my 6th times great grandfather born in Bradford in 1667.

According to Edward’s manuscript, ”In the first edition, an analysis shows that out of twenty-three hundred Tenney names, both men and women, one in every ten was a teacher, a physician, a lawyer or a clergyman; and , counting the men only, one out of every eleven was a soldier and one out of every ten a deacon or a minister.” Edward Tenney goes on to say, ”Martha had a most enthusiastic love for her own home, her own town, her own state, and her own nation. She took pride in any and every family stock that trained patriots and worthy citizens of our common country.

“Very clear ideas, too, she had of how to make good citizens out of the youth of the nation. For two things: she would have them learn to work and work hard in early life; and she would have them read good books.”

Martha Jane and Edward have both left a wonderful legacy for us in the written word. I wonder if there is distinctive literary DNA among the Tenney’s as not only do we seem to have many authors among us but even some quite famous ones as MJ and Edward are both related to Laura Ingalls Wilder, Robert Frost and John Locke! (Or at least Ancestry.com says so when one clicks on famous relatives of that branch of the Tenney’s).

If you have any questions, comments, or have any items you wish to donate to the Tenney Family archives, please feel free to contact me at:
woodcockhill@mindspring.com
Thanks,
Melanie

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John Tenney

by Melanie Tenney

Cousins, I promise this will eventually lead up to and include John Tenney’s experience in King Phillip’s War. That was my original assignment courtesy of the OBBG Cemetery group. It’s just that his experience wasn’t that big and after I did a fair amount of research, I thought I might try to write some historical FICTION since I’m lucky enough to have you all as a somewhat captive audience. Let me know if you think I should still keep my day job! ~ Melanie

A Mother’s Passing - September 1657

He had never seen his father cry. He kept stealing small glances, watching him hover over his mother’s body, tears sliding down his cheeks. The flickering candlelight bathed her in a soft glow but even the shadows didn’t hide the aged look of her. She was forty but had the skin of one much older, dry, like the harness in the barn that needed oiling. . Her brown hair was salt and pepper with gray and the crows feet were everywhere on her face. Hands that had gently held all five of his siblings, had fed the animals, planted the garden, weeded the corn, boiled the laundry, spun the flax and woven the cloth, made the candles, sewn their clothing, cooked and scrubbed their house until it was smooth and worn lay still finally, crossed peacefully on her breast.

Something held him there in the doorway of the room, waiting. Was her spirit lingering there still he wondered. Would it already be with God as Reverend Rogers had told them. Could she see him there waiting from where she was? Waiting for some last living sign of her?

He hoped she was well on her way to that place of salvation so often described in the meeting house. He pictured her peaceful in a garden of blooms kissed by the sun.

He knew that he had little time left for memorizing her face. Soon enough the goodwives Hazeltine or Trumble would come to help wash her and wrap her in the shroud and he would see her no more. He wasn’t certain if he wanted this last image burned on the back of his eyes to stay with him. What would he want to call up later when he thought of her. Not this. No, better one of the early ones he held so close in his heart he could hear her laughter and feel her safe arms draw around him years ago as he toddled too close to the fire.

He remembered his father’s answer just a few weeks ago as they had been pulling up the flax plants in the fields. “How shall we manage without her?” He had asked. “We shall rise each day and go on. “ John could hear the break in his father’s voice as he spoke, turning away and swallowing several times. “Our work and our Lord will guide us and we shall endure as we have endured all these years. The Lord comforts us.

“The righteous perish, and no one ponders it in his heart; devout men are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil. Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death. “ Isaiah 57; 1-2.

Only seventeen he already felt concern for the practical, everyday care of family. His six foot frame was strong and his energy was boundless. His father, Thomas, was 43, still strong and accustomed to hard work. Their farm consisted of acres of flax and hay, a dozen sheep, a few cows, two very fertile sows and the vegetable gardens. In a decent year they had goods to barter and could trade forwhat they needed. They lived in relative comfort, a house, warmth in the cold of winter, food. But without his mother how would they manage. He was the oldest, then Hannah 15, Mercy 13, young Thomas 9, James 7 and Daniel only 4. The girls could care for their little brothers but there was so much more that needed to be done to survive. And no Mother for them. No one to safekeep them, to keep sickness at bay, to make the poultices and the infusions that had helped them resist the catarrhs and fevers of these past years. He had seen the shrouded bodies of many children in Rowley ever since he was old enough to be taken to the burials. The fact that all his five siblings were alive and healthy was remarkable and he knew it. He also knew the hardships and that it was mostly because of his mother that they had all survived. She was the granddaughter of Thomas Mighill, a Yorkshire Apothecary who had watched on the quay at Hull as she and her husband Thomas Tenney left England forever from the port of Hull in the fall of 1638.

She was only twenty one then, afraid to leave her parents and grandparents knowing she would likely never see them again. But her older brother, Thomas had left for the colonies several years earlier and she was calm that day knowing she would be reunited with him in Massachusetts. He was almost twelve years older than she and had been hero to and defender of her growing up in wolds of Yorkshire. She was a spirited youngster who struggled with the form of the church. To sit in quiet contemplation for minutes was difficult, to do it for hours was simply impossible for her. Her only sibling and so many years her elder, he was always able to steady her and calm her coltish ways. In 1636, when he sailed for Boston, she was nineteen and married, he had handed the reins over to Thomas knowing she was in capable hands. “Annie,” he said as they were about to part on the docks, “promise me you will let Thomas protect and guide you as he will only then be able to keep you safe from yourself!” She hugged him hard, tears falling but nodded her head in agreement. Thomas took her arm and drew her in close as they walked away from the ship.

John was fond of his Uncle Thomas Mighill, he would often spend time at his malting kiln, helping turn the roasting grain or tend the fire. It was only a quick walk from the Tenney home to the kiln which was across from his Uncle’s home on Wethersfield Street in Rowley. There from a young age he had learned the art of making whiskey and ale and liked it. The barley was spread on the wooden floor of the malting shed and watered and turned for several days until it was nearly sprouting. Then before the tiny green shoots could emerge it was roasted for nearly a week, the fires being built below the floor and the barley kept constantly turning in smokey heat. John had learned to use the long wooden shovels to stir the pungent grains. Even as a youngster, his strong arms and hands easily managed the work and he was a great help to the household as all took turns in working the malt. Later when it was ready he would bring their portion home to his mother to be made into ale. How glad he was that his sisters had learned from their mother how to brew the ale. Just one more thing that was part of her life that he would miss.

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A New Family - Spring 1658

John found himself quite liking his new stepmother, Elizabeth Parrat Tenney. He explained his thoughts to Thomas Mighill as they strode side by side toward the marsh with their fowling pieces.

"Of course I’ve known her all of my life. Like my parents, she came over twenty years ago on the same ship from Yorkshire. Only she came with her older brother Ezekiel Northend and some of their younger siblings. They had been orphaned in England, their parents leaving some forty acres in trust with their uncle Robert who was a Lord and who had agreed to gradually sell off his dead brother’s land to provide funds for the raising of his brother’s young children. Reverend Rogers had taken all of them under his wing and brought them to Rowley. Elizabeth is only a few years older than Mother and seems much of the same strong and brave character.”

Tom Mighill grunted his agreement. He was John’s cousin. A year older, he was the son of Ann Mighill’s older brother Thomas and his wife Ellen. Tom lost his mother when he was one and had no memories of her. At eighteen he found himself plenty interested in young women, but not in a hurry for a wife.

Tom and John had grown up neighbors an easy walk between the family homes. Toms father had the malting kiln on Wethersfield Street and they spent hours together helping roast the grain on the malting floor.

The were in the swamp now or rather carefully walking along the edge headed for a stream they knew would have ducks for the taking.

John continued, “She married Frances Parrat in 1639 here in Rowley. At age twenty six when she left England she said she thought she was destined to be a spinster but in the months of the crossing on the “John” she came to know Francis Parrat and found in him a good partner who liked her intelligence and wit. She knew the wilderness was not a good place for an unmarried woman, and so she chose Francis over living with her younger brother Ezekiel.”

A flock of ducks broke their cover and flew up in front of them. They had been ready, stopping to load their wheelocks before reaching the edge of the swamp and were able to quickly get off their shots Two ducks plummeted back to earth. Now would be the task of getting to them in the marsh without becoming soaked. They managed.

John thought of the clothing he was wearing. It had been made by Elizabeth.
She brought her skills as a seamstress to the marriage. She could spin, weave and make yard goods and clothing. He remembered many times his mother would sit and sew or spin with Elizabeth. They had formed a good friendship when their husbands worked together for the town to survey the newly established house lots and make permanent records. They also became mothers together, even having some of their children the same years and choosing some of the same names for them. John smiled when he thought that Elizabeth had had six girls, the one boy child had been a twin and had died quickly. John and his brothers were somewhat a mystery to her as she had no experience raising boys! He chided her often about it, and they would laugh as she managed to remove the frogs and toads and other treasures constantly brought home by young Thomas, James and Daniel.

It was good to be able to laugh. Years of hardship had not managed to silence the bubbling, silvery notes of laughter for them. Even his father appreciated the joy of it, when all was so bleak and dreadful there was still a healing in laughing.

There was little laughter last year. Elizabeth had become a widow with six young girls. Frances had decided to return to London for business but had caught the ague and died there. When he didn’t come back Ann and Thomas and many others had helped her all they could and she and the girls had survived because of them. In the midst of that struggle it had become clear to both families that Ann was seriously ill and nothing seemed able to heal her. Elizabeth and Ann had talked for hours, both feeling the urgency of it. Days slipping by, Ann weakening but finally they had made a plan that would be the best for all their children. At forty four and forty Elizabeth and Ann were not starstruck young brides. Life here gave no second chances. Be strong and prepared or pay the price with your life. To be one parent, alone, raising six or seven children was impossible. So it was to be that the families would merge, the widow and the widower would marry to protect the young.

The cousins hoped to find more ducks or game birds and decided to continue deeper into Hazen Swamp. There was still several hours of light left and one duck would not begin to feed either of their families. They tied the ducks to their belts loaded their pieces and kept walking.

"Think of it Tom, when we all go to sleep at night there are fifteen of us under our roof. Just to have a meal together we have to have nearly as many trenchers as the tavern needs. We are a small army of Tenneys and Parrats.”

An everyday supper is akin to eating in the banquet hall at the Northend Manor Elizabeth describes from her childhood in Yorkshire. We must now be the largest family in Rowley!”

“Aye John, it makes my small gathering of nine seem very insignificant and we best be getting on with finding more ducks with that brigade of mouths to feed!”
“A punt gun is what we are needing Tom. I’ve heard some of the older men talk about the punts and punt guns they used in the fens in Yorkshire. They could float into a flock of ducks and one shot would bring down a dozen birds. Perhaps Uncle William would help us build one.”

Thanks to the abundance of game and their garden John thought there was ample food. Not to mention the several cows, goats and sheep Elizabeth brought with her marriage to his father. Between the two households there was a large amount of livestock and land to farm. Both his father and stepmother had spent nearly two decades learning to provide for their families in Rowley.

He felt pride as they crept up on another small flock of ducks. Just a few more and there would be enough for all.

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The Sabbath - December 10th 1662

The best part of the Sabbath was being able to study Mercy Parrat during the interminable hours spent at church. Not that he didn’t pay attention to the Word and all it meant, it was just that well after the first hour he noticed his brain was just not as sharply focused on the Reverend as it should have been.

The Sabbath began Saturday afternoon around 3:00pm. After that there was to be family prayer. No working in the fields, hunting, cooking, sewing, nothing except sitting together reading the bible and praying. And then on Sunday it was the Reverend Mr. Phillips time to bring them the Lord’s words and help them to discover how exactly His words were woven into the fabric of their lives.

First a prayer, then the Scripture reading, then a strong sermon followed by any baptisms, another prayer then the Lord’s Prayer. Next The Apostles Creed, some psalms and finally the benediction. At least two hours, often more. As Reverend Rogers used to say to his father, Thomas, “ The Sabbath must take all day as time is needed to experience God through the Word in its variety of forms.”

He couldn’t help but wonder how it was that God wanted his people to know him through the Word when every day he felt in awe just walking in the fields or watching the sunrise over the marsh. The trout which flashed through the quiet pools of Town Brook, surely they were something of God, so beautiful and strong leaping clear out of the water to snatch the mayflies. No, he thought perhaps the Word was a thing crafted by men for those who lived in the cities, who couldn’t feel His presence when they were surrounded by the humanity and the grime of the cities. He had been to Boston last year with his father and was shocked by the sewage running in the streets and the mud and filth. His father had said it was quite clean and orderly compared to Lincoln!

He managed to sit behind Mercy as often as he could. He could sit perfectly still and without turning his head he could see her straight back, strong shoulders and willowy arms. He drank it all in, enjoying the warm feeling it gave him deep down under his heart. And even as he smiled inwardly at her unruly hair curling out from under the starched bonnet he was able to recite the words of the psalm being read by the congregation.

Today was different. It was his twenty second birthday in a few days. She had turned sixteen over the summer. Younger than most who married in the colony but today would be the publication of the Banns for their marriage. Reverend Phillips would make the announcement before the Benediction. And sometime in the new year they would wed and begin their own lives together.

His thoughts left her for a moment and came back to settle on the Word. How did God feel about love between mortals? He wished that in his few years at school with Mr. Boynton it was a subject that could have been discussed. But by the time the town had established a school with a teacher in 1656 he was already sixteen and so there had been little time allotted for him to study. There was too much to do in the fields, he would have to make time for education after the work was done. Even as he joined the congregation in prayer he knew he felt envy of his brothers time in school. Thomas was 12, James 10 and Daniel only 7-for them time stretched forward slowly allowing many days with Mr. Boynton in the school room. His brief immersion in Latin, Greek and the humanities would have to be sufficient until there might be more time for him. But pushing past the envy he felt a moment of gratitude for Mercy’s mother, Elizabeth, his actual stepmother. She had taught all of them, the girls as well to read and do their sums. And with Mercy and Hannah she had been determined to provide them with more knowledge since they were not allowed to attend the school with Mr. Boynton. Thanks to his parents determination and Elizabeth’s skill they had all read and studied beyond was what usual.

His attention came sharply back to Reverend Philips. The announcement was made. She was going to be his in the eyes of the congregation. He glanced at her and saw a deep pink creeping up her neck and spreading to the side of her face. She looked straight ahead but with her eyes downcast and almost demur. That made him smile inwardly as she was very far from demur. She felt his gaze and turned to meet his eyes. He noticed for the thousandth time the color of her eyes, a deep brown with flecks of gold, much like the river pools as the leaves spun through them on bubbling churns of water. He recognized then that same feeling of awe for her that he felt for the beauty of his natural world. Was it just that he saw her as part of God’s works or was it different? The young coltish part of him sensed that this awe was something more visceral and he nearly snorted out loud as he recognized it. Fortunately the Benediction was done and all were rising and gathering cloaks and hats and children to begin the long walk home.

Nodding to his parents he offered Mercy his arm, drew her close and turned toward the door.

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The Visitors – Autumn 1663

They had come every fall for as far back as he could remember, probably since he was five or six. There was never any warning, somehow they just suddenly appeared in the doorway of the barn or sitting quietly together in the yard in front of the house. The dogs, Magnus and Rhea, would sheepishly wag their tails and come to be patted, embarrassed that once again they had been caught off guard.

This year he was again happy to see the familiar face of Askuwheteau. He and Mercy and their families had spent a few days each year with Askuwheteau and the few other members of the Agawam tribe that came to trade each fall before they moved west for their winter camp.

His father, Thomas, explained to him that they had been part of the land they had settled in 1638. Their Sachem, Masconomo, head of the Agawams, a tribe within the Massachuset Nation had been paid 20 pounds by Governor Winthrop in 1630 for land a part of which would later become Rowley and environs.

Agawams, Pennacooks, Pequots, Narragansetts, Wampanoags, Nipmucks, Pawtuckets and Abenakis were all part of first the Massachuset nation and then the larger Algonquin Nation. They were related to each other through some common language traits. These lesser tribes formed when small groups banded together for protection from their common enemies. Each tribe had a sachem – leader and a council responsible for governing and enforcing laws. Each tribe sent a representative to the larger council of the Algonquin nation. Decimated by the terrible undiagnosed epidemics of 1616 and 1617 and by the small pox epidemic of 1633, the natives of the area were reduced in numbers from some 3000 to barely 500 and those seemed to live alone or in small groups. Masconomo had been dead for several years and the tribe seemed without strong leadership. They spent three seasons of each year in their own village between the settlement and Plum Island able to live off the vast quantities of fish and shell fish. The were gardeners too, planting corn, squash, beans and tobacco . At the end of the fall they would move west to a camp near Johnson’s pond. In the deep forest they were able to hunt game and to avoid the wintry gales that swept across the island and the marsh.

As they readied themselves for the winter they wanted to trade for clothing. Shirts, socks, anything knitted or woolen and warm to add to the skins and furs they wore. They traded a variety of things for the clothing. Sometimes dried fish, honey, hides or skins. They offered dried corn and flours made from ground pumpkin and squash seeds. Over the years the trading diversified as they became interested in some of the different food plants and tools on the settlers farms. John’s family, like the other settlers would benefit from the native knowledge of medicinal plants ,their horticultural skills and their expertise with curing hides.

Askuwheteau was John’s age. He had been allowed to come each year with relatives who were in some way related to the sachem. Now he and John were both men of twenty three but they had shared several days each fall hunting, fishing, and running wild as youngsters while their families traded goods and stories. Each had learned some of the others language, enough to communicate. This year Askuwheteau had a bible written in Algonquin to show the family.

“It came from Wamesit, “ he said. One of Reverend Elliot’s praying Indian villages. A Pennacook brave had given it to him saying that Reverend Elliot wanted many to read it in order to understand the spirit of the English God.

“And how do you find it? “ John asked. “Is not our God much the same as yours?”
“He is much like our “Kehtanit” (Algonquin for Supreme Deity) but nowhere in this bible could I find any of our other thirty or forty gods? Do you not have other lesser gods as we do? Is it not like the sachem who has many elders to help with the work of the council? “ he said.
John struggled for an answer and then said, “Perhaps the apostles might be like your other gods, I am not certain, but there are quite a few of them.”
Askuwheteau continued, I hope that all of our Gods and your God make this winter one of little snow and cold so that we may all have food and warmth for our families.
“Yes” agreed John, thinking of what it took to keep the fires going, keep food on the table and tend to the livestock daily. He said another silent prayer asking for good health for all in the tough months ahead. No matter how prepared they were it was only a matter of the small every day sort of hardships that could easily tip the scales against survival. And his family had taken on new significance. It was his. Mercy. He wanted only to protect her, keep her safe from all the dangers. He thought of it almost daily since their marriage this past February. Prayed each day for her safe keeping.

His attention came back to the strong young man facing him. Askuwheteau was tall, easily near six feet, lean and strong looking. In typical fashion his head was shaved except for the scalplock on the top center of his skull. This was greased and fastened with feathers of the blue heron and egret, birds that were common to the marshes and shoreline. He was a canoe maker for the tribe, able to sculpt a dugout from a tree in about a month. He knew all the waterways in the area from the coast and islands to the barely navigable little tributaries off the Merrimack River. For Askuwheteau whose name meant , “he keeps watch,” life was a continuous cycle of fishing, shellfish gathering, hunting and dugout building all of which was for his family and the tribe. He had taken Kanti for his wife several years before and they had two small children.

John hoped that Askuwheteau and Kanti’s children would come in one of the future visits and that he and Mercy would be parents then. He had learned much from the small group of Agawams and he hoped his sons would someday have the same chance.

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A Trap

They had built a pen to catch the wolves. Something had to be done about them and Samuel Brocklebank was a man who could take charge of a problem such as this and bring it to heel much like he brought his hunting dogs to the ground by his feet. He was a strong man, tall, muscular and confident. The wolves had met their match. The dead pig or lamb stuck onto the end of the figure of four trap drew them from the edge of the forest and they unknowingly slipped into the pen springing the door shut when they pulled the bait off its wooden spear. Once caught they paced nervously along the walls of the pen until they were killed by Brocklebank’s rifle from outside.

Leaving the meetinghouse the men were discussing the wolves. The Massachusetts Bay Colony General Court had decided that a colonist would receive 30 shillings for each wolf and an Indian would receive half a pound of powder and two pounds of shot for every wolf that was killed. Proof was the delivery of the wolf’s head to the constable in Rowley. Similar offers were being made in other settlements as it had become obvious that the wolves and the farmers couldn’t share the territory. Too many cattle, sheep, goats and even pigs had fallen victim to the packs that roamed the endless forests. With the families winter survival dependent on there being enough to eat there was too much at stake to not kill them. But giving powder and shot to the Indians was a hard concept to stomach.

The worry on Richard Swain’s face was obvious as he spoke with a group of neighbors leaving the meeting house?

“Have they no fear of that which has happened in other parts of the colony at other times? It seems that in Boston the Governor feels not the silent eyes watching from the deep forest?” The city must make our brethren secure in their beds at night while we cannot tell the wolves calls from those of the Wampanoag.”

“Aye” echoed several others. “And yet twas only a fortnight past that our goodwives traded blankets for bear grease to mix with camphor for the winter coughs and colds.” Surely we are safe here with the Agawams.” “We have shared their food, they have helped us and our families learn to grow and preserve. Our children play together, their wives come to us for medicines and blankets and their braves hunt with us and trade pelts and hides. Clearly the sum of our lives together is better than it would be alone.”

“We are safe enough until some discontent spreads like a festering wound . It is said that Philip hath sent messengers to all of the small tribes seeking their support and allegiance against all Englishmen. Some say he will not honor the treaty of his father, Massasoit, which has been between us for greater than forty years, ” Samuel Brocklebank added. “With Massasoit dead and his oldest son Alexander dead it is up to Philip to live in peace, thee must hope and pray that he will be like his father, a believer that we might live side by side. Without that belief it will be only time before he calls to our Agawams to join him against us.“

John hurried toward home. It was a long walk from the meetinghouse to the western part of the town where their house stood and he used the time to think over what he had heard.

It was December 1665, Mercy and baby Sarah would be waiting for him. Sarah was eight weeks old, a healthy robust baby who had captured her father’s heart the moment she turned her dark brown eyes on him. His favorite part of the day was after supper when he would stoke the fire up and take the tiny bundle from Mercy. He would sit with his infant daughter for the longest time, and marvel at the tiny perfection of her. Her deep, dark eyes, short upturned nose, and round sweet face prone to smiles and long moments of studying him. He found himself talking to her each evening. Explaining the happenings of the day on their farm, from the furry deep coats the cows were growing for winter to the ice crystals forming on the edges of the brook. It all seemed to interest her. At least until her thoughts turned to wanting her mother, milk and sleep. And he told Mercy as they crawled beneath the quilts and lay together with their beautiful sleeping daughter between them. To be able to lie each night with two such heartbreakingly beautiful women was indeed a blessing beyond any he could imagine.

Nearly there, John paused hearing the long icy howl somewhere out ahead of him. It was answered in a moment. A life mate calling back. Askuwheteau had told him that he believed his brother wolf was a shape shifter. One moment a lean strong wolf running after a doe, the next moment a silent, stealthy red man tracking his prey through the vast shadows of the forests. “He was here before us, part of our mother the earth, our brother. When we look into his golden eyes we see back in time to our beginnings, he is our brother and our spirit guide.”

John wondered what Samuel Brocklebank would think of that.

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Hell Week - November 21st, 1667

It had not gone well. He had pushed his way into the room inspite of the strong objections of his mother in law, Elizabeth to his presence. Mercy was his wife and he needed to see her, touch her, assure himself that she was allright. he had labored for hours and the baby had taken forever to come.

The widow Swan came to all the women in childbed in the town to help with the births. She brought herbs and tinctures for the pain and could sometimes turn the babies if they were not head first, ready to be born. This baby had not wanted to come out, had not wanted to turn to the head down position and had sapped all of Mercy’s strength through hours of cramping and sweating and crying out in agony. At the end of it, Mistress Swan had examined her one more time. Finally she climbed atop their bed, knelt by Mercy’s small, sweatsoaked form and began to painfully push the baby around, to turn him into position.

He arrived some time later, a big baby, strong and loud and determined to eat.

“He’s a comely boy, Mercy.” He told her as he sat by the bed. Strong hands, straight back, wide shoulders, long legs. If his spirit is as strong as his body he’ll be a good man among us.” He thought of the work waiting for him outside and felt some burden lighten as he imagined toiling beside his own young son. He turned inward for a moment thanking God for this blessed event.

The words sang through his mind but made no sound…“ The world is before me this day, And I am weak and fearful, But I look to You for strength . Be Thou my arm to support, my strength to stand, my light to see, my feet to run, my shield to protect, my sword to repel, my sun to warm.”

Exhausted, boneless she lay amidst the featherbeds and quilts. Somehow she sensed the thoughts move within him and with an effort spoke the oh so familiar words of prayer,“By thy Spirit give abiding life to the lessons of this day: May the seed sown take deep root and yield a full harvest.”

No more words were needed. There was a comfort, a peace around them. In moments they both knew that Mother Elizabeth would be back with their hungry son freshly wrapped in clean linen. There was a small knock at the door.


November 26th, 1667

They had given her willow bark tea every hour for the fever but it didn’t seem to help. She was boiling one moment and shivering the next. They had repiled the quilts and featherbeds on her, stoked the fire and even put some hot bricks at her feet. But nothing seemed to help. Childbed fever they said. Her milk had stopped and Samuel had been taken to another goodwife to suckle. Little Sarah had gone to stay with her Aunt Mercy and Uncle Thomas Hardy whose daughter Ann was only a few months younger than Sarah. He hadn’t seen the children in two days but knew they were alright. His only thoughts were of Mercy and at that they were small and dark thoughts that kept creeping into the recesses of his mind. He knew he would have to face them but not just yet...


November 27th 1667

She couldn’t die. The pain, anger and guilt seemed to have grown their roots deeper into him with each passing day. It was his fault of course as he had got the child on her. And yet they had both wanted it, wanted a son or another daughter and had felt less fear than most since her first pregnancy and childbed had been easy. And now, the realization that their prayers would not be answered as she grew weaker and more consumed by fever each day. Where was their merciful Lord? Was it his plan all along to take her to the eternal life? But what about this life.? These children? And this man who deeply loved her? His mood swung from raging anger to despondency, he felt like the seaweed in the inlet that was tossed from wave to wave until it came to rest on the beach a pile of dried out, brittle ribbons.

And after the funeral the nights alone in their bed were the worst. He dreamt of her constantly. Springtime like dreams of soft blossoms and warm sun in which she laughed and beckoned him. He walked after her endlessly never reaching her only to wake shaking, sweaty and afraid. Once awake he could never sleep again as his mind began to consider all that had to be done day in and day out. Thank God for his neighbors who had cared for the children, kept their house, made them meals while he drove himself to mindless exhaustion each day. He understood anew the meaning of community, work for the good of all and the guidance for living in the scriptures. The thoughts of anger and rage receded, as those around him opened their hearts, their homes and their lives in order to save his and their children’s.

Finally in the spring his Father’s sister, his Aunt Elizabeth came.

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Spring Thaw – March 1668

Collecting sap was one of his favorite tasks. This year he seemed to have gone deeper into the woods than ever before to drive the taps into the maples. Not surprising as he often discovered his lack of attention brought him to strange circumstances. Only last week he had left the team still in harness at the end of the day, happily chewing their hay in the barn still wearing bridles, collars and breechings. Fortunately Robert had been there and without comment untacked the horses.

It wasn’t exactly daydreaming, rather the constant litany of responsibilities that ran amuck in his mind. He wondered if there was a medical name for it, this tendency to lose himself amidst thoughts of planting, harvesting, preserving, haying, chopping wood, hauling water, bartering for their needs. The thoughts were endless, coming to him anytime even waking him in the dark, tugging at the corners of his mind, nagging and worrying. That was bad, but it didn’t even begin to approach the other occupant of his mind, that deep dark hole of grief. He tried not to let himself dwell in that territory. Surely he would go mad. One foot in front of the other, one day at a time. That was the only treatment he knew for the condition.

He stopped beneath a big swamp maple. Its leaf buds were changing, he could see their slight swelling and their rosy hue seemed deeper. Spring would come and with it these woods would come alive again with susurrus of the leaves and calls of the bluejays and thrush. The endless forests were filled with the life that helped to sustain them but also filled with danger that threatened their very survival. Wolves, catamounts, unforeseen swamps, snakes, and while not here, elsewhere Kennikehaka and Wampanoags who dreamed of taking back the land from white settlers. He had heard the stories of conflict that came with visitors to Salem and the area. Stories that told of conflicts on many sides of Rowley. North, south and west of them there was little peace between the Indians and the townspeople. He thought of Askuwheteau who would also be anticipating the spring and would be coming back to the Indian village near the coast. He wanted to see him and talk about these stories.

He took the brimming bucket of sap that hung from the tap and divided it between the two buckets hanging from his yoke. He was excited to see so much sap but worried that he would only be able to collect one or two more buckets at most. He would need to come back next evening if they were all as full as this one.

His father, Thomas, like many of the early settlers had been taught by the Agawam women to boil the sap until it thickened and even beyond that until it crystallized. Carefully tended for hours the sap became sweet hard crystals that could be kept for months in a dry crock away from any moisture. Enough maple crystals meant they would not have to trade for sugar, a significant savings. And of course the sweet syrup that happened before the crystalline stage was delicious, much like the honey that came from their bee gums. The sap ran only in early spring when the nights were still very cold but the days warmed above freezing. It only happened inland, away from the warmth of the ocean which kept the nighttime and daytime temperatures too close together for the sap to run. He hoped to have several quarts of the syrup to take to Salem in a few weeks. He needed to trade for seeds, planting was coming and the seeds he saved from last years crops wouldn’t be quite enough. Aunt Elizabeth had said they needed some cloth too and some barrels and crocks for the pantry.

Aunt Elizabeth. He snorted as he thought of her. She had come only a few weeks ago but had immediately taken over the running of the house. At fifty seven she was nearly as strong and energetic as many of the young women of the village half her age! She had been widowed for the third time a few years ago and she seemed to have made a compact to cheat old age and death.

She came from her home in New Haven, Connecticut and brought with her Lizzie, her nineteen year old daughter and Robert, her husband’s manservant who had declined to leave when her last husband, William Judson had died a few years earlier. Robert had actually been manservant to her second husband, Benjamin Wilmot, Lizzie’s father and it was clear that he was very attached to Elizabeth and her grown children.

He laughed to himself thinking about Robert’s loyalty to Aunt Elizabeth. Surely there was a woman that made most men uncomfortable. So outspoken and opinionated, his father said she had always been that way even as his older sister growing up in Lincolnshire. She had been married in England. Her husband, James Heaton of Alford, Lincolnshire, had died from an ague but not before getting her with child a second time. The same ague which killed James first took their infant daughter ending her life at six months.

Twenty –one, widowed, grieving and pregnant Elizabeth still had an inner strength unmatched by many men. In 1631 she birthed a healthy son, James and two years later in 1634 with her son, traveled with her brother in law, Nathaniel and his family to Connecticut aboard the ship “The Griffin.”

“And who should also sail on “The Griffin” but Anne Hutchinson* also of Alford, Lincolnshire and her family bound for Plymouth Colony,” said his father as he had told Elizabeth’s story the week before she arrived in Rowley.

“Four years later when I came with your Mother, Anne Hutchinson was put on trial and banished from the Massachusetts Bay Colony for her wayward beliefs. She held church meetings in her home for women and spoke of a covenant of grace made between an individual and God that came through one’s own heart and mind. She dared to question the church as the true path to salvation. “

“Four months on “The Griffin,” and your Aunt had become close friends with goodwife Hutchinson. I believe they corresponded for some years until Anne was killed in an Indian attack in New Netherland.” Thank the Lord your Aunt Elizabeth wasn’t as outspoken although I am certain she sympathized with Anne’s beliefs. To speak so in the congregation and to be a woman, it was perhaps thought that the devil had taken hold of her. ‘Twas her good fortune only to be cast out and not dealt with as a witch.”

“And the elder Reverend Symmes? Father of our minister, did he not say that he also came here on “The Griffin that same year?” Truly I would like to hear his views.” John commented.

“hrrmph,” his father had responded with a shake of his head. “It is not likely that Reverend Symmes would share his thoughts with you or anyone, John. He was indeed aboard “The Griffin” on that sailing. With his wife and children come to minister to a parish outside of Boston. To be a part of the very thing Mrs. Hutchinson would later challenge. He must have seen and been in the thick of the trial. ‘Tis better left alone. Not for us to raise questions of faith in a time long past.

Still curious, John felt he would like some day to ask their Reverend Symmes what the elder Reverend might have thought about Mrs. Hutchinson and her beliefs.

A warm breeze blew over him, almost a caress. It seemed to linger about him gently ruffling his hair and billowing his coat tails. He immediately thought of Mercy, and wondered if her spirit could be near. She had had such a bright and eager mind matched with a true passion to raise their daughter, Sarah to be a strong and educated woman. He fully understood the elders’ view that women were to wear a mantle of quiet servitude. And yet no meek and milquetoast women would endure in this endless forest. Was it blasphemy or only a bit of impertinence expressed by women such as his beloved wife or feisty Aunt. He did believe and find comfort in the teachings of his church. And yet to meet the challenges and survive here he would want a strong and self confident woman by his side. One who met life on its own terms without fear of the unknown. Those women were not plentiful he knew. He had been given the gift of one in Mercy and it had filled him with love and strength to the depths of his heart and soul. He thanked God and wanted Him to know it was alright if he was alone the rest of his years. It was worth the grief to have known her even just that short time.

He was on the path near to home now, passing through Pollipod Field, named for all the ferns growing there and then through Hazen Swamp. Dark was settling in and he picked up his pace. There was a curl of smoke coming from the chimney and he heard laughter as he came to the door. Aunt Elizabeth, Robert, Sarah and even baby Samuel was grinning. He felt an overwhelming sense of joy as he put down the yoke and buckets and stepped inside.


*Readers- Imagine my amazement when this chapters research showed me that Anne Hutchinson and Elizabeth Tenney were both on the passenger list of “The Griffin!” which sailed to New Haven in 1634. And so was Zachariah Symmes – whose son was chosen as the first pastor of the first church erected in Bradford in 1669 . John Tenney was part of the committee involved in establishing Bradford, the church and selecting the pastor!

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Salt - 1668 (In Which John Tenney meets his second wife)

It would take much of the day to reach Salem but he didn’t mind. John sat easily on the wagon seat enjoying the conversation with Lizzie who had come along to help him with the purchases on Aunt Elizabeth’s list. It was a warm spring day in late March, and his only concern was the mud. It was near twenty miles to Salem and the cart track was thawing which meant deep muddy ruts sucking at the wheels. The two horses were cautious, preferring not to step in the mucky footing so progress was slow. Better slow than stuck he thought casually scanning the woods on both sides of the tracks for any movement.

Only a fortnight ago a peddler had come through the village selling his goods and sharing news of other towns and people. He had an unsettling story of a small band of warriors coming south from Cape Ann. They had surprised a hunting party which claimed the right to the meat and furs they carried even as they stood on what was Indian hunting land. A bloody fight ensued and killing occurred . Several colonists were dead and one had been taken captive but his corpse had been returned to a nearby village missing hands and feet and badly burned. Sunday, before Meeting, several members of the militia offered the news that this small band of Tarrantines had reportedly gone back toward Cape Ann. At the sermon, Rev. Samuel Shepherd brought forward the question of God’s love and his care for his children, these pilgrims. How was it that they should have fallen so far from God’s grace to die so. Did they need more scripture? More readings, more prayer? How could they regain the Lord’s protection the Reverend asked somewhat rhetorically? Among the congregation the eyes of some of the men met and held each other’s gaze. It wasn’t just a matter of God, it was muskets, shot, safe houses, all the practical means of survival God didn’t exactly mention. They knew what they needed to do.

The peddler had moved on.

“So Lizzie, now that you are here a few weeks do you not find it as good a place as New Haven?” John asked.

“Aye, tis good if thou would prefer the company of trees and fields to shops and people,” Lizzie said. “And even more the savages and wolves, both howling in the night. Aye, tis a close place to heaven.”

“And not to forget the large number of marriageable young men,” he added smiling a bit devilishly. “Seems to me you could not number them all at meeting this week!”
“Ahh, cousin that is the truth of it and poor me, coming from the town where young women may wait and choose with a bit more time and thought. Is it not better to weigh one’s options and take a husband who it is possible to love? Were you not so in love with Mercy that you would agree?”

“There is love and there is necessity and God doesn’t always give us the time to choose it seems. Is it God who makes all events happen as part of his plan? And if those events effect our very survival than certain choices must be made. And for that I am most thankful to you and your Mother since your arrival has meant my not having to hastily chose someone I might never be able to love as I did Mercy.”

“Ah well, ‘tis a benefit for Mother to be here also as she is quite tired of the suitors plaguing her at home. After three husbands love is not even mentionable. And she quite favors being in charge of her own person and property.” The prospect of giving everything over to a husband has long lost its pleasure for her!!”

John tilted his head back and laughed so abruptly that the horses sat a bit and scooted forward. He quickly but lightly checked them back reassuring them softly and soothing away their edginess. He wondered if they had heard the peddler’s story.

He found Lizzie’s company quite enjoyable. She reminded him a great deal of his sisters, Hannah and Mercy. She was much like Elizabeth in her honesty and humor and not at all interested in speaking softly or shyly.

They went straight away to the store. John had brought the maple syrup, some pumpkins that had kept well in the root cellar, skeins of yarn and two turkeys he and Robert had shot. There was also a basket of Elizabeth’s pumpkin and apple tarts they hoped to sell or barter. Their list consisted of seeds for planting, salt, and linsey woolsey yardage. One other stop would be to the apothecary for powdered calamina. It was made into a lotion to treat rashes and with baby Samuel not yet a year old they had used up their store of it.

The mercantile was out of salt, a fact that frustrated John. Life was difficult but without salt it was nearly impossible. Salt preserved not only their fish, meats and vegetables but actually their furs too. It was also used in dyeing fiber and fabric and salt solutions were the best for cleaning wounds as salt poultices worked wonders on the horses lame feet. To go home without it would make for a difficult spring and summer. The shop keeper in the mercantile had suggested he see a Mr. Woodbury on the north side of the river to purchase some. So they would make just one more stop. And he had kept one of the turkeys to trade.

They drove along the Bass River toward the harbor. In a bend they came upon a point of land sprinkled with wooden frames of drying cod which once fully dry would be liberally salted. The salt cod would be loaded into the holds of nearby vessels and sold to the plantation owners in the Caribbean to feed their slaves. Barrels of it. And at one end of the area enormous pots of sea water were boiling away to leave the precious salt crystals behind. There was no end to the salt here.

Two young men and a young woman approached them. Lizzie eyed the young men and sat up a bit straighter on the wagon seat next to John. She smoothed her hair, straightened her bonnet and cast her eyes demurely at the wagon floor. John bit his lip to keep from smiling as he brought the horses up.

It took only a few minutes to negotiate a turkey and some pumpkin and apple tarts for a bushel of salt. The young men proved to be the sons of Humphrey Woodbury the owner of the fishing camp. The young woman was Susanna Woodbury their younger sister.

They were about to take their leave when a small band of wampanoags came into view on the river. They brought their canoes to the shore and several braves stepped onto the bank.

In one steady movement John pushed Lizzie and Susanna behind the horses and reached into the wagon bed for his fowling piece. It had been loaded since he left home and he casually cocked the hammer and rested it barrel down on his hip as he stepped to the front of the wagon and took hold of the bridle of the nearest horse. Looking over he saw that Issac and John Humphrey were armed with pistols slipped into the backs of their breeks.

The braves had also come for salt and their canoes were piled with furs. A quick conversation resulted in the exchange of a dozen beavers for salt and an agreement to return in a fortnight for another exchange.

“Nammos,” stated the obvious leader of the Indians as he pointed to the rows of drying cod. “Nammos………wawpatucke” he muttered several times finally getting the Englishmen to understand he was suggesting trading fish for furs.

Issac nodded assent and everyone beamed. Finally the group climbed back into their canoes and paddled off leaving John Tenney feeling hugely relieved and wishing that peddler had never come!

“You’ll not be making the journey back to Rowley today then?” asked John Humphrey looking toward the afternoon height of the sun in the western sky? “Perhaps you’ll come home with us and leave in the morning? We can offer you a meal and at least a settee by our hearth.” My father would most enjoy hearing about Rowley and your family.”
“We thank thee kind friend,” John replied smiling at the enthusiastic nod he detected from Lizzie who was looking a bit ashen.
“Let me just fetch our mule” said Susanna turning to walk toward the woods behind them. “ Then we can go home.”
“Wait.” John spoke without thinking. Don’t go alone, I’ll go with you if your brothers will hold the horses and watch over Lizzie.”

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The Woodburys March - 1668

Supper was served on a long table in the center of the Woodbury house’s front room. It was an old looking table, scrubbed and worn and the benches on each side of it seemed to have shiny seat marks made from the posteriors of the ten Humphrey children and their parents. John had a brief memory of childhood meals taken with all his Tenney and Parrat siblings. They had numbered fourteen and as they grew into young men and women meals had been the stage for much discussion and dissent.

It was much the same at the Woodbury home with the added value that the Woodburys were not growing into adulthood, they were there. And while they all deferred to their father, Humphrey who was fifty five years old, there were many questions and much discussion of the times and news of Salem and Rowley.

“Have you any blockhouse?,” Humphrey asked We’ve built two here in Salem on the Main Street. There’s talk about digging a well inside one but ye’ll naught get good water, only brackish being so close to the salt water.”

“We’ve a garrison house nearby,” John answered feeling that small worm of worry from the peddlar’s story come alive again in his mind. But its no use then to be safe away in a garrison house and leave your farm and home to be burned is it?” “We’ve not had Indian trouble as yet, John continued. Have you had it here then?”

“Nay, not so much, and ‘struth that being a constable ye see more breaking of the laws by the townspeople than ever by the Indians. If as many Indians stole as brethren tried not to go to meeting, or took the name of the Lord in vain, well then you’d find you had some trouble!”

Elizabeth Hunter Woodbury deftly changed the subject. John guessed her to be forty five to fifty and after ten children he could tell she knew how to organize a group and a conversation!

“Have you women folk then at home, Mr. Tenney?” And Miss Wilmot, what is life like for a young woman in Rowley?” “Oh aye, Lizzie replied. We’ve a few women, my mother who is John’s Aunt Elizabeth and John’s wee daughter, Sarah who is only two. Life is work , she continued, sewing, weaving and mending, cooking, cleaning, tending the gardens, going to meeting, there is always much to do. We’ve almost no time to worry ourselves ‘bout the Indian folk anyway!!” “And when they do come in the fall, John says they bring us many medicines and foods and we give them clothing and such.”

Perhaps it was her quiet watchful demeanor that made John immediately want to explain his children to Susanna Woodbury and of course the others at the table.

“I’ve a young daughter and an infant son,” John began. “Their mother died of childbed fever in November, only a few days after our son, Samuel was born. The children are at home with their great Aunt Elizabeth and her manservant, Robert.” “We are aggrieved for the loss of your goodwife,” Elizabeth Woodbury’s kindness was heartfelt, while we know fear of the savages, the unknown dangers of birthing our children seem greater.”

“Aye, “ John nodded in agreement. ‘Tis such a mystery to me as to why some of our women folk bring many children into this world without trouble and others cannot live to hold their own dear babes in their arms. It asks much of a man who is wanting only to feed and shelter his family to stand idly by knowing his goodwife is in the hands of death and he not able to protect her. “ John knew he should direct the conversation away from his anger at losing Mercy. In a moment he would feel again the raw open sore on his soul that fed his doubts and stoked his anger. Too many times at Sunday Meeting deaths and illness were said to be the result of God’s disfavor with their manner of everyday living. It was increasingly difficult to accept that Mercy, a gentle loving woman could have in anyway brought about her own death as a punishment for some failure. He knew he needed to change the subject. “I find myself quite curious about the cod fish that were drying when we first met John, Issac and Susanna.” He said. Do you sell them as well as the salt then?”

“We do and they provide us a living, thank the Lord,” responded Humphrey Woodbury. “And have since my Father, John came here with the Dorchester Company to make a settlement more than forty years past. We have several ships and trade the salted cod in Bilbao and the West Indies.”

Woodbury continued warming to the story , “ In Mistress Woodbury’s family , Richard Hollingsworth is a ship builder and we have formed partnerships in Cod and ships. The fish spawn here in the shallow waters so we can net them easily in the late winter and early spring, clean them , dry and salt them and then load our ships headed for the islands. They bring back salt from the Tortugas, and molasses, indigo, cotton and sugar. Our other ships sail to Spain and bring back iron, coal, wine and even fruit. The Spaniards must have the best of the catch, perfectly done but the plantation owners in the Indies are pleased with the seconds to feed their plantation workers and slaves. My Father was raised a good fisherman on the south coast of England near Weymouth. When he came here he was one of the few men with fishing line and hooks in his pockets and he used to say that the God fearing settlers would do well to spend less time praying and learn how to fish so they wouldn’t starve. “Tis advise I’ve kept to all these many years!” John smiled feeling at once at ease with Woodbury. Before he could respond though Susanna spoke looking intensely at her father, “ Slaves. I wonder what Grandfather John would say if he knew we were selling food to plantation owners for their slaves? Do you think Da, that he would approve of that?”

“I think he would feel great thankfulness that his family was safe and well fed since he had little control of either when he settled in Salem. As to the moral question ‘tis difficult to know for tho slavery doth seem evil yet some would say the heathens are given food, shelter and Christian learning. ‘Struth I don’t know how I feel so I have no thought of your Grandfather.” The meal was over. Benches were pushed back and the women began to clear away the trenchers. “The moral dilemma? “ Elizabeth Woodbury had the last word, “tis perhaps best that we hear the words and thoughts of God’s teachers and on the morrow Increase Mather of the North Church in Boston will be in Salem to speak at The First Church on Essex Street. I believe his sermon is about denying the devil. You would be most welcome to join Mr. Tenney , certainly you and Miss Wilmot would have sufficient time for the journey home afterwards. “

It was one of those moments when one speaks without consulting one’s mind,. John would remember it well for years to come. As though someone or something had taken his voice and let it out past his lips before he could even consider whether or not he wanted to go.

“Oh, aye, we’d be most interested in what Mr. Mather has to say,” he nodded and noticed that Lizzie was smiling and nodding along side him. And as he turned to reach for his coat on the peg behind him he just caught sight of the beautiful smile on Susanna Woodbury’s face before she left the room.

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“It is not wisdom, but Authority that makes a law.” Thomas Hobbes
Law of the Land - July 1668

His father, Thomas, had been named a tithing man by the selectmen. John wasn’t certain how he felt about that. Each tithing man was to watch over ten families living near him and report to the selectmen. How did they pass the Sabbath, how did they treat their wives, their children, their servants? Did they speak wicked or sinful words,or in any way show themselves as irreligious or disorderly? There were one hundred and four families in Rowley and another twenty five families in the village and the selectmen had appointed ten tithing men.
It seemed to John they might have done better to appoint more men to the night watch to warn them of Indians who of late in other towns seemed far more dangerous than a drunken cooper or pindar.
He had gone with his father yesterday to see about a complaint made by Samuel Stickney, the current pindar or pounder, who claimed that Thomas Lambert had taken his wandering cows back out of the pound without paying his 5d fine for allowing them to roam.
Lambert didn’t have 5d. He had 3 children and a wife. They had lost two children this year to fevers and as Goodman Lambert said, “on any day my mind seems to be gone wandering like my cows. “
“Perhaps you can help with some of the fencing on the commons then instead of the fine,“ Thomas suggested.
Samuel Stickney, the pindar or pound keeper, was not to be so easily diverted. He slammed his fist onto the table and leaned into it. “The 5d and help on the commons would be better. “ he growled.
“And how is it Goodman Stickney that Brother Lambert was able to open the door to the pound? “Thomas asked staring down Stickney.” Did you not lock it Goodman Stickney?”
There was an awkward moment when everyone realized it was Samuel Stickney’s faults that would be carried to the selectmen that day.
Thomas just waited. He let the silence do the work for him. No point in pushing Stickney against the wall. Let him reason out the options.
Walking home John observed, “Would we need so many laws Father if men were able to be more rational in their ways?”
“Aye 'tis a good question, son. Do we abide because we fear the laws and fines or because they are logical to us. Or is it because the Lord intends for us to live thus.?” You must read some of Thomas Hobbes writings, he asks many of these questions. I shall write to your Uncle Robert in Great Limber and ask him to send us some of Hobbes writings."
“Speaking of laws, Father, I must go back to Salem to speak with Humphrey Woodbury for permission to court his daughter Susannah. We have exchanged a few letters since my visit there in March and it seems she would make welcome my interest but I do not want Salem’s tithing man to have me for breaking the law by seeking her hand without Woodbury’s consent.”
“Make haste John, thou knoweth life will be much sweeter with a good wife by your side.”

At the same town meeting in which Thomas Tenney was called upon the selectmen had decided that all boys between the ages of 10 and 16 were to be present at the usual militia training days in order that they be instructed by an officer in the exercise of arms, mainly small guns, bow and arrow and small swords. Samuel was too young yet but in time John knew that Samuel and his cousins would be a part of those training days. John knew he would have to teach Sarah himself as there was no provision for young women to learn to shoot arms. Unseemly or not, he planned to teach her not only to shoot but to hunt and fish as it seemed to him the more skills of survival she had the more she would likely survive. He shared this perspective with his father.“The Lord tells us to be true to the truth that ye know. And none can question the truth of hardship here especially for women. So while I would like my granddaughter to be living the life of purely womanly duties I think it is likely she will live longer with some other skills as well! But as it is with men, there is some evil in good ideas and some good in evil ones so thou must think and act wisely in this. Take great care not to fashion your daughter into that which men might fear as it will then do her harm.”
“Aye Father, “ John replied. "Sarah must learn a humble nature as well or be set apart from others. And that is also why the children need Susannah as much as I. Pray that she is a strong woman with the mothering instincts of a catamount. “
“My son, we are all here pilgrims and strangers living and learning in God’s light. Thee must ask for direction and give thanks for His guidance. He shall shine His light and path for you and Susannah and the children. Believe it.”
“I shall” said John. "Next month I will return to Salem and petition Humphrey Woodbury for his daughter."

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First Encounter - April 1669

She was just finished kneading the salt dough when the dog began to growl. The baby was napping, Little Sarah had been happily playing with apiece of dough. In an instant the cozy sense of hearth and home was gone. Quickly she looked to the corner where the loaded flintlock rested. She took it and leaned it against the table just as a knock came at the door.

“Who knocks?” she called as the growling became a deep throated bark coupled with a showing of slightly yellowed but still sharp teeth.

“You don’t know me Mistress Tenney. I come hoping to speak with your husband and I bring him greetings from friends among the Agawam.”

Strange, she thought, he knew her name. Smiling to herself she thought little matter, if he meant harm he’d simply fire the house and slit her throat even if she didn’t open the door. She could feel her heart racing and the little hairs on the back of her neck standing up. And if there were more than one Indian out there the single shot in the flintlock would stop only one of them. And by the time she reloaded it she’d be dead.

She gripped a bar on the back of the door and tried to stop her hands from shaking. The bars slid smoothly and she swung the door.

There were three of them. She felt her legs turn to water and begin to shake. He was clearly the leader, the others hung back away from the door.

“What do you want?” she thought she must have sounded like a stuck pig, squealing in fright. Steady, she said to herself. Get a grip on yourself, don’t let him see your fear even though it’s so strong surely he must be able to smell it! In the moment that flashed between them she knew he knew that she was terrified.

“Forgive us Mistress for frightening you” he began. His dark brown eyes scanned the room behind her through the door. He took in Sarah and the flintlock leaning against the table. “We came hoping to speak to your husband, we seek his help. He is not here? You are alone?”

“Yes but I expect my husband to return at dusk. He is hunting.”

“Who are you? “ she added wondering if John would return or had they encountered him already on his way home and left him lying dead in some meadow miles away.

“I am Askawheteau. These are men of my village. We have traveled from the winter home of the Agawams to the west. We did not see John on our way here."

That remark gave her pause. Was he a mind reader this tall, dark man blocking her doorway? How was it that he was so calm and she at the point of shrieking, clutching the children and running.

“We have come here many times before John and I were men, “ he explained. “When we were children we came with others who traded with the English before each winter. Winter is coming to an end now, and we have need not for trade, but for John’s thoughts. May I stay and wait for him to return?”

He turned to the others and in a few words had them moving toward the barn. Quickly she found her voice.

“No, please,” she stumbled over the words. “Come in. Come in. You are welcome in our home. Please come inside to wait.”

Gratitude and something else shone in his face. He nodded to her and spoke a few more words to the group. Susannah stepped back and turned picking up the flintlock she walked to the fireplace and put it above the mantel. She turned and gestured them into the room which had somehow rekindled its cozy inviting glow.

Sarah came to her and clung eyes wide looking at the Indians coming in the door. Askawheteau introduced the men to Susannah and then explained that they were going to the marsh to hunt and would be back before dark. Perhaps they would meet John, she thought but then remembered he was going to the meadows in search of deer or wild geese.

In moments she was alone with Askawheteau who was reaching deep into a woven bag that hung from his shoulder. He brought out a tiny model of a canoe, a dug out and squatting down offered it to Sarah whose huge eyes got even bigger. “If you have an empty bucket, mistress, I will bring her some water to play with the canoe.” He said without taking his gaze from the little girl.

Susannah watched him cross the yard to a trough and fill the bucket. Calmer now she allowed herself to admire the graceful way he moved. His six foot frame was lithe and strong, with wide shoulders and a straight back. His long legs seemed made of springs which covered the yard in sure, fluid steps. He was a beautiful man, she thought, not yet stooped with age or missing teeth or pock marked like so many other native people she had seen in Salem. His black hair was pulled back away from his face, gathered with a leather thong on which small shells had been fixed. It hung like a pelt below his shoulders underneath the musket that was strapped across his back. Magnus, Johns old lurcher, watched his passage also, tail thumping on the floor.

Inside again she offered him some cider which he drank while playing with Sarah and the canoe. Finally he seemed to be interested in shifting his attention to her and he asked, “How is your life here with John? When we came as usual last season he was gone and the man here tending the animals said he had gone to Salem with the children to bring you home. “

“We were married here in Bradford December 2nd” Susannah replied. “I have been here nearly six months though it seems more like six weeks. “ It is different than my home on the coast but I find it beautiful in a wilderness sort of way.”

“And John, how is he finding it?” Askawheteau said looking at her with a completely expressionless face. Suddenly she felt her face flush and not without a bit of temper she remarked, “Perhaps that is a subject you should be asking John himself since he is come home.”

She turned hearing Samuel begin to cry from his crib in the next room.

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Indentured - April 1669

It was a scrumptious meal by anyone’s standards. Early spring usually saw them with not much left in the larder in the way of vegetables. But a chowder had been possible made from a large cod caught by Askawheteau’s men. Susanna had surprised them by layering the filleted fish, salt pork, biscuits, onions and a few handfuls of dried corn in the huge black iron pot hanging in the fireplace. She carefully mixed water and milk and poured it over the contents of the pot. The Indians watched with some dismay as the fish they planned to roast in the fire totally disappeared in the pot. There was grunting and gesturing but Susanna planted herself between the hearth and the visitors and it became clear to them that she was in charge of the meal. John and Askawheteau exchanged amused glances as the two young braves resigned themselves to a discussion about this truly odd woman who hummed as she brought out the trenchers and wooden spoons.

They relaxed just a little when they observed her mixing cornmeal and water and putting the resulting thick paste on a griddle near the fire. That was familiar food to them, no worries. They at least would not go hungry this night. Susannah waited for the huge pot tocome to a simmer, gave it a careful stir and then adjusted the crane to keep it from boiling and burning.

As the steam began to rise from the surface a wonderful aroma wafted through the room.

“John, a fortnight ago the youngest grandson of my father’s brother appeared in our village. He is but ten and had walked from Naumkeag. Or I should say he ran from Naumkeag where he has been indentured with a family.” Askawheteau began.

“He has told our elders that he prefers to die than to return to the house of the cooper. He is beaten everyday, and of late the man has taken to flogging him with a whip across his backside, saying that he is lazy and guided by Hobbamock, “ he went on.

“He is trying to be strong but he is still a child and a child with no father or mother. His uncle made the arrangement to give him to the cooper who wanted him but our elders are concerned that he will not live to see the end of the seven years. Can you tell me about this contract of indenture?” Is there any possibility that it can be changed? I agreed with our council to come and speak for him with the cooper but I must know before that how this is under the Englishman’s law?”

John shook his head slowly wishing he had something different to say. “Aye, it’s a system which favors the cooper I believe. Most indentured servants are much like slaves. They must work tirelessly, not expect to be treated with patience or care by their owners. Most are poorly fed and clothed and few are allowed a bed in the house but live in the barn or shop. They’ve seven years to look forward to and mind you the law says that their master can punish them as he sees fit even to nailing or worse. “ He shuddered thinking of the practice of pinning a servant’s ear to the stocks by driving a nail through the outer fleshy part. Just at that moment Sarah came and climbed into his lap. He looked at Askawheteau and grimaced. The boy in question was ten but he could imagine his beautiful, sweet daughter beaten or nailed should a master or mistress be of that ilk. He had no good advice to offer.

Askuwheteau nodded. “Then perhaps I will bring the cooper the sad news of this boys death from the bloody fluxe after he ran away. There are families in our village leaving for the north soon and we can send him with them. “

John nodded. “And if they were to catch him or if he were to return, the cooper would be in his rights to add more time on to the seven years and to beat him more. It is the way.”

Susanna had remained in the background. She bent down and scooped up Sara snuggling her close. Sarah wrapped her arms around Susanna’s neck and snuggled her head into the soft hollow of her step mothers shoulder. “The way of magistrates and men of authority,” Susanna said bitterly. “Not the way to grow a youngster into a good man. Without kindness and understanding no man’s spirit can survive and how many barrels will he help make for the cooper then?”

Askawheteau nodded. He studied her carefully as she held Sarah close, stirred the pot of chowder and with her foot deftly pushed the griddle with the golden brown corn cake back away from the heat. “How is it that you know children and fish both so well, Mistress Tenney?” he asked with just a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Perhaps tis an inner knowledge” she quipped. “The fish is much like the child. Alone without onions or corn or milk added he will not grow into a delicious meal. But with carefully added ingredients which are allowed to simmer over time, the child, when finished, will be an intelligent and honorable man capable of being a feast for the right woman. So come, let us break bread.”

Neither John or Askawheteau had an answer for that. And they were both thankful that it wasn’t possible to talk with so much good food in one’s mouth!

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