Puritan Girl, Mohawk Girl Read online

  After a brief stop at his home in Albany, Schuyler began his journey, following the usual route through the wilderness up to Montreal. He had a pleasant meeting with Governor Vaudreuil, who lent him a horse to ride to Kahnawàke and appointed two men to act as his interpreters. Most people in the village, including Gannenstenhawi, could speak only the Mohawk language. Schuyler spoke English and Dutch, so translation would be necessary.

  When Schuyler reached the village, he was met by three of the priests. They took him to the great hall, showed him to a couch where he might rest, offered him tea and biscuits, and began a discussion. Father Cholonec spoke for the rest. “We are glad to see you and hope to make you comfortable. May the Lord bless you and keep you always. Now, pray tell us why you have come today, that we might assist you.”

  Schuyler replied, “I thank you most heartily for your welcome, Father. My purpose is to speak with Eunice Williams, a lovely child cruelly taken from her family in Massachusetts by Mohawk warriors long ago and kept in this village ever since. Her father, Reverend John Williams—a man of great importance, a minister to the good people of the town called Deerfield—has sent me to bring her home at last.”

  “I believe,” said Cholonec, “you refer to Marguerite, for that is the name with which we baptized her. It is many years since she came here. She is no longer a child. She was raised by a kind man, now gone to heaven, and his pious wife, with whom she still resides. She has her own husband now. She is much loved by the people of the village and is happy with her life here. I do not know that she would wish to leave.”

  At the mention of the husband, Schuyler’s face darkened. “It was,” he said, “very wrong of you to marry her. Her English blood cries out against it. That she should wed an Indian: how terrible . . .” His voice trailed off without finishing the sentence.

  Cholonec spoke again. “At first we thought of this as you do now. We tried to stop them. We told them to wait; we avoided them as much as we could. But they insisted—refused our advice, kept coming and coming to press their wish upon us. At last they said they would stay together whether married or not. And so we decided it was better done in a church way than any other.”

  Schuyler stood up and spread his hands in dismay. “Then I must see her for myself. May it please you to inform her of my presence here.” Cholonec sighed and told one of the younger priests to find Marguerite in her house and bring her to the residence.

  While all this was happening, news of the merchant’s arrival spread quickly through the village. His purpose was understood—it was nothing new, this idea of taking Gannenstenhawi away. When the priest arrived at her house, a crowd had gathered in front of the door, barring his entry.

  Inside, Gannenstenhawi crouched in a corner with Arosen by her side. She was weeping. She told the others that she would not speak with the merchant. He was foolish, he did not know her at all. He did not see that this was her home, that she belonged here, nowhere else. She was a Mohawk, not an Englishwoman. She would not go to Massachusetts, not now, not ever.

  Presently, Konwatieni came over, rested a hand on her shoulder, and spoke in a gentle tone. “My dear child, do not fear. You belong to our people. Nothing can take you from us. But this merchant has traveled far to see you. He has trade with our village; we must not displease him. Come, then, to the priests’ residence. Your husband will stay beside you, and so will I.”

  Gannenstenhawi dared not refuse any longer. Reluctantly, she stood up, pulled a large blanket tight around her chest, and made her way to the door. Konwatieni took her arm; Arosen followed close behind. The men outside stepped back to let them pass. They walked slowly along the path that led to the residence. Father Cholonec was standing at the door as they came up.

  “Dear Marguerite,” he began. “We have been waiting for you with the merchant from Albany, Mr. Schuyler. He is a good man and a friend to the village; his trade helps the people here. He has a message from your English father. Let us hear what he has to say.” Gannenstenhawi looked down and said nothing. Her English father? By now she understood that he was the one who had sent the merchant to take her away.

  She and the others went into the great hall. There were at least a dozen people there, priests and some of her Mohawk friends. Schuyler rose to greet her. At his bidding she sat in a chair, but with her head turned away from him.

  “My dear Eunice,” he said in a loud voice, “I am very pleased to meet with you.” Of course, he did not speak in her language, so one of the interpreters had to translate.

  But she caught the name Eunice and wondered, What is this “Eunice”? Her thoughts spun wildly. The name—she knew it somehow—began to open her memory. Pictures of things long forgotten came rushing into her mind. She saw herself in a room somewhere far away, in bed, fast asleep. But, all of a sudden, terrifying sounds—crashing, shouting, screaming—awakened her. She ran in the dark to hide . . . Another picture: She was walking on a snowy path in deep woods beside a frozen river. A hand reached down to steady her—a mother’s hand. Then the hand was gone, the mother was gone . . . And another: She was in the village—this village—scared and anxious to leave. A man came to help her, but he couldn’t. He tried, he failed. He had failed before. She stood at the gate, watching him go.

  Gannenstenhawi had closed her eyes during these flashbacks. And when she opened them again, the merchant was going on with his talk. The interpreter translated, “I have come at the request of your father, Reverend John Williams. He has grieved for many years over your absence. He longs for your return. He prays every day for your soul. He honors the memory of your late mother, slain by savage enemies when you were still young. Since her death he has taken in holy wedlock a gracious and God-fearing gentlewoman; she is your stepmother now. She has borne him a son and two daughters. Your older brothers, Samuel and Stephen, are at college. Your youngest brother, Warham, is a fine Christian boy. The whole family awaits your return! Come back with me, child, come back to your home.”

  Everyone turned toward Gannenstenhawi. She looked uncomfortable. Her mind was bringing back more memories. The mother’s hand taken from her on the trail—suddenly she understood. The man who had failed to protect her in several times of need also had failed to save the mother. Her English father? Of course! He was the one! And then to hear that he had gone and taken another wife! How wrong! How cruel! She couldn’t forgive that. Her thoughts raced along at top speed, but her lips remained tightly closed.

  Schuyler continued, his words more pleading, more urgent, than before. “The war is over; many of those who were taken from us are happily returned. You must come home. It is your duty to your father, to all who pray for you, to almighty God Himself. God puts each of us in a place of His choosing. He put you in Deerfield, with English parents and neighbors. It is not for us to question His ways.”

  Again, she made no reply.

  Schuyler tried a new approach. Perhaps she would agree to a visit—a stay of a few days or weeks with her father, to see how it felt. In that case, he promised, “upon my word and honor, you shall have full liberty to return to this village if you wish.”

  Still, she was silent.

  Schuyler paused, uncertain what else he could say. Then Father Cholonec stepped forward. “Dear child,” he began. “What the merchant says is fair. You have lived a good while among us; we have cared for you and prayed with you as you rose into womanhood. But you are of a different blood from our Mohawk villagers. Go, then, with this good man. Meet with your father and others of your English family. You will decide then whether or not to remain with them. If you prefer the life here, you may return; you will always be welcome among us.”

  The two of them, the merchant and the priest, kept on at her for more than an hour. They repeated their arguments again and again; their voices became loud and strained. But still she sat there, unmoved. Finally, Cholonec insisted that she say something—anything—in reply. And so she did. She looked up and spoke, in a soft but distinct voice, two Mohawk words, j
aghte oghte, which the interpreter translated as “maybe not.” She was being polite; there was no “maybe” about it. What she meant was, “No! I won’t go, not to stay, and not for a visit, either.”

  Schuyler was furious. “You should be ashamed!” he shouted in frustration. “If I had made the same fair proposal to the worst of Indians, I would have received a better answer.”

  At this, Arosen moved toward him to say a little more on her behalf. “Mr. Schuyler, it is plain. She is unwilling to leave us. She knows of the man you call her English father. She would gladly have gone to see him, had he not married again.”

  That is all he would say, and all Schuyler would ever learn about her reasons. It explained nothing. Of course her father had married again. He’d needed a wife, a helper, to start a new home; surely God approved of it.

  There was nothing more to be done. Gannenstenhawi shifted uneasily in her chair. Her face was a mask, hiding her feelings underneath. Suddenly Schuyler stepped forward and grasped both of her hands in his. Alarmed, she pulled away. Then, flinging up his arms in disgust, he strode away from the residence.

  After he got back to Albany, Schuyler wrote out a careful account of his meeting with Eunice. He sent a copy to John Williams in Deerfield. Of course, the entire Williams family was dismayed—crushed even—by what it said.

  But this was her final answer: jaghte oghte. Maybe not. I won’t go. I have a different life now. And I mean to keep it that way.

  EPILOGUE

  The year after Schuyler went to Kahnawàke, John Williams himself had a chance to visit. He was part of a group sent to Canada by the Massachusetts governor, Joseph Dudley, to discuss the return of all the captives still living there. He was told as soon as he reached Montreal that his daughter preferred not to see him. It would be pointless and distressing, she thought; why didn’t he understand that? But he insisted, and finally he was allowed into the village. The two of them met in the priests’ residence, but for only a few minutes. Her answer hadn’t changed. He left in the same sorrowful state as when he had been there long before, soon after her capture. Only this time, she wasn’t at the gate watching him go. She was a grown woman now, not a frightened child. And most important of all, she was a true Mohawk.

  Decades of adult life lay ahead of her. She remained in Kahnawàke and raised a family. Together with Arosen, she had eight children, only two of whom, both daughters, survived to adulthood. The others died either in wars or from the diseases that swept again and again through the village. Both daughters grew up and married important Mohawk men.

  From time to time, the Williamses in Deerfield would receive news of her. Usually it was very brief—she and her husband were “in health,” or had passed through Albany while traveling south for trade—not much more. Her father prayed for her every day, sometimes publicly in church with his entire congregation. Then, in 1729, he took sick and died; there was a large funeral, at which his daughter’s captivity and life in Canada were remembered with sorrow.

  Surprisingly, though, reports came soon afterward that Eunice (always the family’s name for her) was considering a visit to Massachusetts. Her brothers grew hopeful. Nothing happened for quite a few more years. But then, in the summer of 1740, it became definite. She and Arosen would be traveling to Albany and were ready to meet there with members of the Williams family. Two of her brothers, Stephen and Samuel, set out at once and found her waiting. They had what Stephen described as a “joyful, sorrowful” reunion; he meant that he was both very glad to see her and sad that their separation had lasted so long. From Albany they traveled to Longmeadow, Massachusetts, where Stephen was now the minister. The whole town turned out in welcome; in fact, people came from all over the colony (and from Connecticut) to see her. Everyone was curious about this person whose life had started out like theirs, yet was now so completely different. And maybe, they thought, she had finally decided to come home for good.

  Eunice and Arosen were invited to stay as guests in Stephen’s house, but chose instead to put up a little tent in the yard. The women of Longmeadow brought English dresses for her to wear, but she preferred her Indian blankets; she would stick with Mohawk custom. There was also the problem of communicating—whenever they wanted to converse, interpreters had to translate between English and Mohawk.

  The town gave a dinner in her honor and held a special service in the church. Stephen and the other Williamses encouraged her—in fact, they begged her—to stay. But she said no, she wanted only to get to know her long-lost relatives, and also to claim a share of her father’s estate. His will had included gifts to her of land and money. But this applied only if she were willing to resettle in Massachusetts, which was never her plan. So, after two very emotional weeks, she and Arosen left Longmeadow and returned to Canada. By now there was warmth on both sides; she seemed, as Stephen wrote in his diary, “very much affected” by the visit.

  She promised to come back the next summer, and she did. This time she and Arosen traveled across Massachusetts and Connecticut, visiting different Williams relatives along the way. They stopped in Deerfield to see where she had been born. She was received by the governor in Boston, and he, too, tried his best to persuade her to stay. People everywhere were upset about her being an Indian; how much better it would be for her to become English again! At least that’s what they thought; but of course, she didn’t.

  Two summers later she came for a third time, accompanied by several others in her Mohawk family. Again, she was warmly received. And again, there were high hopes for her permanent return. But it was not to be; visiting was still her aim, nothing more. When they pressed her about this, she tried to make them understand. She loved her Williams relatives in Massachusetts and was very glad to see them. But her home would always be Kahnawàke—and the Mohawks would remain her people.

  There would be a gap of almost two decades before her fourth, and final, visit. That was a time of renewed war between the English and French colonies, and there was little chance for contact. But in 1761, when peace was at last restored, she and Arosen were able to visit Stephen once more. By now, all three of them were quite old, and they knew it was probably their last chance to see each other. As the visit came to an end, they embraced, wept, and spoke of their hope to be together someday in heaven.

  Still, they remained in touch. In 1765 Stephen received news that Arosen had died and sent a letter of condolence. In the years that followed, more letters would pass between them. Of course, on her side someone had to translate and write in English for her. Her letters were signed “your faithful sister, Eunice Williams.” This showed how much she felt reconnected with her Massachusetts relatives; with them at least, she was willing to be known by her English name.

  In 1782 Stephen took ill and died just before his ninetieth birthday. But his sister lived on for another three years. By then she was the last survivor among all those captured in the Deerfield raid so long before.

  Eunice’s own death was noted in a book of records kept by the priests and preserved at the church ever since. Translated from French, one page read: “On the 26th of November 1785 we buried Marguerite, mother-in-law of Annasetegen. She was ninety-five years old.” To the priests, she was still known as Marguerite. Annasetegen was the village chief. The record exaggerated her age; actually she was eighty-nine.

  But her story does not end there. In years to come, her grandson, a fur trader and army scout, would sometimes visit his Williams relatives when passing through Massachusetts. Two of her great-grandsons were sent to Deerfield for schooling. Fifty years after her death, a large group of Mohawks went and stayed there a full week. Their purpose, they said, was to “visit the graves of our ancestors.” Descendants of hers live in Kahnawàke today.

  From Eunice, to A’ongote, to Marguerite, to Gannenstenhawi: Her different names are like headlines over her long and extraordinary life. And we who look back from more than two centuries later on, may still wonder at its meaning.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE


  Although it was well-known in its own time, the story of Eunice Williams was gradually forgotten as the centuries passed. I first heard about it, some thirty years ago, from a graduate student who was writing a dissertation on the hundreds of captives taken from early New England. I was fascinated and wanted right away to know more.

  I began research that would last almost a decade and take me to dozens of different archival sites. Deerfield, Longmeadow, and Boston in Massachusetts; Kahnawàke, Montreal, Quebec City, and Ottawa in Canada; and Paris, France, were the most important.

  Gradually, I stitched together the central parts of the story. As with all historical research, there were both triumphs and disappointments. I felt fortunate in how much could be learned about the Mohawks of Kahnawàke, Eunice’s home for more than eighty years. (The correct pronunciation is Gah-na-WAH-gee, with the accent on the third syllable.) But I was disappointed that many personal details of her life remained out of view. Once she was absorbed into the Mohawk community, she was destined to live as an ordinary woman. And like most ordinary women of that period—whether English, French, or Indian—her individual doings went largely unrecorded.

  Eventually I reached the point of writing a book. Published in 1994, The Unredeemed Captive: A Family Story from Early America was aimed squarely at adult readers. When some of those suggested I write a children’s version, I was intrigued. The idea stayed with me until, finally, I decided to act upon it.

  This book is the result. It differs from the previous one in important ways. First, it concentrates on Eunice’s childhood and early teenage years, the period when she was born and nurtured in a New England household, captured in the famous Deerfield raid of 1704, and then transplanted into what became her Mohawk family and community. Her adult life is briefly summarized, but not more than that, in the Epilogue. Second, the book offers details of her experience that go beyond the surviving evidence. Since much is known about her surroundings, the events included here could have happened to a girl like Eunice, although in many cases there is no proof that they actually did. For example, we have solid information about John Schuyler’s visit in 1713, but her participation in a winter hunt is based on general information about the Mohawks. Similarly, the beliefs recounted for her benefit by a village elder conform closely with long-standing Mohawk tradition, but the occasion of their recounting is invented.