The Boy Captives: An Incident of the Indian War of 1695 — Context and Discussion
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Produced by Anthony J. Adam
An Incident of the Indian War of 1695
by John Greenleaf Whittier
THE township of Haverhill, even as late as the close of the seventeenth century, was a frontier settlement, occupying an advanced position in the great wilderness, which, unbroken by the clearing of a white man, extended from the Merrimac River to the French villages on the St. Francois. A tract of twelve miles on the river and three or four northwardly was occupied by scattered settlers, while in the centre of the town a compact village had grown up. In the immediate vicinity there were but few Indians, and these generally peaceful and inoffensive. On the breaking out of the Narragansett War, [1] the inhabitants had erected fortifications, and taken other measures for defence; but, with the possible exception of one man who was found slain in the woods in 1676, none of the inhabitants were molested; and it was not until about the year 1689 that the safety of the settlement was seriously threatened. Three persons were killed in that year. In 1690 six garrisons were established in different parts of the town, with a small company of soldiers attached to each. Two of these houses are still standing. They were built of brick, two stories high, with a single outside door, so small and narrow that but one person could enter at a time; the windows few, and only about two and a half feet long by eighteen inches wide, with thick diamond glass secured with lead, and crossed inside with bars of iron. The basement had but two rooms, and the chamber was entered by a ladder instead of stairs; so that the inmates, if driven thither, could cut off communication with the rooms below. Many private houses were strengthened and fortified. We remember one familiar to our boyhood,--a venerable old building of wood, with brick between the weather-boards and ceiling, with a massive balustrade over the door, constructed of oak timber and plank, with holes through the latter for firing upon assailants. The door opened upon a stone-paved hall, or entry, leading into the huge single room of the basement, which was lighted by two small windows, the ceiling black with the smoke of a century and a half; a huge fireplace, calculated for eight-feet wood, occupying one entire side; while, overhead, suspended from the timbers, or on shelves fastened to them, were household stores, farming utensils, fishing-rods, guns, bunches of herbs gathered perhaps a century ago, strings of dried apples and pumpkins, links of mottled sausages, spare-ribs, and flitches of bacon; the fire-light of an evening dimly revealing the checked woollen coverlet of the bed in one far-off corner, while in another--
"The pewter plates on the dresser Caught and reflected the flame as shields of armies the sunshine." [2]
Tradition has preserved many incidents of life in the garrisons. In times of unusual peril the settlers generally resorted at night to the fortified houses, taking thither their flocks and herds and such household valuables as were most likely to strike the fancy or minister to the comfort or vanity of the heathen marauders. False alarms were frequent. The smoke of a distant fire, the bark of a dog in the deep woods, a stump or bush, taking in the uncertain light of stars and moon the appearance of a man, were sufficient to spread alarm through the entire settlement and to cause the armed men of the garrison to pass whole nights in sleepless watching. It is said that at Haselton's garrison-house the sentinel on duty saw, as he thought, an Indian inside of the paling which surrounded the building, and apparently seeking to gain an entrance. He promptly raised his musket and fired at the intruder, alarming thereby the entire garrison. The women and children left their beds, and the men seized their guns and commenced firing on the suspicious object; but it seemed to bear a charmed life, and remained unharmed. As the morning dawned, however, the mystery was solved by the discovery of a black quilted petticoat hanging on the clothes-line completely riddled with balls.
Whittier opens not with the capture itself but with a detailed inventory of Haverhill's defensive architecture: brick garrison houses with narrow doors, iron-barred windows, and a balustrade pierced for gunfire. This meticulous description of fortified homes—one he recalls from his own boyhood—establishes a setting where safety is engineered into the very walls. Yet the narrative that follows hinges on two boys who, on an ordinary day, step beyond those walls into the wilderness. The tension between prepared strongholds and the sudden, unpredictable violence of the frontier runs through the entire piece.
Fortifications and Vulnerability
Whittier devotes considerable space to the physical details of Haverhill's defenses: the garrison houses with their single narrow doors, the private homes strengthened with brick between weatherboards and ceiling, the oak balustrade with firing holes. These structures are described with the precision of someone who has seen them—'a venerable old building of wood, with brick between the weather-boards and ceiling.' Yet the story's central event, the capture of two boys, occurs not at a garrison but at a vulnerable moment outside. The contrast is deliberate: the town's elaborate preparations cannot protect children who wander into the woods. Whittier's own memory of such a building, 'familiar to our boyhood,' personalizes the gap between defensive planning and lived danger.
Poetic Framing and Moral Weight
Whittier inserts two poetic quotations into the prose. The first, from Longfellow's Evangeline, describes firelight on pewter plates—a domestic image that seems at odds with the violence to come. The second, from Spenser's Faerie Queene, compares a captive's face to 'the great eye of heaven,' casting the boy in an almost allegorical light. These epigraphs do not simply decorate; they elevate the local incident into a moral or spiritual register. The Longfellow lines anchor the story in a remembered home, while the Spenser lines suggest that the captive's ordeal carries a significance beyond the historical record. Whittier uses poetry to signal that this is not merely a report but a meditation on innocence and suffering.
The Wilderness as Measured Space
Whittier maps the frontier with precise distances: 'a tract of twelve miles on the river and three or four northwardly.' The wilderness is not an abstract terror but a known geography—the Merrimac River, the French villages on the St. Francois. When the captured boys are taken north, the narrative follows a route that can be traced. One boy, Isaac, eventually reaches the Saco Fort, a 'huge stone building' with 'flankers, palisades, and moat' flying the British flag. The fort is the opposite of the vulnerable home: a military structure designed for war. Whittier's geography is a map of power—where the English have built, where they have not, and where a boy must travel to find safety.
Whittier closes by acknowledging that such 'simple legends of the past' have lost interest for a generation 'eager as the ancient Athenians for some new thing.' He does not argue for the story's importance; he simply records it before the last witnesses are gone. Readers should attend to the way Whittier weaves personal memory, architectural detail, and poetic allusion into a narrative that is as much about how a community remembers as about what it remembers. The story's power lies not in its action but in its silences—the gaps between the fortified house and the open woods.
The rain slid down the window as I finished The Boy Captives, struck by how a contested landscape leaves marks on those who merely try to live within it. That thought lingered, and later, almost without deciding, I reached for the history of Manassas (Bull Run) National Battlefield Park [1953] — A Closer Reading. Same quiet ache, really—ground remembered, long after the footsteps faded.
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