OUR RHODE ISLAND ROOTS #6: Story from the Seven Wise Men of Aquidneck

(Latham-Dungan/Vaughn-Barker-Winsor)
 UPDATE: PLEASE REFER TO 1/20/18 POST FOR CLARIFICATIONS

During the winter of 1669, seven friends met at seven o’clock on seven consecutive Friday evenings.  Gathered around a warm fire, each man told a tale.  Mr. Jefferay, being the eldest member of this group, held the first meeting at his home and told the first tale: “The Sea Serpent,” which was also recorded in his journal along with the other stories. With the exception of Governor Brenton, all of the men can be found in my family tree.

‘The Seven Wise Men of Aquidneck’ & their Winter, 1669 tales:

Gov. Benedict Arnold, 54 (10^th great uncle) “Goblin Land”

Gov. William Brenton, 59 “Witch of Hammersmith”

Gov. William Coddington, 68 (son Thomas was husband of 9^th great aunt, Priscilla Jefferay) “Secret Meeting”

Mr. Francis Brinley, 34 (brother to Wm. Coddington’s second wife) “Ghostly Revel”

Rev. Dr. John Clarke, 60 (2^nd Baptist Church, Newport; responsible for securing the 1663 Rhode Island Royal Charter) possible 1^st cousin 13x, not yet verified “Wrecked Galleon”

Mr. William Vaughan, 59 (husband of 10^th great grandmother) “White Heron of Bedfordshire”

And Mr. William Jefferay, 78 (10^th great grandfather) “Sea Serpent”

from THE SEVEN TALES found in THE JOURNAL OF WILLIAM JEFFERAY

MR. VAUGHAN'S TALE.

THE WHITE HERON OF BEDFORDSHIRE;

OR, HOW A WHITE FEATHER MAY NOT SHOW A COWARD

This is a tale told unto me by my wife [10^th Great Grandmother FRANCES LATHAM, "The Falconer's Daugher"], she having heard it from her father, the king's faulconer,and thus it runs (the length thereof being his, not mine, so to be excused):

That princely art of hawking, which already

waneth somewhat, and I fear may decline the

more (though none so noble to follow), I have

e'en done my best to maintain, since I knew

what a faulcon was; and my brother Symon

hath writ a book, wherein he sets forth the

uses and curious ways of hawks and hawking.

It grieveth me sore to see any ebb in this

sport, which hath been my labour as well as

joy; but what vexeth me still more, at times

when I will let my mind dwell on it, is how I

could never rightly come at that great white

heron of Bedford, and it is of this I must tell.

What I relate befell me in my youth, when,

though well trained in faulconry, I had not

yet any advancement under prince or king,

not having come to that service yet. Still

had I much skill, if report spake true, and

hawked it with some other gentlemen of our

county; flying oft faulcons also for my own

behoof. It was when upon this last doing,

one day, that I first saw the white heron. He

was just rising from a marsh, and I almost

upon him, a young hawk with me, and this I

let fly at him, right quick. My faulcon, though

young, as I have said, was both strong and

fleet, the best trained of any I had, save one,

older; yet so well did the heron fly, and so

play my bird, that he had soon left me won-

dering at his fleetness, and how he had es-

caped.

I saw him not again for a month's space,

though seeking; and this time on the other

edge of the same marsh, and thought my

hawk (that best and older one) would now

have had the quarry; but dark coming on fa-

voured his again escape. I now hunted him

morning, noon, and night, and was once so

close that I could see how great his wings

did spread, the wonderful whiteness of his

plumage (surpassing any swan's that ever

was), and the bright sparkle of his eye, which

last had (it so seemed to me) a wicked look,

as of some evil to be worked.

I went through the marsh a hundred times,

and at last by steps, every part of it, to find

his nest, or breeding place, but none did find,

nor any mate to him; and when upon a day I

had finished for very weariness, would I then

see him rise or settle in the midst of that

great marsh.

I had at last near cursed him, and per-

haps did so (for I was young and something

violent then, and some say headstrong still),

which may have caused my near undoing

presently. Of this I will now relate; for still

I followed him, though warned by ancient

people that he was a wraith, and of ill he

might do me, the peril double since the curs-

ing that I almost did allow to. Now the way

of my near undoing, and thus not able to tell

this tale, was as follows:

I had promised, in a kind of jest, to a young

maid (my once schoolmate, but now growing

into some prettiness, as I did begin to think),

that I would give her one of the plumes of this

bird, when I had got him. So, whenever her

I did meet, she would put on a pretty anxiety,

though rather saucy under it, and say, "Now

I know thou hast my plume, and I can write

my letter;” for she had a letter, she said,

which she would only write by a pen fash-

ioned of that plume. When I said I had it

not, she would be much disappointed, or seem

to, and sometimes flout me a little, as — she

did not believe I did truly mean it for her,

and such like; which ever made me more re-

solved she should have it, for spite of her

words, if nothing else.

On the day of which I speak, the white

heron had drawn me on, in chase of him,

through the marsh, until, just at dusk (his

favourite time for flying), I was close upon a

black and most noisome quagmire, and he

so near that, in reaching, I almost touched

him; but, missing him, made no such miss of

the mire, wherein I was near smothered, and

had not a branch held true, that grew o'er the

side of it, had surely then lost my life.

I had hoped to escape any passing on my

way home; but, just at the stile, whom should

I come fairly upon but that maid I spoke of,

who, startled at first, fell back, and then to

laughing as though she might never stop.

"Faith," said she, "thou must not look so

grave, but let me laugh a space!" and then,

when she had her breath, she said, most pert-

ly, as it seemed to me: "Now, surely it hath

been a black heron thou huntest, for, certes,

thou art arrayed in his plumage!"

And, indeed, I was as black from the mire

as might have been any sweep from his soot.

Now I was something nettled at this jeer-

ing; and when she made pretence of looking

sadly, and said, "Alas for my white feather,

and my poor letter waiting!” I made short

answer — "Thou hast come near losing me, as

well as thy white feather; not that thou car-

est for my loss."

It was a churlish speech; and, turning then,

and seeing her so white and piteous looking

for the danger I had been in, I repented me

sore for what I had said.

She only answered, "I am most sorry for

thy danger, and —" (here she halted for a mo-

ment) "I surely would not lose thee."

Now did my heart leap within me, to think

it possible her heart could yet be mine; for I

had been much drawn to her in spite of her

sometimes jeering me (albeit so prettily done

that it liked me to have her).

So I quickly said: "If thou canst love one

so clumsy of speech as I have been, I pray

thee take me forever; for, trust me, I do love

thee with my whole heart."

"And I, thee," she said (so soft and low

that I did hold my breath), "and have known

thy love lately, hoping to tell thee of mine if

thou would but give me the chance."

Now this owning of her love (with the

sweet roguishness at the end of it, which I

did well deserve) did almost distract me, as

how to get her to my heart in these black-

ened clothes of mine; but love hath ever

found a way, and so did we.

Then fell I into a flood of questionings of

her; as to how it could be possible she loved

me? when first? would she always do so?

and was she not afraid to spoil me by so

much as she was giving? and, lastly, as to

who was to have that letter when I got her

the plume? When I gave her fair chance to

answer, she said:

"If I can remember all, I will answer thee

truly; and, first, as to the being possible, I

could not help it, fashioned as thou art

(though I mean not of thy present outward

garb of black!); and the beginning of it, I

scarce can remember; but the ending, never,

dearest. As to my fear of spoiling thee by

such bounty of it, indeed hath it been said

truly, 'love's bounty ne'er needed salt to keep

any worth the saving;' but, as to that plume

and letter, I had a little secret; which, indeed,

I must now tell, having none from thee hence-

forth."

Yet did she hesitate a little, and then said:

"If thou dids't gain the plume, I thought

to fashion of it a pen, and write therewith a

message to thee of my love, and place it in a

locket; which, heart-shaped, I wear e'en now

next mine, but should be thine if thou dids't

claim me; yet if I died unclaimed, haply thou

should then know how much I loved thee."

This, with a little tremble as she spoke the

last of it, did so affection me the more, if that

were possible, that I would e'en then have

started anew for the plume, if I could but

seize that without the bird, indeed; though

much I wished the whole. But here she

stayed me:

" Thou art grown so dear to me," she said,

"if dearer can be, and I do now so fear the

danger of thy quest, that I would fain have

thee forego it, and write my message with

another pen; though it needeth now no pen

to tell my love. Besides," she saith, " I am

grown to quite a woman to know my mind so

well of man's love, and have a claim on thee

to spare thyself danger for me."

This, in so pretty a way of speech, and a

straightening so prettily to show how child-

hood was left behind (though only then sev-

enteen), that I did at first think to give up

my mad race. Yet, did I wish the plume for

her so, that I said, “Once more let me try,

and, failing, I will give up, indeed, forever;

and, yet, thou knowest not how hard that

may be."

" I think I do know something of it," she

said, " and, also, of how sweet to men to pre-

vail over us, as showing them their power

on our poor hearts; but I know my power,

too, and have sweet content thereof; for I may

but say it and thou wilt stay thy chase. Go,

however, this once; and do keep thyself safe,

dearest; and so in God's hands I trust thee."

It was so like a prayer for me that I be-

lieved it would cure my curse upon the bird;

and, indeed, I was near ready to bless that

heron as a means of my knowing her love.

So once again I started forth, the next day,

and, following carefully, as not to make my

one trial a failure, at eve did come to the edge

of that great cliff that o'erhangs the south

edge of the marsh; and, strange to tell, did

start my quarry at that very edge.

Now was I so wild that my beloved should

have her plume, that, forgetting all else, I

leaped fair at him as he rose to clear me, and

did indeed seize one feather of him, which,

rest sure I did clutch as a drowning man a

straw.

He gave a most horrid shriek, as of a spirit

lost, and I went hurling through the air to

certain death, as seemed, and would have

been but for some growth out of trees below

me on that side the cliff, which, yielding and

breaking, let me through to the ground, well

bruised and scratched; and there I lay some

time, to gather my senses, thank God for my

escape, and wonder how much I durst tell my

love; when lo! she, turning the path, stood

before me.

Putting a good face on, I said, "here is thy

plume, my own, and now for the letter, so

soon as pen is fashioned."

She did look at me for but one moment,

ere she knew the danger I had been in.

"What has it cost thee," she said, trembling

and affrighted, as I drew her to me.

"If I, too, must have no secrets, then," said

I, "it did cost but a short flight in the air;

for, taking one plume from out that bird at

the top of this cliff, it did so lightly bear me,

that, save some holes through these branches,

and a few in my apparel, that thou shalt mend

by my fireside, when thou art my wife (in a

scant week's time), I am, indeed, safe and

sound throughout."

Now did she first pale and clutch me to her

heart, and then so inveigh at that bird, that,

albeit, knowing her spirit (though always so

tender to me), I could not but marvel.

" Wicked bird! ' said she, "who wouldst

have my own beloved's life, and I could gain

thee, I would tear thy black heart from out

thy white body, with these little hands of

mine."

And, truth to tell, I think she would, for so

she e'en looked. Now, after more tenderness

to me, and after much assuring that I had no

hurt, did she bid me tell her more closely

about the whole befalling; and then we both

did wonder, looking at that height, from which

I came (near an hundred feet), that even the

branches had 'scaped me. So, with first a

prayer on her lips, which my heart did echo,

of thankfulness to God, for his only help, we

got us home.

- Now, the chase over, for all and forever, I

thought the white heron had given me peace,

as I was ready to do for him. But more be-

fell, for, my love, upon that very evening, or

about dusk, having fashioned a pen of the

plume, was but trying its point on her hand,

ere using it, when it did so scratch into her

flesh, though on light pressing, that the blood

broke forth, and in such quantity that, not

quickly able to staunch it, there seemed dan-

ger that life itself might go with the blood.

Now did she again show that spirit of which

I spake; for, dipping her pen in the blood,

she wrote quickly, on the vellum — "Dearest,

to my heart's blood I love thee; keep this

near thine." Then, placing in the locket, and

that next her heart, she laid down her pen;

for, as she told me, she doubted something if

she should live, and more whether that bird

would not try some other art. It was well

she was quick, for no sooner had she safely

hid her locket (or mine), than the plume, as

if alive, did whirl from the table, and through

the open window, as from a gust behind

(though no door open); and anon flew by that

great white heron, with a shriek as of delight

in having back his own.

Then did the blood staunch, also, and never

since have I seen that bird, but once; for,

going now to the court, with my wife, my at-

tendance being required there, I was absent

much from Bedfordshire, and am now but

late returned, to pass my last days at home.

Whether this bird be flesh or wraith, I know

not, nor surely whether he liveth; but yester-

night I saw him pass, or thought so, though

these old eyes of mine see not as quickly,

mayhap, as of yore (howbeit clearer still than

some who till fields, or traffic in goods). I fol-

low him no more, and, giving him peace, only

wish the same of him, and that he take not

from me my locket, which, since it left my

wife's heart, has ever been next to mine.

There following then some discussion, on

the finishing of this tale, as to whether it was

indeed a spirit, or only some remarkable mis-

chancing with a wily old heron, Mrs. Vaughan

was called in, as to her father's final belief on

it. She said her father never missed any

other quarry to compare with that, and that

his last conclusion was that the heron, first

mortal, his cursing of it made a spirit ending,

to punish his folly.

To this there was some agreement, and

some dissent; and so we went our ways.

~~

LEWIS LATHAM Hon. Master Falconer (1584 - 1655)
11th great-grandfather

FRANCES (Dungan Clarke Vaughn) LATHAM 1637 imm. (1608 - 1677)
daughter of Lewis Latham Hon. Master Falconer

BARBARA DUNGAN 1637 immigrant  m. JAMES BARKER II 1634 immigrant
daughter of Frances (Clarke Vaughn) Latham 1637

James Barker III (1648 - 1722)
son of Barbara Dungan 1637

Mary Barker (1678 - 1718)
daughter of James Barker III

Joshua Winsor II. Deacon  (1709 - 1796)
son of Mary Barker

Charles M Winsor (1736 - 1775)
son of Joshua Winsor II. Deacon)

Jesse Winsor (1762 - 1817)
son of Charles M Winsor

Mortimer D. Winsor (1807 - 1876)
son of Jesse Winsor

Lydia Secord Winsor (1838 - 1885)
daughter of Mortimer D. Winsor

Mae Louise Dort, my great grandmother (1873 - 1964)
daughter of Lydia Secord Winsor