Alarm in Judd's Meadow
They were early risers at Mr. Judd's. The
habits of industry in which the family were
trained, from the oldest to the youngest, left
no room for indolence or slothful indulgence. Besides,
there were many things to be done in the morning.
The cattle and horses had to be fed, the calves and
young lambs to be cared for, and the numerous domestic
dependents of the farm and kitchen to receive
each its proper attention. Ample supplies of wood
must be furnished and brought in for the fires, whose
demands when stoves and furnaces were unknown,
were large and unceasing. And all this must be done
while breakfast was preparing, so that, after this and
the morning worship, they might be ready to go forth
to the employments of the day. Nothing had ever
been heard then of what we are now so much talked of
as "the rights of labor." A day's work was no mere
eight hours, but the day of a whole day, from dawn
till dark, or as late as men could see to work. Except
in the long days of summer, breakfast and "chores"
must all be completed before sunrise.
It was, then, with a slight tone of displeasure
that Mr. Judd repeated his call to Chauncey, on that
Wednesday morning, that it was time to get up. Like
the other boys, he had his share of the morning work
to do, and he ought to be about it. No response,
however, was made to the call, and the father at last,
with some misgivings of heart at the unusual occurrence,
ascended the attic stairs to inquire the cause of
the delay. It was with no small surprise that he
found Chauncey's bed not only empty, but showing
clearly that it had not been occupied during the night.
Inquiries were at once made of the other children if
any of them knew where their brother was, but the
answer from them all was in the negative. The absence
was unusual and unaccountable, for the young
man had always been exemplary in his habits, and
was the last one that would be expected to stay away
from his home over night without letting his parents
know of it beforehand. Still there was nothing very
alarming in it. Several families of relatives were living
near by, and it was suggested that he might have
been one of these, and for some unexplained reason
have been detained till morning. So the family sat
down to breakfast with the impression that he could
not be far away, and the expectation that he would
very soon make his appearance.
But the breakfast was dispatched, the devotions
ended, and the absentee did not return. The question
at length grew to be a serious one, what had become
of Chauncey? A young man could not so easily go
from his home and come again then as now. No railway
train waited to carry him a hundred miles and return
before night. Maternal solicitude, ever ready to
take alarm, began to apprehend some evil. It was
the time of war, and the country was full of stragglers,
pretending to be going to or coming from the
army, begging cider and sleeping in barns. The
tories were all the while plotting mischief, and nobody
could tell what tricks they would be engaged in next.
Something certainly had happened to the lad to detain
him like this. Messengers were sent to the neighbors
to inquire who had seen him last, and what was
known of his whereabouts the night before.
Mr. Judd's nearest neighbor was his brother-in-law,
Mr. Reuben Williams, whose wife was a daughter of
Captain Gideon Hotchkiss, before spoken of as one of
the leading men in the town. Captain Hotchkiss had
been a lieutenant in the company from Waterbury
which served in the French war in 1757, and was now
among the foremost in denouncing and contending
against the aggressions of the British ministry. He
had represented the town in the General Court for several
years, was one of the committee appointed in 1774
to enforce the resolutions of non-intercourse with the
mother country, and was active in the work of raising
and equipping men to serve in the patriot army. After
the organization of the church in Salem parish, he
was chosen one of the first deacons, and at a later date
was a founder and chief supporter of the church in the
parish of Columbia, now Prospect, within whose limits
he resided. He was no less conspicuous for his large
family than for his office and honors, having had, by
his two wives, no less than ninexsteen children, – twelve
sons and seven daughters, – of whom seventeen lived
to be married. It is recorded that, at his death in
1807, his descendants already amounted to one hundred
and five grandchildren, one hundred and fifty-five
great-grandchildren, and four of the fifth generation.
Two of these seven daughters were Mabel and
Phebe Hotchkiss, then young girls of sixteen and fifteen
respectively. These were often at the house of
their elder sister, Mrs. Williams, who had a son, Reuben
Williams, Jr., of nearly the same age. These,
with the members of the Judd family, constituted a
large circle of young people, who from their nearness
of age and relationship, were united by ties of more
than ordinary attachment.
It was known, of course, that Chauncey had been
present at the quilting party the previous evening;
and on sending to Mr. Williams', it was ascertained
that at the close of it had had gone home with Ditha
Webb. Messengers hastened to Mr. Webb's, but
Ditha could give them no information. Chauncey
had been there, she acknowledged, and at her invitation
had come into the house, but after a little while
he left to return home. She could not tell at what
time it was, but thought it was not very late.
The mystery deepened. The road between Webb's
and Judd's was retraced, and the footpath through the
wood explored. Here his tracks were visible in the
snow, but they disappeared when the road was
reached, being obliterated by the wind, and the passage
of other persons and teams. Inquiries were made
at all of the neighboring dwellings, but he had not been
at any of these. Suspense grew into alarm; the mystery
became a secret of ominous portent. Had he
been waylaid and murdered? But for what cause,
and what had they done with the body? Had he
been carried off? But by whom and whither?
There is no more appalling cry that can ring
through the homes of a village than that of a child
lost. That one of the members of the little community
should suddenly disappear, no one knowing how or
why, no one knowing his possible fate, every one left
to form a thousand conjectures, and conjure up innumerable
forms of evil, has in it something to assail the
stoutest heart. Sudden calamity, known and certain,
often overwhelms, but the element of suspense, the
hardest to bear of all, is then withheld. When such
a cry is heard, therefore, everybody is aroused. The
alarm spreads from house to house, till, in an incredibly
short time, it has reached the most remote habitation.
Every one feels called to hasten to the search
for the missing one, or to manifest his sympathies
with the bereaved family. And when the lost one is
found, there is joy over his return more than over all
those who "went not astray."
Such was the excitement awakened throughout
Judd's Meadow by the news that Chauncey was missing,
and, as all appearances indicated, that he had in
some way been foully dealt with. Inquiries and suggestions
innumerable were made, and parties set off in
various directions in the hope of finding some trace of
him.
The day wore on, and it was already far in the
afternoon when a half dozen horsemen were seen
rapidly galloping, from the direction of the bridge,
toward Mr. Judd's house. Their errand was quickly
made known. A great robbery had been committed
in Bethany, and the perpetrators of it, ascertained to
be tories, had, it was believed, fled to Gunntown or its
vicinity. Copies of the advertisement describing the
robbers and offering a large reward for their apprehension,
were exhibited. This intelligence at once
threw light upon the question of what had become of
young Judd. He had doubtless fallen into the hands
of the plundering tories. He had not gone with them
willingly; no one would believe that. He had been
at Mr. Webb's till late in the night; he had started to
go home, they had met him on the road, and forced
him to go with him to prevent being exposed by
him. The situation of affairs was evident to all.
Equally evident was the course to be taken in pursuit.
The presence of the young Woosters in the
party, with Scott, Cady, etc., indicated the places to
which they had undoubtedly gone. The road by Mr.
Webb's, in which Chauncey probably met them, led
directly to Gunntown. Doubtless they were concealed
at the houses of some of their tory relatives or friends,
where immediate search, before they had time to get
away, would probably discover them.
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