lose all desire to aid the band of fighters, and away he sailed,
leaving the men to shift for themselves. The Indians, seeing the boat
go away, fired thicker and faster than ever, so that a few of the
Puritans, who were good runners, began to talk of escaping by flight.
But the courageous Captain Church exhorted them to keep up a bold
front, to save their ammunition until they saw the head of an enemy,
and to be of good cheer, because he was certain that help would soon be
at hand. Thus he kept up the spirits of his followers until, just at
nightfall, a sloop was seen approaching.
Cheer after cheer came from the throats of the tired men, as a canoe
touched upon the bank, and, two at a time, they were paddled off to
the ship. Church was the last to come off, for he had left his cutlass
near an old well in front of the Indians, and he refused to go until he
had found it. As he climbed aboard the sloop, he took one parting shot
at the savages with his last bit of powder, which was only sufficient
to send the bullet half way to the shore. Two balls from King Philip's
men struck the canoe as he went aboard, one grazed the hair of his
head, and another partly penetrated a stout, leather girdle right in
the middle of his breast, which was fortunately of sufficient thickness
to turn the leaden missile aside. Thus ended the first actual skirmish
of the war.
Philip was now safe in the swamp, so the pursuit of his wary men was
left to some Massachusetts troops who were back from the Narragansett
County, where they had gone to secure the friendship of the
Narragansett warriors. Church's men--the soldiers from Plymouth--were
hurriedly dispatched to the town of Dartmouth, where the savages had
burned most of the houses, had stolen cattle, sheep, and horses,
and had murdered a number of the inhabitants. Here some two hundred
Wampanoags came in and gave themselves up to the troops, upon the
strength of promises made by the Captain of the garrison that they
would receive kind treatment and would not be harmed. But, in spite of
this, the town council voted that, inasmuch as several of these savages
had been actors in the late uprising against the whites, and, as the
rest had been compliers in the insurrection, that they should be sold
into slavery for the good of the country. The soldiers loudly protested
against this decision, but sold they were, and shipped to Cadiz,
Spain, under one Captain Sprague, who treated them in a rough and
brutal manner. Is it any wonder that the rest of the Indians continued
the war and refused to end it, to give any quarter to the whites, or to
sign any truce, until their last resource had been exhausted?
Meanwhile the Massachusetts forces had surrounded the Pocasset cedar
swamp where Philip hid with Wetamoo (his dead brother's wife) and her
men, who had fastened bushes about themselves, so that they could
steal about undetected among the leaves and shoot down their pursuers.
Some of the Puritan troops pushed into the undergrowth in a courageous
attempt to be the first to capture the wily chief, but they were
ambuscaded, shot at by an unseen enemy, and eight were killed. This
proved that discretion was the better part of valor, and so the troops
decided to starve out King Philip, as the point of land on which the
swamp lay was surrounded upon all sides but one by water. So sure,
indeed, were the whites of effecting the capture of all the Indians
that a part of the troops returned to Boston, leaving but one hundred
men behind them to finish the work and end the war with one blow. But
they little gauged the ability of King Philip as a campaigner, for he
had rather different ideas of fighting than his opponents. Quietly
getting together enough drift wood to make a stout raft, he launched
it upon the shore (not watched by the Puritans), paddled across to
the other side of the river, and departed for the country of the
friendly Nipmucks, leaving his women and sick to be captured by the
Massachusetts troops.
At daybreak, he and his men were seen by various farmers as they passed
through the open country which lay between them and the land of the
Nipmucks. At Rehoboth, the settlers, reinforced by some fifty Mohegan
warriors, attacked him without serious loss to the whites, although
thirty of King Philip's men were soon weltering in their own blood. The
Wampanoag Chief was fighting for his life, and he fought well, urging
on his hardy braves by word and gesture, and animating them to deeds
of daring by exposing himself freely upon the firing line. The whites
and friendly Indians were unable to capture his devoted band and soon
they were lost in the thick forest, into the gloomy depths of which the
attackers dared not follow.
In a short time Philip was among the friendly Nipmucks, uncaught,
unawed by the show of English force, and bent upon forcing the fighting
to the extent of his ability. About a fortnight before his escape from
Pocasset swamp, as the good minister in the First Parish Church in
Boston was delivering his sermon, a courier rushed into the building,
with the startling information that the little town of Mendon had been
attacked, and that about six of the inhabitants had been slain. The
congregation left the place of worship in the greatest alarm, for they
now saw that all the Indians in Massachusetts had risen against them,
and that, if a treaty of peace were not soon effected, a large army
would have to be sent against the savages. So a Captain Hutchinson,
escorted by a Captain Wheeler, with twenty horsemen, was sent towards
the Indian settlement, with directions to patch up a peace. The
messenger, travelling in advance, requested the Indians to meet the
English at a certain spot, and this the Indians agreed to do, but when
Hutchinson and his men arrived there, not a red warrior was to be seen.
The good Hutchinson was well known in these parts, as he had a large
farm near by, where he employed many of the Indians in the fields,
and so, hardly thinking that they could be attacked, the men went
carelessly through the forest, whistling, laughing and singing songs of
gayety and mirth. But suddenly a shot sounded from the gloomy depths
of the wood; another and another followed; while blood-curdling yells
showed that the Indians were near by, and had ambuscaded the unthinking
white troops. They were thrown into terrible confusion. After a short
stand they retreated as fast as possible, taking aim at the unseen
enemy from the tree stumps and fallen timber, but, as the little band
emerged from the shadow of the trees, eight of their number fell dead
and a dozen were wounded. Wheeler was shot clean through the body
and his horse was killed underneath him, while brave Hutchinson was
so badly injured that he died shortly afterwards. Thus, defeated and
dismayed, the troops retreated to Brookfield, under the guidance of
two friendly Praying Indians, who knew every inch of the country, and,
under their direction, they took a bypath which led them in the rear
of a large force of redskins who had closed in on their rear, during
the skirmish in the forest, thus hoping to annihilate them. When the
disorganized band reached the town (a settlement of twenty houses) they
took refuge in the Inn, the strongest house in the place and there
they were immediately joined by all the inhabitants.
Two messengers were now dispatched on horseback to hasten to the
nearest settlements for aid, but, as they reached the edge of the
town clearing, shots rang out from the underbrush, yells of defiance
told them that the Nipmucks were advancing, and so they returned, at
full speed, to join their friends. That evening, one of these was
peering out of a garret window, when a bullet from the watchful enemy
struck him in the forehead and caused instant death, thus warning the
defenders of the Inn that an attempt to escape would be fruitless,
and that they must now fight to the last ditch. There were twenty-six
fighting Puritans in the fortified dwelling, the women and children
were in one room; the wounded in another. Outside, the Indians kept up
a continual yelling and shouting as they poured volley after volley
of shot, which came against the walls like hail. They set fire to the
deserted dwellings of the town and the crackling flames and black
smoke warned the inhabitants of Brookfield that their homes would be
no longer standing at the end of this unequal battle. The fate that
was to befall them was evident, for one rash man, venturing out of
the Inn to run to his father's house not far away, was caught by the
cruel redskins, his head was cut off and, after kicking it about like
a football, it was placed upon a pole and set up in full view of the
surrounded Englishmen, with fierce yells and cheers of defiance from
the red demons who had killed him.
In the night the savages roared like so many bulls, sang weird songs
of war, and fired against the walls of the Inn until three o'clock in
the morning, when they attempted to set fire to the house by means of
hay and other combustibles which they brought to one corner and touched
off with a firebrand. But the brave white men dashed out into the
open under a murderous fire from the Indians, which wounded only two,
and with great exertion put out the blaze before the Inn itself had
ignited. Meanwhile, one Ephraim Curtis, a swiftfooted youth, crawled
by the savages in the early gray of the morning, and, eluding the
vigilance of the sentinels, made all haste for Marlborough, the nearest
settlement. His comrades grimly sat down to wait for what Providence
should bring them, determined that they would sell their lives dear,
and, if they were to die, it would not be until after they had sent
many a redskin to the next world before them.
Among these Nipmucks were several renegade Praying Indians, and, as
the shot continued to pour in upon the garrison, next morning, they
collected in great numbers near the church--only a gunshot away--and
scoffed, blasphemed and joined in a hideous attempt to sing a mocking
hymn. The garrison, with religious anger, fired upon this ribald crew
with vigor and soon saw them retreating in confusion, carrying several
dead and wounded with them. All during the afternoon fresh hordes of
warriors came in to join the foe, while the yelling braves redoubled
their efforts to burn the Inn. Arrows, tipped with burning rags dipped
in brimstone, were shot upon the roof, while the men within cut away
the shingles under them and put out the blaze. The yelling braves piled
hay and flax against the walls, for a second time, which they set on
fire, as they crowded around the door in order to shoot down anyone who
came out or force an entrance should anyone open it. A ball of fire
was shot into the garret which fell in a great mass of tow, but was
fortunately extinguished immediately by one of the soldiers, and in
these fearful straits the garrison broke down the house wall and put
out the flames from the inside.
"Merciful Providence, what shall we do?" shouted a stout Puritan at
this moment. "Our water has given out!"
"I will get more," cried one Thomas Wilson, running into the yard,
but he was shot in the upper jaw and in the neck so painfully that he
cried out in his anguish; whereupon the Indians set up a great shout
of triumph, thinking they had killed him. Fortunately his wound was
not serious and he recovered in a short time; but he got no water, and
thus the beleagured men and women were in desperate straits indeed.
The Indians had barricaded the end of the meetinghouse and the barn
belonging to the garrison, with boards and hay, and so, protected from
the bullets of the settlers, they fought at close quarters and kept up
an incessant fire. But, seeing that their only hope for success was in
burning the house, they now brought up a cart which was made from a
barrel and piled with hemp, flax, hay and other inflammable materials,
and set it on fire, as they rolled it towards the mansion. Nothing, it
seemed, could now save the Colonists, for the poles on the cart were
of such a length that the whites could not hit the Indians who pushed
it. At this awful moment, Heaven came to the aid of the courageous
English. A heavy thunder shower suddenly fell, and, as the burning
cart was extinguished by the raindrops, the Indians set up a wail of
disappointment, as they heard the cheers from the interior of the Inn.
Two days and a night had now elapsed since the messenger to the
settlements had passed through the lines of hostile Indians, and,
whether he had reached the friends of the settlers or not, was unknown
to the now worn-out defenders of the last house in Brookfield. They
gloomily fired at the savages as they cautiously showed themselves,
and, as the darkness of another night began to fall, you can well
imagine their feelings of excitement, when, above the howlings of
the Nipmucks, was heard the tramp of a column of horse. The Indians
began to withdraw--they suddenly disappeared altogether--and, to
the joy of all, a gray-haired Puritan at the head of some forty-six
stout Massachusetts yeomen rode into the streets of the town and
rescued the half-starved garrison. Cheer after cheer rent the air, as
the danger was known to be past. By the lurid light of some burning
barns, the Nipmucks retreated into the blackness, firing desultory
and random shots at the reinforcements as they did so. The garrison
was saved. Women sobbed aloud; strong men wept like babies; and tears
of cheerfulness were intermingled with those of sorrow for the brave
fellows who had fallen in the fray. Brookfield was soon abandoned by
all, and the cattle of the once prosperous settlers grazed among the
ruined walls and charred timbers of the homes of their masters. King
Philip's men had well begun their awful work upon the people of New
England.
And this dread destruction continued, for the settlers were few, their
homes were without stockades, and they were thoroughly unprepared for
making a decent resistance against the overwhelming numbers of the
Indians. The Nipmucks, with King Philip as director of affairs, had
moved westward towards the town of Hadley, where was a large Indian
encampment of supposedly friendly red men. "We will go out and fight
Philip," they told the English. "We are your friends, not his." But the
friendly Mohegan warriors gathered about the Puritan leaders. "Do not
believe them," said they, "for they will give the enemy warning, when
on the warpath, by shouting. Do not believe them." So, it was ordered
that these warriors should come to the English troops and give up their
arms, in token of their friendship. But the Indians left their village
in a body (it was a group of wigwams with a stockade about it) and
fled. The English pursued, next day, and overtook them in a swamp ten
miles distant, where they attacked with vigor, firing from behind trees
and boulders in true frontier fashion. The fight was sharp and bloody.
It lasted for three hours, and in the end, the savages made good their
retreat, leaving twenty-six warriors upon the field, while nine of
the Englishmen died in the arms of their comrades, who were unable to
capture a single red man.
Not far off was the little settlement of Deerfield, with about
one hundred and twenty-six sturdy settlers living there. Three of
the houses had palisades about them, but the rest were thoroughly
unprotected. Philip's emissary had stirred up all the Indians
hereabouts, and men went to meeting with their arms over their
shoulders; ammunition was stored in the meetinghouse and each man
furnished himself with at least five charges of powder and shot. In
spite of this, the Indians found them thoroughly unprepared, when, a
week later, they fell upon the little settlement, and, although the
settlers rallied together in the centre of the village, the redskins
soon set fire to all the houses and barns beyond range of the white
men's trusty flintlocks. Not daring to leave the protection of their
palisades, they saw the labor of long years of patient toil go up in
smoke, while their sheep, oxen, and cows were driven off by their
enemies. A few days later, Squakeog, a town fifteen miles distant, met
the same fate, while some nine or ten settlers, who did not reach the
garrison house soon enough, were easily slain by the crafty Indian
braves. The red hand of war lay heavy upon the Massachusetts frontier.
It was now September, and the soft haze of Indian summer drowsily hung
over the once peaceful hills and valleys of Massachusetts, making it
so strange to believe in war, that even the followers of King Philip
found it impossible to fight. But the stern commands of the last of
the Wampanoags was for more slaughter, and, a month after the burning
of Brookfield--when most of the garrison was absent from Hadley--the
savages fell upon it with sudden and unexpected fury. It was fast-day,
and the people were in the meetinghouse, when a wild warwhoop sounded
from the forest, the loud report of a musket followed, and, as the
startled congregation rushed into the street, a band of howling red
men poured into the village with yells of savage hatred and defiance.
Seizing their ever-present flintlocks, the men of Hadley backed away
to the garrison house, forming a screen for the women and children
behind them, but it was impossible to reach it, as they were cut off by
the swarms of Indians. They retreated to another building (incapable
of being defended from the inside) and here held off the exultant
braves. It was a desperate situation, for should they go down before
the onslaught, no quarter would be given to their loved ones and the
Puritans knew that they must win in order to keep all that was dearest
to them in life. Their hands trembled as they fired at the whooping
warriors, now crouching behind fence posts and buildings, and pouring
a steady fire into the brave defenders of Hadley, who, unnerved by the
sight of their helpless families, fought grimly and desperately as the
savages pressed ever nearer in front. The Puritans wavered; their line
fell back and the fate of Hadley hung upon the trembling balance of a
moment.
Suddenly, a loud cry sounded from the interior of the house, and an
aged man of soldierly bearing and commanding presence, rushed into the
open with sword in hand. "On, Englishmen, on!" he shouted, "back with
this yelling vermin! Back! Drive them into the forest!"
There was a quick response from the stout Puritans, who were not
lacking in courage, but who needed leadership. They rose to their feet.
They rushed forward upon the yelling foe. In the place of despair,
now energy and hope stirred their hearts, and as the calm old man
walked among them with words of cheer, they pressed upon the attackers
with a new vigor. The Indians fell back with dismay, and, as numbers
of their foremost scouts were knocked to the ground--pierced by the
well-directed shots of the English--suddenly they fled into the woods,
pursued by the impetuous defenders of Hadley on the dead run. When the
sound of the retreat had died away, the men gathered together in the
village to thank their aged leader. He was not there. From whence he
had come, no one knew, and none had seen him disappear. The man was a
mystery.
Such is the story of the fierce fighting at Hadley and of the strange
appearance of the ancient knight, whose presence turned the tide of
conflict at a time when victory was most needed. It would be pleasant
to believe that this were some friendly spirit come to aid the
Puritans--some ghostly retainer from the dim ages of the past--but such
cannot be the case. Eventually, it was known that one Colonel Goffe--a
fugitive from England--was concealed in the house of a Mr. Russell
at Hadley, and, as he was an old soldier and a veteran of the war in
England, it was impossible for him to remain quiet when he saw the
doughty villagers getting the worst of the battle with the Indians. It
was unknown to the people that he was among them, for he was a regicide
(or assassin of the King of England) and had he been discovered, it
would have been necessary for some citizen or some magistrate to have
returned him to the mother country. Fortunate, indeed, had it been for
the people of Hadley that a fugitive from justice had been among them.
September was a fatal month for the English. On the same day that
Hadley was attacked, a large force of King Philip's men visited
Deerfield, where they burned several houses and barns, and killed two
men. At Northfield, the blockhouse was besieged, all the dwelling
houses were burned, and a dozen settlers were slaughtered by the
savages, while a Captain Beers, who went to the relief of the town
with thirty soldiers, was ambuscaded by the Indians and killed. Only
ten of his followers escaped. Deerfield was again attacked, and more
houses were burned, while the surrounding country was swept bare of
all settlers, farm utensils, and cattle belonging to the whites. The
frontiersmen clustered together at Deerfield and Hadley, determined
to sell their lives dear, if the worst came to the worst, and eagerly
awaited an opportunity to avenge themselves upon their cruel foe.
When the farmers fled from the vicinity of Deerfield, they left a
quantity of unthreshed grain, and so a company of eighty picked
men--the flower of Essex County--under the command of Captain Lathrop
of Ipswich, was sent from Hadley to complete the threshing and load the
grain on wagons. This they did, and as they were returning through the
forest, the soldiers halted in a grove of trees near a brook, where the
men broke ranks and loitered to and fro in the shade, off their guard,
and with their muskets and armor upon the ground. But alas! the crafty
Indians had been all night upon their trail, waiting for just such
an opportunity, and suddenly seven hundred painted braves, sheltered
by the trees, poured a withering fire of balls and arrows into the
unsuspecting followers of Lathrop. All but seven of the whites were
killed, the rest escaped through the dense forest to bear the sad
tidings to their friends, while the Indians held a riotous scalp dance
over the remains of their victims. Because of this massacre, the brook,
to this day, is called Bloody Brook.
As the savages sang and danced hilariously, a Captain Mosely, who had
heard the firing and had seen the fugitives, hurried to the spot with
several followers. From eleven o'clock in the morning, until dusk, he
held his own against the redskins, when one hundred whites and sixty
friendly Mohegan Indians arrived to assist him. The victorious savages
were driven off with great loss and were pursued for some distance,
while only one white man was killed and eleven were wounded. When
Captain Mosely came up as the followers of King Philip were collecting
spoils and scalps, he took off his wig and stuffed it into his breeches
pocket so that he could be in good fighting trim, and thus use his
rifle with ease. This act was seen by the Indians, and one cried out:
"Englishman got two heads! Me cut off one, he got another and put
it on! Ugh! Ugh! I no like to fight man with two heads." And in
consequence of this, several of the braves made off into the gloom of
the forest, believing that they were leagued against Old Nick.
Philip, himself, was not active in these skirmishes and seems to have
directed the plan of operations from his own wigwam and not to have
taken a very prominent part in the fighting. Although numerous captives
were brought to him, there is not an instance of his having maltreated
a single white person, even while the hard-fisted Puritans were selling
his own people into European slavery, or torturing and hanging them. A
Mrs. Rowlandson was captured and brought to his camp where he not only
invited her to call at his lodge, but, when she did so, bade her sit
down and smoke a peace pipe. When next he met her, he requested her
to make a garment for his child, and gave her a shilling for it. He
afterwards took the trouble to visit her in order to tell her that "in
a fortnight she should be her own mistress." What is still more to his
credit, we read that when a certain James Brown of Swanzey came to his
camp with a letter just before the commencement of hostilities, and the
young warriors were about to kill him, Philip interfered and stopped
these wild braves, saying that his father had told him to show kindness
to Mr. Brown.