orders that no one should injure any of the members of the Leonard
family, for these people had been very kind to him and had often
repaired his guns when out of order. Thus the settlement of
Taunton--where the Leonards resided--was almost entirely unmolested
during the war, although in the very path of the struggling armies.
Instances such as this show King Philip to have been a man of warm
impulses, generosity, kindness, and forbearance--characteristics which
some of the Puritan leaders, themselves, were lacking in.
The war had been disastrous for the English, and, stung with the
bitterness of defeat, those in power determined to now use every
effort to cripple the allied tribes under the leadership of Philip.
The Narragansetts were secret allies of the Wampanoag Chief, and, as
they had a large fort in South Kingston, R. I., built upon five or six
acres of dry ground and encircled by a swamp, it was determined to
attack and burn the stronghold. Palisades and a circle of felled trees
surrounded the citadel, and it was defended by numerous warriors armed
with flintlock muskets, which they had either stolen, or bartered, from
the English. Massachusetts furnished five hundred and twenty soldiers
for the army of conquest, Plymouth one hundred and fifty-nine, and
Connecticut three hundred, while one hundred and fifty friendly Mohegan
Indians went along as guides and scouts. This army of over a thousand
men moved against the Narragansetts--under the leadership of stout
Governor Winslow of Plymouth--confident of success, and singing hymns
of victory. It was in December--the snow lay deep upon the ground--but
it did not chill the ardent spirits of the Puritan troops.
At four o'clock in the afternoon the soldiers were in the vicinity of
the fort and ready for the assault. They lined up in preparation for a
rush upon the entrance, which was protected by a high blockhouse and
had, in front of it, a log breastwork about five feet high, but, as
luck would have it, a long log of considerable thickness jutted out
through the palisade, and, with a rush, the Massachusetts men ran over
the frozen swamp, leaped upon the fallen tree trunk and pushed towards
the entrance. A withering fire from the Narragansetts threw them into
confusion, and, in order to save themselves from slaughter, the brave
soldiers cast themselves upon their faces. Many were killed and lay
about in the snow, but, not daunted for an instant by this savage
fire, the white soldiers again leaped to their feet, and, cheered by
the cry, "They run," "They run," stormed over the tree, penetrated the
stockade, and drove the Indians out of their position in the blockhouse.
Many continued to fall, while the Narragansetts, rallying again, began
to press forward. But, at this juncture, the Connecticut troops made
their way into the stockade through a breach in the palisade and took
the warriors in the flank. All the Puritan leaders of this division
fell dead, but the soldiers struggled like demons, and, as the men
of Plymouth scrambled into the opening made by their entrance, the
Narragansetts fell back, foot by foot, while the warriors fought
desperately from the shelter of the bags and baskets of grain in the
wigwams. At this moment fire burst from the tepees and the wind swept
a mighty wave of flame through the fort, while the crackling of the
burning wood and skins was mingled with the shrieks of the women and
children, the yelling of the warriors, and the harsh yells of the
sturdy Puritans.
The Indians were driven from the stockade into the swamp, where from
the shelter of the thick wood, they still kept up a vigorous fire on
the white troops, but, as the gloom of a wild winter's night settled
upon the scene of battle, those Puritan leaders who had survived the
carnage gathered around Captain Winslow in the glare of the blazing
wigwams, while the driving snow turned their figures white against the
flaming background. Their ammunition was nearly exhausted, and, as they
knew that the Narragansetts--after rallying in the morning--might be
upon them, a retreat was decided upon. So the tired and weary troops,
leaving twenty of the dead in the fort to deceive the Indians, and
carrying the wounded upon litters made of muskets and saplings, began
a long and dreary march to the settlements. Many lost their way and
wandered all night amid the storm, while seven of the Captains and
about seventy-five of the soldiers died as a result of this exposure
during the next few days. It had been a bitter contest, and the blow
had not been a decisive one, as Philip--the wary and indefatigable
Indian leader--was still alive.
The little town of Lancaster is in the far interior of Massachusetts,
and this was attacked, next year, in February, by the Wachusett
Indians. One of the Sachems of this tribe had married a sister of
Philip's wife and thus there was a close bond of sympathy between these
warlike people and the followers of the King of the Wampanoags. There
were several garrison houses in the village, and in one--the Rowlandson
house--were gathered about fifty men and women, who, awakened one cold
and cheerless morning by the wild Indian war cry, rushed to the windows
and looked out. The sight which met their eyes was terrifying, for
several houses were in flames, and the Indians, whose dim forms were
almost indistinct in the morning haze, were massacring the inmates with
knives, muskets and tomahawks.
Soon the Rowlandson house itself was attacked, and, as it lay on the
summit of a hill, the Indians crouched along the crest and poured a
continuous fire upon it. For two hours the defenders held their own,
until a cart filled with flax, hemp and hay--seized from the barn--was
wheeled to the side and set on fire. The roof and sides of the garrison
house were soon alight, and men, women and children rushed out in
the vain hope of reaching the next house. It was in vain. They were
all either killed or captured. The Indians carried off the cattle
and survivors of the attack, while, a few days later, the town was
abandoned to its fate.
Deerfield had also been deserted, and the Indians had taken possession
of the untilled cornfields and had planted them afresh; while some
miles beyond, at the falls on the Connecticut River, a large body of
them was camped, in order to catch a supply of fish for King Philip's
armies. A stout Captain Turner was at Hatfield when news was brought
that the savages were near by in force, so, gathering one hundred
mounted men, he made a night ride of twenty miles, and, as the sound of
the approach was deadened by the rapids in the river, the English found
the Indians fast asleep. At daybreak, on May 10th, the troops left
their horses in a ravine and marched a mile or two to the rear of the
savages, who had been so certain of their seclusion that they had not
even posted a guard. Spreading out in a circle, the Puritans suddenly
made a rush into the camp. The surprise was complete, and although many
of the savages took to their canoes, they were washed over the falls
and drowned in the frothing, eddying water. Many hid among the rocks,
but they were seized and put to death by the sword; while scores were
shot as they attempted to cross the river. Over three hundred warriors
were thus destroyed, while the gallant Turner did not lose a single
soldier, and, from this success, had the honor of having the falls
named after him.
Not far off was another party of Indians, and, when they heard the
noise of the fight, they came to the aid of their own blood, and were
soon on Turner's tracks. Sad to relate, a panic seized the white
troops--for a rumor was spread about that King Philip was at hand
with a thousand warriors. A large number of the whites were cut off;
Turner himself was killed; but the main body, with their tongues fairly
hanging from their mouths--like the British troops in the retreat from
Lexington--reached the settlement at Hatfield. The disaster had been a
severe blow to Philip, for it broke up his fishery and many of his best
sachems had been slain. In reprisal, he made an attack upon Hatfield,
but the Indian warriors were so badly whipped that they retreated into
the wilderness to mourn their losses and prepare for the last desperate
stand of the war.
It was now spring of the year 1676, and, realizing that they must
use every effort to put an end to hostilities, the Colonies called
into active service every able-bodied man or boy who could shoulder a
musket. All who could be spared from work upon the farms were sent out
upon expeditions against the various bands of warring savages. Nor were
the whites always successful, for many disasters came to the different
bands of fighting men, as they marched and countermarched through the
dense woodland of the interior of Massachusetts, where the moose still
had its habitation, and the beaver, lynx, and bear were often to be
met with. Thus one Captain Wadsworth was surprised as he went to the
relief of Sudbury, Massachusetts, was entrapped in an ambush, and was
killed, with sixty of his men. Shortly afterwards, a Captain Pierce
with fifty Englishmen and twenty friendly Indians, when but eight miles
from Providence, was surrounded, and, although his men formed in a
circle, back to back, they were practically all killed or captured.
A messenger from the Captain was waiting at the church door, to inform
a Captain Edwards that Pierce needed assistance, as the fierce fight
was going on in the woods, and, had he not delayed in giving his
message, because it was Sunday, and he did not want to disturb the
meeting, there is no doubt that this fight would have had a different
termination. Not long afterwards, things were reversed, and three
hundred mounted men--English and Praying Indians--overtook a body of
nearly the same number of Narragansetts in a swamp in their own country
and completely annihilated them. Their chief was asked if he had
anything to say before they executed him. "Yes," said he, "I shall die
before my heart is soft, or I have said anything unworthy of myself. It
is well. Ugh! Ugh!"
This was the beginning of the end. The tide of success for King Philip
began to ebb, and, under the leadership of that hard, fighting man,
Captain Church (who was more than a match for the Indians in cunning,
as well as courage), those warriors who were still in the field against
the whites were soon driven to the last ditch. Day and night Church
followed the savages into the swamps and forests, so that they were
reduced to live--if they did not actually starve or freeze--upon dead
horses, clams and roots. The loss of chiefs and warriors disheartened
the Indians, and their large expeditions were abandoned; while to
distract pursuit, they split into small parties and fled into the
solitude of the forest. Philip himself retreated to the neighborhood of
his former settlement at Mount Hope, like a fox, who, when the hounds
are hot upon his trail, seeks his burrow. He was set upon on all sides,
and only escaped capture by many a hairbreadth.
The red warrior was now a desolate and desperate man, the last Sachem
of an ancient race, without subjects, without territory, hunted like
a deer, in daily fear of capture, in danger of starving and with no
shelter at night for his head. All of his chief counsellors and best
friends had been killed; his uncle was shot down at his side; his
wife and child (an only son) were captured. Alone, friendless, and
deserted, he hid in the dense forest, awaiting the doom which surely
and relentlessly awaited him. "You have made Philip ready to die; you
have made him as poor and miserable as he used to make the English,
for you have now killed and taken all his relatives," said some Indian
prisoners whom Church captured, as he looked for the Wampanoag Chief in
the swamp.
Philip was hiding near Assowomset Pond, while numerous bodies of
mounted troops and friendly Indians guarded the trails which led to it
and scoured the country in all directions. So hunted and afraid was
he that he fled southward in the hope of reaching the country of the
Narragansetts. Hot in pursuit of the fleeing Sachem, Captain Church
left Plymouth in search of the quarry, beat the woods about Pocasset,
and finally ferried his men across the arm of Narragansett Bay--which
here juts into the land--and camped with them in Rhode Island. The
Captain paid a visit to a friend's house, some eight miles away, when
two horsemen rode up, who called out:
"What will you give for some news of Philip, Captain?"
"I will give a good deal," replied the rough soldier.
"Then we can tell you where he is," said one--a Major Sanford--"for a
Wampanoag has just come to our camp and told us that, as Philip had
killed his brother for giving him advice that displeased him, he had
fled from him, fearing the same fate, and, in revenge, will tell us
where to find him."
"Let me see him at once," cried Church. "We will immediately be upon
King Philip's trail."
So, riding immediately into the camp where the Wampanoag had been
taken, they found him willing to guide them to Philip's hiding place.
The whole English force, marching with great speed, crossed the water
at Bristol Ferry, and soon arrived shortly after midnight at the north
end of a miry swamp near Mount Hope. A small force was sent into the
underbrush at daybreak to beat up Philip's hiding place and drive him
into flight, while soldiers and Indians were placed behind trees, all
around the swamp, so as to stop him if he attempted to get out.
"I have placed my men so that it is scarce possible for Philip to
escape," said Captain Church to a companion, when suddenly a shot
whistled over their heads and the noise of a gun in the direction of
Philip's camp was immediately followed by the sound of a volley.
Some of the soldiers had crept upon their stomachs close to the
sleeping camp, when the Captain in charge saw an Indian looking at him
from behind a stump. He consequently fired at him immediately, and thus
the Indian camp was, in a second, thrown into confusion. The Indian
who had been shot at had been missed. It was Philip, who, seizing his
pouch, gun, and powder horn, plunged immediately into the swamp, clad
only in his trousers and moccasins.
As the King of the Wampanoags dashed down one of the many trails
leading into the undergrowth, he was seen by a soldier and a friendly
Indian from their hiding place behind a tree. The soldier raised his
gun to fire, but the morning mist had dampened his powder and his
musket would not go off. But the Indian fired immediately, sending one
bullet through the heart of King Philip, and another, two inches above
it. The great chief fell upon his face in the mud, while the savage
who had laid him low rushed to Church with the news, and, when the
whole force was assembled and had been informed of Philip's fate, they
greeted the information with loud cheers. The friendly Indians, seizing
the body by the leggins, drew it out of the mud to the highland,
where it was immediately cut up. The head was severed from the body,
carried to Plymouth, set upon a pole and paraded through the streets.
It was then placed in a conspicuous spot, where it remained for nearly
twenty-five years.
The death of the mighty Sachem of the Wampanoags practically ended the
war, although some Indians, in small parties, held out a bit longer
throughout all of New England. Hostilities had lasted for more than a
year, and had been disastrous to the settlers; for thirteen towns had
been destroyed, six hundred buildings had been burned, six hundred men
had been either killed or tomahawked; numberless cows, sheep and horses
had been stolen, and great numbers of the men of New England had been
disabled by wounds. There was hardly a family throughout Massachusetts
and Rhode Island that did not mourn its dead. The power of the Indians
had been forever destroyed, for not only had many families been
entirely obliterated, but hundreds had been driven to the far West, or
had been captured, sent to the West Indies, and sold as slaves.
Philip had fought his fight, and had fallen, as a guardian of his own
honor, a martyr to the soil of his fathers, and of the proud liberty
which was his birthright. Never again was the Indian to possess the
soil of New England and hunt in freedom and ease through its forests,
as of yore. The Anglo-Saxon had conquered, and to the white man and
his civilization the land was to forever belong. Thus the first great
war between the different races ended just as all subsequent conflicts
between the red men and the white were to terminate. The white man was
to be found invincible.
PONTIAC: THE RED NAPOLEON
The war waged by King Philip had put an end to all further hindrance to
the settlement of New England by the whites, and the hostile Indians
had been wellnigh exterminated. But, as the restless settlers pressed
westward, ever westward, to populate the untouched wilderness and
to build hamlets and cultivate farms, it was only natural that the
western Indians would view their advance with the same anger that had
smouldered in the bosom of the chief Sachem of the Wampanoags. The
French, in Canada, were more peaceably disposed towards the savages
than were the English; they treated them with some consideration and
kindness; sent their Jesuit Missionaries among them; and endeavored
to teach them the ways of civilization. As the English pressed onward
they were continually in altercations with the various tribes which lay
in the path of their steady emigration, and they showed them little
consideration, kindness, or toleration.
In 1755 war broke out between the French and English for the possession
of America. Both were rival claimants for the soil of the New World,
and the people of the northern English colonies had learned to regard
their Canadian neighbors--the French--with the bitterest enmity. They
hated them because they were of a different religious faith than their
own, and they hated them because they were friends of the very Indians
who made depredations upon their frontier settlements and slaughtered
the peace-loving white settlers. The Indians were plyed with gifts
and flattered by the French, so that, in the fierce struggle for the
possession of America, the red warriors sided, for the most part, with
those who held dominion over Canada and the Great Lakes. The English
won the war, and thus the wilderness beyond the Allegheny mountains,
over which France had claimed sovereignty, passed into the hands of her
rival, who, with a force of but five or six hundred men, expected to
keep it secure. Little apprehension was felt of an attack from the red
inhabitants of the woods, and, as the French had signed a capitulation,
the English considered themselves safe in the possession of this
new-won territory. But they were far from being safe, and much fighting
was still to be done before peace and tranquility were to come to the
frontier.
The furthermost settlement of the English was at Detroit, between Lake
Erie and Lake St. Clair, and upon the river of the same name. There
were about twenty-five hundred inhabitants in this little community.
Straggling huts were along the river banks, and in the centre was a
fortified town, called the Fort, consisting of about a hundred houses
surrounded by a palisade. A British garrison, consisting partly of
regulars and partly of provincial rangers, was quartered in well-built
barracks inside the town, or Fort. There were about one hundred and
twenty soldiers, forty fur-traders, and a few half-breed scouts who
could not be relied upon in case of a war with the redskins. Several
light pieces of artillery were mounted upon the bastions, while two
small armed schooners--the Beaver and the Gladwyn--lay anchored in the
stream. The garrison was commanded by a splendid English officer, named
Gladwyn, whose courage was that of a lion, and whose fighting qualities
were far superior to most of the British officers who were engaged
in the struggles upon the frontier. A large Indian village of the
Pottawattamies was on the western shore of the river, a little below
the fort; while, nearly opposite, on the eastern side, was a village of
the Wyandots; and on the same side, five miles away, the Ottawas, under
Chief Pontiac, had fixed their abode.
Although the Indians appeared to be on friendly terms with those in
the town, the country had scarcely been transferred to the English--at
the conclusion of the French and Indian war--when smothered murmurs
of discontent began to be heard among all the Indian tribes of the
interior. From the headwaters of the Potomac River to Lake Superior,
and along the winding courses of the Mississippi, a deep-seated hatred
of the English increased with great rapidity. When the French had
held possession of Detroit and the forts upon the frontier, they had
supplied the surrounding Indians with guns, ammunition and clothing,
but the English would give them nothing. The French had been kind to
the savages when they visited their forts, but the English received
them with cold looks and harsh words, when, as was their custom, they
would lounge about the fort and lazily stretch themselves out in the
shadow of the walls. This was galling to their proud and haughty
spirits. Then, too, the best lands of the red men were being invaded by
white settlers and all remonstrances had been useless. The Delawares
and Shawanoes, in particular, were highly exasperated at this, and
their feelings were shared by all the surrounding tribes, in whose
breasts slumbered a terrible hatred and distrust of the oncoming
English, who had been their enemies in the late war and towards whom
the Indians had the rancorous enmity that an Indian always feels
against those to whom he has been opposed in battle.
Pontiac was principal chief of the Ottawas and head of a loose
confederacy of the Ottawas, Ojibwas, and Pottawattamies. He was about
fifty years of age: tall, sinewy, strong. Over those around him his
authority was almost despotic, while his name was known and respected
among all the savages who resided in the country, stretching from the
Ohio River to the lowest waters of the Mississippi. He possessed great
energy, craftiness, and oratorical prowess, while his courage in war
was far-famed. It is said that he commanded the Ottawas in the defeat
of General Braddock at Fort Du-Quesne--during the French and Indian
war--and it is certain that he was treated with much honor by the
French officers, for one of them had presented him with the regimentals
of a soldier of that country, which he is only known to have worn upon
one occasion. Not long before the beginning of the French and Indian
war, he had saved the French garrison at Detroit from an attack from
some discontented tribes of the North, who had marched to destroy it.
For this he had been made much of by the French officers. "He puts
on an air of majesty and princely grandeur," said Major Rogers, (one of
his opponents), "and is greatly honored and revered by his subjects."
[Illustration: PONTIAC IN COUNCIL.]
Pontiac saw that the Indian race was now confronted with a grave
crisis, for, when Canada had become an English province, the tribes had
sunk from their former position of importance. Up to this time, France
and England--the two rival European nations--had kept each other in
check upon the American continent and the Indians had been flattered
by each, for their services were needed by both. Now the English had
gained undisputed control of America, and the Indians, being no longer
important as allies, were treated as animals of a lower order of
intellect who could be trampled upon with impunity. Thus the mind of
the wily Ottawa Chief conceived the idea of driving the English into
the sea, of once more restoring the French to power, in the West, and
thus to again place the Indians in their former position of influence.
The French Canadians continually told him falsehoods, assuring him that
the war had not been lost by the French, that the armies of King Louis
were now on their way to recover Canada, and that the French and their
red allies could soon drive the hated English away from their beloved
country. Stirred by these lies, and urged on by revenge, ambition, and
patriotism, Pontiac decided upon war.