church when the Indians suddenly burst upon them. But these pioneers
were both pious and prepared, and taking up arms they routed their
assailants. Philip and his warriors then hunted the settlers in the
Connecticut valley, burning down their homes and subjecting the people
to the most atrocious forms of cruelty. In the spring the war broke out
anew along a frontier of three hundred miles and to within twenty miles
of Boston. The Indians had remained quiet for a long time after the
initial outbreak—so quiet that the whites were thoroughly alarmed. They
knew the ruthless nature of their foes and they feared the consequences
to the women and children if they should be taken unawares.
It was at this critical stage of affairs that Major Gookin—he had been
promoted—bethought himself of the Praying Indians on Deer Island. It
was absolutely necessary to know something of the plans of King Philip
and his bloodthirsty redskins. If a white man went into their camp he
was certain to be scalped and tortured. If an Indian could be induced
to act as a spy he might save the whites from a wholesale massacre.
The eloquent Major visited Deer Island and presented these facts to the
prisoners and called for volunteers. He said that a service of this
kind would not only secure the release of the Praying Indians, but
would win for them the lasting friendship of the white people.
“I go,” said one handsome brave, rising and lifting his hand solemnly
in mid-air. “I go, not for reward, but to save the palefaces from
death.”
The Indian was Job Kattenanit. He was tall and perfectly erect, with
piercing black eyes and a grave, almost sorrowful countenance. There
was a suggestion of nobility in his bearing. In short, he might well
have passed for the original of Deerfoot, so vividly pictured by James
Fenimore Cooper.
Major Gookin recognized him at once. He knew the Indians personally,
and he had a special friendship for this straight shouldered chap. He
rushed over and gripped him by the hand.
“Job,” he exclaimed, “the white people shall know of this and in time
it will help your people.”
A mist passed before the bright eyes of the Indian, and he gave a
gesture as if to sweep the suggestion aside.
“White man cruel to Indian,” he rejoined, “but the red man must return
good for evil.”
As they were about to leave another Indian rose in his place and said:
“Me go, too—me go with Job.”
This was James Quannapohit, a native in whom Major Gookin also had
implicit confidence. After deliberation he decided to accept the
services of both volunteers. They were taken aside and given careful
directions.
That night Job and James were brought secretly from Deer Island and set
free—according to arrangement. In order to avoid difficulties they had
been first escorted beyond the British lines.
From that point they journeyed alone and on foot. It was a long walk,
and when they reached their destination they were footsore, hungry and
almost in rags. It was as they wished. They bore the appearance of
fugitives, of escaped prisoners. It was daybreak when they arrived in
the camp of the Nipmuck Indians. They threw themselves on their faces
and begged for food and drink. The amazed redskins who surrounded them
wanted to know who they were and what they were doing in the camp
of the Nipmuck Indians. Job, who acted as spokesman, insisted upon
refreshments and said he would tell his story to some one in authority.
After their wants had been satisfied they were escorted to Mantampe, a
chief Sachem of the tribe.
“What you do here?” he demanded.
“We have escaped from the clutches of the white man,” replied Job in
his native tongue, “and we came to you for protection. The white man
of Lancaster came and took the red man prisoner. He charged us with
murdering his squaws and he gave us no chance to defend ourselves.”
“Tell me more,” said the chief Sachem, deeply interested.
Job did as he was requested and he was able to do so all the more
eloquently because he was giving an account of some things that had
actually occurred to the Praying Indians. He said they had been accused
by David, a fellow savage, of being concerned in the murder of the
whites. But he added that the manner in which David was forced to make
this charge robbed it of all value. He related how Colonel Mosely and
a scouting party captured David and tied him to a tree; how with six
muskets pointed at his head he was told to confess or die. To save his
life he named eleven men he understood were present at the murder,
though he himself was not there, and knew nothing about it. The men
were put on trial, and so great and indiscriminate was the popular
feeling against the natives that several of them were condemned.
“But you are alive,” grinned the Sachem.
Job admitted the soft impeachment and explained how he and his
companions had been imprisoned on Deer Island. He said that he and
James Quannapohit had managed to escape, but slyly enough neglected to
tell the Sachem that the escape had been arranged by their English
friends. He concluded by saying that they had come to the camp of the
Nipmuck Indians to get the lay of the land, “so that they might advise
the friends they had left if it would be possible for them also to
escape.”
The Sachem accepted the story of Job and his companion and they were
given the liberty of the camp. The two Praying Indians kept their eyes
and ears open and learned much. Mantampe was undoubtedly in command of
a large force. Job met many of the Indians, who were, as a rule, able
fighting men, straight as arrows, very tall and active.
Three squaws who were in the camp interested and amused the spies. One
was a very proud dame. She spent the best part of each day in dressing
herself in all the colors of the rainbow; she powdered her hair and
painted her face, wore numberless necklaces, had jewels in her hair and
bracelets on her wrists. When she finished her toilet she sat down and
spent the remainder of the day in making girdles of wampum and beads.
James Quannapohit found great favor in the eyes of Mantampe. He made
him share his tent with him and insisted upon his repeating the story
of his escape from Deer Island. During the course of these talks James
learned that the Nipmuck Indians contemplated a raid on the white
settlers. They proposed to burn Lancaster and then attack other towns.
The method of the raid was not made clear. One morning Mantampe called
James before him.
“Son,” he said in substance, “I am about to take a journey for the
purpose of visiting the big chief, King Philip. If all goes well I may
take you with me.”
This alarmed James. He dreaded the idea of going further into the
Indian country, perhaps to a point where it would be impossible for
him to make his escape. Besides that he had a good reason for wishing
to avoid a meeting with the king. He had once fought against Philip at
Mount Hope. He had taken a conspicuous part in the battle and he knew
that if the King recognized him he would be shot.
The next morning he arose before any one was stirring, and left the
camp. He urged Job to go along with him but the other spy refused to do
so.
“But you will be killed,” urged James, “when they discover my absence.
They will at once suspect that you are a spy, and that means death.”
Job shook his head.
“You go,” he said. “I don’t blame you for that. But I am going to stay
for a while. It may mean life or death, but I am willing to take my
chances.”
Nothing that James could say would shake the determination of Job.
So the younger Indian started on the return journey to Boston alone.
There had been severe storms and the snow lay deep on the ground. It
was necessary for the Indian to wear heavy snowshoes and this made
traveling all the more difficult.
When the Indian spy reached Boston he had a tale of unparalleled
hardships to relate to his white friends. But more important than that
was his story of the plans of the Indians against the settlers in and
around Lancaster. He was highly praised for the effective work he
had done and was showered with attentions by the white men and their
families. For the first time since the beginning of what is popularly
known as King Philip’s war an Indian was treated as though he were a
human being.
Indeed, it is no exaggeration to state that the exploit of the two
Indians did more to reinstate the redskins in the good graces of the
whites than anything that had occurred in years.
But curiously enough the settlers did little or nothing to protect
themselves against the expected attack. The very warning which should
have put them on their guard seemed to lull them into a false sense
of security. There were two reasons for this. The first one was that
the suspected danger was comparatively remote—a matter of weeks in
fact. Another and more important one was the desire to get further and
fuller information from the other Indian scout. Job was the shrewder
and more capable of the two messengers. It was just possible that the
abrupt departure of James might arouse the suspicion of the savages and
cause them to entirely revise their plans. James was closely questioned
concerning his companion.
“Why didn’t he come back with you?” he was asked.
James shrugged his shoulders and threw out his hands in a gesture of
hopelessness.
“He very stubborn man. Have his own way. No listen to poor James.”
“Do you think he intends to come back?”
At this suggestion of possible disloyalty on the part of his friend
the Indian became very indignant. He was so angry that he found it
impossible to express himself coherently. But his manner, if not his
words, perfectly satisfied the questioner of the perfect good faith of
Job. As a matter of fact it was never seriously doubted and the white
man who propounded the query felt ashamed at having put the unworthy
suspicion into words.
In the meantime Job found himself in an embarrassing and really
dangerous situation. With the flight of James the savages, for the
first time, became skeptical concerning the motives of the two
visitors. The chief Sachem sent for Job and put him through a severe
cross-examination. But Job was shrewd and told them a cock-and-bull
story that satisfied their curiosity. As a result of this he was
treated with even more consideration than when he first arrived in
camp. He was fearful lest the Sachem should want him to accompany him
on the proposed visit to King Philip. He knew that to go before the big
Chief would be taking his life in his hands. Finally, to his great joy,
the Sachem decided that he should not go on the trip.
The next three days were days of great anxiety to the spy. He knew that
the emissary to the King would bring final plans for the attack on the
whites and he was fearful lest anything should happen to deprive him of
this much needed information. So he exerted himself to the utmost in
order to keep the good will of the savages. As a result of this they
virtually took him to their bosoms. In speaking of this afterwards
he said that he felt no compunctions of conscience. He did not feel
that he was betraying them but rather that he was engaged in an honest
attempt to save human life.
He took part in their amusements, which helped to while away the time.
One of the most popular of the games was called “hunt the button,” a
diversion somewhat akin to that which is enjoyed by children the world
over. This was played at night when the natives, in paint and buckskin,
seated themselves around a tepee, with the fire blazing bright in
their faces, as they swung their hands in time with a rhythmic chant.
This was indulged in by both sexes. Also they played the game of
“deer-foot.” In this a number of cylindrical bones, usually taken from
the foot of the deer, and perforated with several holes around their
sides, were strung on a cord, which had at one end several strands
of beads and at the other a long needle. The object was to toss the
string, with the beads upon it, in such a way as to catch in the point
of the needle, which was retained in the hand, any designated one of
the bones or bead strands.
[Illustration: KING PHILIP, OR METACOMET.]
But presently the Sachem returned from his visit to the King and
from the air of activity which prevailed Job realized that something
important was on hand. It did not take him long to find out that that
something was war. Clubs that were armed with jagged teeth of stone
were brought from their hiding places and sharpened. Javelins, lances
and arrows became very much in evidence. The arrows were most numerous.
They were made of hard wood and with a feather from the eagle. These
various weapons were not unknown to Job, of course, but his own tribe
was composed of more peace-loving Indians and they were not in the
habit of using the more destructive weapons.
Finally one night the Sachem gathered the most important men of the
tribe about him and outlined the plans of King Philip. Job, who was
still in the confidence of the savages, was permitted to hear all that
was said. The proposal was shocking, even to a redskin. The intention
was to destroy the whites at one blow, if that were possible. The day
and the hour at which the descent was to be made upon Lancaster was
fixed and the method of attack outlined. This was news indeed, and
vastly more important than that which had been carried to Boston by
James.
Job Kattenanit knew that the hour had come to act. With haste he would
have time to warn the threatened settlers, but with not a minute to
spare. Creeping away, he made for the edge of the camp. Fortunately
most of the Indians—aside from those who were attending the council
of war—were asleep. He passed one sentinel unobserved and gained the
fringe of the encampment in safety. The road to Boston was familiar to
him and he counted on reaching there by dusk on the evening of February
8th.
But just as he struck the main road leading to his destination there
was a cry of anger and dismay from the Nipmuck camp.
His flight had been discovered.
Instead of halting he redoubled his speed. From time to time he heard
savage cries and he knew that he was being pursued. The thought of
giving up never once entered his mind. It was too late to retreat
now. The Nipmuck Indians had been credulous enough, but it would
be impossible to deceive them any longer. Job was in fine physical
condition and he ran with the swiftness of a deer. But his enemies
were equally fleet-footed and it seemed only a question of time when
he would be overtaken. Nearer and nearer came the footsteps in the
rear. He felt that there must be a number of Indians in the party, but
evidently they did not have time to give a general alarm.
Just when he was congratulating himself on the possibility of
outrunning his pursuers an arrow whizzed past his head. This was a new
danger and one that he had not anticipated. He paused for a second and
turned to look at the men who were after him. Instantly a well-directed
arrow struck him in the chest within an inch of the region of the heart.
A heavy blanket covered the fleeing redskin, and with that momentary
pause and turn the arrow had penetrated the covering. But, as by a
miracle, it went no further. The Praying Indian wore a metal charm on
his breast, suspended by a string fastened about his neck. That saved
his life.
In that trying moment the shrewd Indian made his resolution. To pull
the arrow out and run ahead again only meant postponing the inevitable.
Instead of that, he paused motionless for a second, then swayed to and
fro, and fell flat on his back.
Everything depended upon the success of this ruse. It was, perhaps,
half a minute before the Nipmuck Indians came up, and when they
did they regarded the motionless body with something like awe. Job
suppressed his breathing as much as possible. Two of the pursuers
engaged in an animated conversation, and finally turning, retraced
their steps, leaving the spy for dead.
He lay there perfectly quiet until he was sure they were out of sight.
Then he jumped up and resumed his interrupted flight. The story of
that journey through a wilderness in the most inclement season of the
year should rank with the classics of adventure. But only the savage
himself knew what he was compelled to undergo, and he never spoke of it
afterwards.
He arrived at Major Gookin’s house late on the night of February
9th. His feet were bruised and bleeding from the long trip and he
was faint from weakness on account of exposure and want of food. All
of the inmates at the Gookin dwelling were asleep and Job had to
rap repeatedly on the door to awaken them. Presently the Major came
downstairs and the meeting between the two—white man and the red—was
most affecting.
The tidings he brought were startling. It was evident that it would
only be a question of hours before the settlers were attacked. Major
Gookin did not return to his bed that night. He dispatched messengers
to all of the surrounding towns. In an incredibly short time troops
were marching from everywhere to the aid of the threatened town.
Captain Wadsworth, at Marlborough, received the news at daybreak and
started for Lancaster at once. Others did the same thing.
The savages came over four hundred strong. Re-enforcements added to
this number. The white men were not so numerous, but they fought with a
courage born of desperation. The town was partially destroyed by fire
and a few of the people taken prisoners by the Indians. Had it not been
for the warning of Job Kattenanit there would have been a wholesale
massacre and Lancaster would have been left in ashes.
That was the beginning of the end. Driven to drastic measures by the
atrocities of the savages, the settlers hunted down the Indians like
wild beasts. King Philip was driven from one hiding place to another,
going finally to his old home on Mount Hope, Rhode Island, where he was
shot by a faithless Indian, August 12, 1676.
But Job Kattenanit, the Praying Indian, did more than any white man to
break up the reign of terror caused by the savages, and even though
history fails to mention the fact, he was the real hero of King
Philip’s War.
IV
HOW THE SUICIDE OF A STAFF OFFICER ONCE AVERTED WAR BETWEEN AUSTRIA AND
RUSSIA
Could the preservation of the life of an officer of the Austrian army
on May 26, 1913, have prevented the devastating war in Europe that
followed? And if the same man had lived would it have precipitated a
war at that time between Austria and Russia?
These questions may remain unanswered to the end of time, but there are
students of history who do not hesitate to give an affirmative reply to
each of the momentous queries.
The story of Colonel Albert Riddle—that is near enough to his real name
to make it clear to those who were within the inner circle and far
enough away to protect the feelings of his descendants who are still
living—is one of the strangest in history. In its way it takes its
place with the Mystery of the Man in the Iron Mask, although in the
present case there was never any question of the identity of the victim
or of the fact of his death.
Colonel Riddle was connected with the general staff of the Eighth
Army Corps. He was one of the favorites of the Austrian Court. He was
young, handsome, attractive and with a dash and go about him that made
him a general favorite. He had won an enviable record for bravery in
battle, and was considered an efficient officer in every sense of the
term.
Presently the time came when it was desirable to learn something
concerning the secrets of the Russian army plans. Austria, like all
other great countries in Europe, had any number of spies, but very
few of them were available for the character of work which would be
necessary in order to learn the plans of the higher military officers
of the Russian Empire. It was in this emergency that Colonel Riddle was
called upon. He had a young soldier’s love of adventure and he eagerly
volunteered for the delicate and difficult task. He was well supplied
with money and authority and eventually he went to St. Petersburg,
where he posed as a sort of military attaché of the Austrian embassy.
The social side of life in St. Petersburg attracted him immensely and
while he devoted part of his time to the work for which he had been
assigned, he nevertheless found numerous opportunities for satisfying
his love for the pleasant things of life.
Indeed, so genial did he find his surroundings, that he had little or
no desire to return home. He became very popular with the ladies of the
Russian Court, and participated in many of the social events for which
that capital was noted.
But everything has its end, and finally the day came when it was
deemed necessary for him to return to Vienna. He reached Austria in
due time and made a comprehensive report of his discoveries, a report
that was considered acceptable by the higher officers of the Austrian
army. After that he retired to his home in Prague, Bohemia. He had
many friends there and indulged in what was regarded as a well earned
rest. His activities—his military activities—were suspended for the
time being, and this high grade spy enjoyed life with more zest than is
granted to the ordinary or commonplace person.
But suddenly and as unexpectedly as a bolt from the blue sky came the
report that Colonel Riddle was suspected of treason to his country.
He was summoned to Vienna to defend himself from the charges. Now
whether they were true or not never has been and never will be
definitely determined. At all events the military and social circles
of the gayest capital in the world were filled with stories which were
not creditable to the fascinating and really popular colonel. These
stories, it may be stated with surety, lost nothing in the telling,
and as they went from mouth to mouth they assumed proportions which
represented Riddle as being one of the most marvelous deceivers of his
time.
In the meanwhile the talk took on a new twist. It was contended that
if Colonel Riddle lived to be prosecuted for treason the revelations
at his trial would make it impossible for Austria to maintain friendly
relations with Russia. The gossip said more than that; it said that not
only relations with Russia would be broken, but that the bonds between
Austria and one of her fully trusted allies would be severely strained.
As a matter of fact, there is no telling to what extent Germany and
Austria might have found reason to suspect each other had Colonel
Riddle gone on the stand and made the revelations which would have been
necessary in order for him to defend himself on the charge of treason.
He was accused by unknown accusers of not only giving military secrets
of Austria and Germany to Russia, but also of having betrayed to
Russia the Russian officers who were selling Russia’s military secrets
to Austria and Germany. Those who were acquainted with the man were
vehement in denying his guilt of any such double faced dealings. At all
events, one of the secrets of this talk was that Austria and Germany
very materially revised their plans for mobilizing their forces along
the Russian frontier.
In the meantime, while Colonel Riddle was in Vienna preparing for the
court-martial, the Government had its agents in Bohemia collecting
evidence to be used against the accused man. Two of the secret service
men who were in Prague burst into his room for the purpose of securing
any information that might be obtained there. At first it looked as
if they were to have their labors for their pains. Nothing out of the
ordinary was found. It was a sort of apartment that might be expected
to belong to a comparatively wealthy and popular young man. There were
trophies from all parts of the world; souvenirs of his stay at St.
Petersburg—this, it must be remembered, was before the days that the
capital of Russia assumed the unfamiliar name of Petrograd—and other
interesting places. There were numerous private letters, some of them
tender love missives. But at the last moment the secret service men
discovered a private desk in a corner of the room which, when broken
open, disclosed a number of papers of an incriminating character. It
was positively declared at the time that if certain of these papers
ever became public nothing could prevent a war between Austria and
Russia.