MRS. ROWLANDSON'S CAPTIVITY.
1675-1676
Winter quarters.--Building a village.--Indignation of the Indians.--The
Narragansets disheartened.--Determination of Philip.--Diplomacy.--A
new fort.--A new army raised.--Sufferings of the troops.--Two names
for the Indians.--Their degraded nature.--Colonel Benjamin's mode
of making proselytes.--Philip betrayed.--His flight.--Return of
the troops.--Attack on Lancaster.--Precautions to guard against
surprise.--The torch applied.--Massacre of the inhabitants.--Mr.
Rowlandson's house.--Burning the building.--The inmates shot.--Mrs.
Rowlandson wounded.--Scalping a child.--Indian bacchanals.--Wastefulness
of the Indians.--Mrs. Rowlandson's narrative.--Her sufferings.--Her
wounded child.--Friendly aid from an Indian.--Arrival at
head-quarters.--Mrs. Rowlandson a slave.--Reciprocal barbarity.--Actions
of the Christian Indians.--Meeting of the captives.--Return of the
warriors.--Exultation of the Indians.--A captive murdered.--Journey to
the interior.--Comfort obtained.--Fear of the English.--The flight.--The
burden.--Crossing the river.--Want of food.--Compelling the captive
to work.--The Indian village.--Numbers of the Indians.--Difficulty
of obtaining food.--Mrs. Rowlandson meets her son.--Regal
repast.--Preparations for an attack.--The queen invited to dinner.--An
interview between the captives.--Unaccountable conduct.--A journey
commenced.--Hardships endured.--Kindness from an old Indian.--False
report about her son.--Dismal life.--Visions of liberty.--Slow
march.--Gentlemanly conduct of Philip.--Queen Wetamoo.--Wampum,
and how made.--Kindness to the captive.--Proposition for her
ransom.--Evidence of slaughter.--A great feast.--Endeavors to see her
children.--Bravery of Mr. John Hoar.--Assurance of freedom.--Dress
for a grand dance.--Dress of Wetamoo.--Interview with Philip.--Her
release.--Appearance of the country.--Return to her friends.
The little army was now supplied with food, but the vast masses of
snow extending every where around them through the pathless wilderness
rendered it impossible to move in any direction. The forest afforded
ample materials for huts and fuel. A busy village speedily arose upon
the shores of the frozen bay. Many of the wounded were, for greater
safety and comfort, sent to the island of Rhode Island, where they
were carefully nursed in the dwellings of the colonists. In their
encampment at Wickford, as the region is now called, the soldiers
remained several weeks, blockaded by storms and drifts, waiting for a
change of weather. It was a season of unusual severity, and the army
presented a spectacle resembling, upon a small scale, that of the
mighty hosts of Napoleon afterward encamped among the forests of the
Vistula--a scene of military energy which arrested the gaze and
elicited the astonishment of all Europe.
As the English evacuated the Indian fort, the warriors who had escaped
into the swamp returned to their smouldering wigwams and to the
mangled bodies of their wives and children, overwhelmed with
indignation, rage, and despair. The storm of war had come and gone,
and awful was the ruin which it had left behind. The Rev. Mr. Ruggles,
recording the horrors of the destruction of the Narraganset fort,
writes:
"The burning of the wigwams, the shrieks and cries of the
women and children, and the yells of the warriors, exhibited
a most horrible and affecting scene, so that it greatly
moved some of the soldiers. They were in much doubt then,
and often very seriously inquired whether burning their
enemies alive could be consistent with humanity and the
benevolent principles of the Gospel."
The Narragansets, who were associated with the warriors of Philip in
this conflict, and in whose territory the battle had been fought, were
exceedingly disheartened. This experience of the terrible power and
vengeance of the English appalled them, and they were quite disposed
to abandon Philip. But the great Wampanoag chief was not a man to
yield to adversity. This calamity only nerved him to more undying
resolution and to deeds of more desperate daring. He had still about
two thousand warriors around him, but, being almost entirely destitute
of provisions, they for a time suffered incredibly.
To gain time, Philip sent deputies to the English commander-in-chief
to treat of peace. The colonists met these advances with the utmost
cordiality, for there was nothing which they more earnestly desired
than to live on friendly terms with the Indians. War was to them only
impoverishment and woe. They had nothing to gain by strife. It was,
however, soon manifest that Philip was but trifling, and that he had
no idea of burying the hatchet. While the wary chieftain was occupying
the colonists with all the delays of diplomacy, he was energetically
constructing another fort in a swamp about twenty miles distant, where
he was again collecting his forces, and all the materials of barbarian
warfare. In this fortress, within the territorial limits of the
Nipmuck Indians, he also assembled a feeble train of women and
children, the fragments of his slaughtered families. The Nipmuck
tribe, then quite powerful, occupied the region now included in the
southeast corner of Worcester county.
Hardly a ray of civilization had penetrated this portion of the
country. The gloomy wilderness frowned every where around, pathless
and savage. From the tangled morass in which he reared his wigwams he
dispatched runners in all directions, to give impulse to the torrent
of conflagration and blood with which he intended to sweep the
settlements in the spring.
It was now manifest that there could be no hope of peace. An army of a
thousand men, early in January, was dispatched from Boston to
re-enforce the encampment at Wickford. Their march, in the dead of
winter, over the bleak and frozen hills, was slow, and their
sufferings were awful. Eleven men were frozen to death by the way, and
a large number were severely frostbitten. Immediately after their
arrival there came a remarkable thaw. The snow nearly all disappeared,
and the ground was flooded with water. This thaw was life to the
Indians. It enabled them to traverse the forests freely, and to gather
ground-nuts, upon which they were almost exclusively dependent for
subsistence.
The army at Wickford now numbered sixteen hundred. They decided upon a
rapid march to attack Philip again in his new intrenchments. There
were _friendly Indians_, as the English called them--_traitors_, as
they were called by King Philip--who were ever ready to guide the
colonists to the haunts of their countrymen. There were individual
Indians who had pride of character and great nobility of nature--men
who, through their virtues, are venerated even by the race which has
supplanted their tribes. They had their Washingtons, their Franklins,
and their Howards. But Indian nature is human nature, with all its
frailty and humiliation. The great mass of the common Indians were low
and degraded men. Almost any of them were ready for a price, and that
an exceedingly small one, to betray their nearest friends.
An Indian would sometimes be taken prisoner, and immediately, in the
continuance of the same battle, with his musket still hot from the
conflict, he would guide the English to the retreats of his friends,
and engage, apparently with the greatest zeal, in firing upon them. In
the narrative given by Colonel Benjamin Church, one of the heroes of
these wars, he writes, speaking of himself in the third person,
"When he took any number of prisoners, he would pick out
some, and tell them that he took a particular fancy to
them, and had chosen them for himself to make soldiers of,
and if any would behave themselves well he would do well by
them, and they should be his men, and not sold out of the
country.
"If he perceived they looked surly, and his Indian soldiers
called them treacherous dogs, as some of them would
sometimes do, all the notice he would take of it would only
be to clap them on the back and say, 'Come, come, you look
wild and surly, and mutter; but that signifies nothing.
These, my soldiers, were a little while ago as wild and
surly as you are now. By the time you have been one day with
me, you will love me too, and be as brisk as any of them.'
"And it proved so; for there was none of them but, after
they had been a little while with him, and seen his
behavior, and how cheerful and successful his men were,
would be as ready to pilot him to any place where the
Indians dwelt or haunted, though their own fathers or
nearest relations should be among them, as any of his own
men."
Such a character we can not but despise, and yet such, with
exceptions, was the character of the common Indian. That magnanimity
which at times has shed immortal brilliance upon humanity is a rare
virtue, even in civilized life; in the savage it is still more rare.
Philip, in the retreat to which he had now escaped, was again betrayed
by one of his renegade countrymen. The English, numbering sixteen
hundred, immediately resumed active hostilities, and after having
ravaged the country directly around them, burning some wigwams,
putting some Indians to death, and taking many captives, broke up
their encampment and commenced their march. It was early in February
that Major Winslow put his army in motion to pursue Philip. As the
English drew near the swamp, Philip, conscious of his inability to
oppose so formidable a force, immediately set his wigwams on fire,
and, with all his warriors, disappeared in the depths of the
wilderness. As it was entirely uncertain in what direction the savages
would emerge from the forest to kindle anew the flames of war, the
troops retraced their steps toward Boston. The Connecticut soldiers
had already returned to their homes.
On the 10th of February, 1676, the Indians, with whoop and yell, burst
from the forest upon the beautiful settlement of Lancaster. This was
one of the most remote of the frontier towns, some fifty miles west of
Boston, on the Nashua River. The plantation, ten miles in length and
eight in breadth, had been purchased of the Nashaway Indians, with the
stipulation that the English should not molest the Indians in their
hunting, fishing, or planting places. For several years the colonists
and the Indians lived together in entire harmony, mutually benefiting
each other. There were between fifty and sixty families in the town,
embracing nearly three hundred inhabitants. They had noticed some
suspicious circumstances on the part of the Indians who were dwelling
around them, and they had sent their pastor, the Rev. Mr. Rowlandson,
to Boston, to seek assistance for the defense of the town. He had
taken the precaution before he left to convert his house into a
bullet-proof fortress, and had garrisoned it for the protection of his
family during his absence.
The savages, fifteen hundred in number, during the darkness of the
night stationed themselves at different points, from whence they
could, at an appointed signal, attack the town at the same moment in
five different quarters. There were less than a hundred persons in the
town capable of bearing arms, the remainder being women and children.
The savages thus prepared to overpower them fifteen to one, and,
making the assault by surprise, felt sure of an easy victory.
Just as the sun was rising the signal was given. In an instant every
heart was congealed with terror as the awful war-whoop resounded
through the forest. It was a cold winter's morning, and the wind swept
bleakly over the whitened plains. Every house was immediately
surrounded, the torch applied, and, as the flames drove the inmates
from their doors, they fell pierced by innumerable bullets, and the
tomahawk and the scalping-knife finished the dreadful work. There were
several garrison houses in the town, where most of the inhabitants had
taken refuge, and where they were able, for a time, to beat off their
assailants. All who were not thus sheltered immediately fell into the
hands of their foes. Between fifty and sixty were either slain or
taken captive. The unhappy inmates of the garrisons looked out through
their port-holes upon the conflagration and plunder of their homes,
the mutilated corpses of their friends, and the wretched band of
captives strongly bound and awaiting their fate.
There were forty-one persons in the Rev. Mr. Rowlandson's house. They
all defended it valiantly, and no Indian dared expose himself within
gun-shot of their port-holes. Still, the savages, in a body, prepared
for the assault. The house was situated upon the brow of a hill. Some
of the Indians got behind the hill, others filled the barn, and others
sheltered themselves behind stones and stumps, and any other
breastwork, from which they could reach the house with their bullets.
For two hours, fifteen hundred savages kept up an incessant firing,
aiming at the windows and the port-holes. Several in the house were
thus wounded.
After many unsuccessful attempts to fire the house, they at length
succeeded in pushing a cart loaded with hay and other combustible
materials, all in flames, against the rear of the house. All the
efforts of the garrison to extinguish the fire were unavailing, and
the building was soon in a blaze. As the flames rapidly rolled up the
wall and over the roof, the savages raised shouts of exultation, which
fell as a death-knell upon the hearts of those who had now no
alternative but to be consumed in the flames or to surrender
themselves to the merciless foe. The bullets were still rattling
against the house, and fifteen hundred warriors were greedily
watching to riddle with balls any one who should attempt to escape.
The flames were crackling and roaring around the besieged, and their
only alternative was to perish in the fire, or to go out and meet the
bullet and the tomahawk of the savage. When the first forks of flame
touched the flesh, goaded by torture to delirium, they rushed from the
door. A wild whoop of triumph rose from the savages, and, pouring a
volley of bullets upon the group, they fell upon them with gleaming
knives.
Many were instantly killed and scalped. All the men were thus
massacred; twenty of the women and children were taken captives. Mrs.
Rowlandson had two children, a son and a daughter, by her side, and
another daughter about six years of age, sick and emaciate, in her
arms. Her sister was also with her, with several children. No less
than seventeen of Rev. Mr. Rowlandson's family and connections were in
this melancholy group.
As many dropped dead around Mrs. Rowlandson, cut down by the storm of
bullets, one bullet pierced her side, and another passed through the
hand and the bowels of the sick child she held in her arms. One of her
sister's children, a fine boy, fell helpless upon the ground, having
his thigh-bone shattered by a ball. A sturdy Indian, seeing that the
poor child was thus disabled, buried his tomahawk in his brain and
stripped off his scalp. The frantic mother rushed toward her child,
when a bullet pierced her bosom, and she fell lifeless upon his
mangled corpse. The savages immediately stripped all the clothing from
the dead, and, having finished their work of conflagration and
plunder, plunged into the wilderness, dragging their wretched captives
along with them. The beautiful town was left in ruins.
The victors, with shouts of exultation, marched about a mile, and
encamped for the night upon a hill which overlooked the smouldering
dwellings of their foes. Here was enacted one of the wildest scenes of
barbarian bacchanals. Enormous fires were built, which, with roaring,
crackling flame, illumined for leagues around the sombre forest.
Fifteen hundred savages, delirious with victory, and prodigal of their
immense booty of oxen, cows, sheep, swine, calves, and fowl, reveled
in such a feast as they had hardly dreamed of before. Cattle were
roasted whole and eagerly devoured, with dances and with shouts which
made the welkin ring. With wastefulness characteristic of the
Indians, they took no thought for the morrow, but slaughtered the
animals around them in mere recklessness, and, when utterly satiated
with the banquet, the ground was left strewed with smoking and savory
viands sufficient to feed an army.
The night was cold; the ground was covered with snow, and a piercing
wind swept the icy eminence. Mrs. Rowlandson, holding her wounded and
moaning child in her arms, and with the group of wretched captives
around her, sat during the long hours of the dreadful night, shivering
with cold, appalled at the awful fate which had befallen her and her
family, and endeavoring in vain to soothe the anguish of her dying
daughter. "This was the dolefullest night," she exclaims in her
affecting narrative, "that my eyes ever saw. Oh, the roaring and
singing, dancing and yelling of those black creatures in the night,
which made the place a lively resemblance of hell."
The next morning the Indians commenced their departure into the
wilderness. Mrs. Rowlandson toiled along on foot, with her dying child
in her arms. The poor little girl was in extreme anguish, and often
cried out with pain. At length the mother became so exhausted that
she fell fainting to the ground. The Indians then placed her upon a
horse, and again gave her her child to carry. But the horse was
furnished with neither saddle nor bridle, and, in going down a steep
hill, stumbled, and they both were thrown over his neck. This incident
was greeted by the savages with shouts of laughter. To add to their
sufferings, it now began to snow. All the day long the storm wailed
through the tree-tops, and the snow was sifted down upon their path.
The woe-stricken captives toiled along until night, when the Indians
again encamped upon the open ground.
"And now," writes Mrs. Rowlandson, "I must sit in the snow
by a little fire, and a few boughs behind me, with my sick
child in my lap, and calling much for water, being now,
through the wound, fallen into a violent fever. My own
wound, also, growing so stiff that I could scarce sit down
or rise up, yet so it must be that I must sit all this cold
winter's night upon the cold snowy ground, with my sick
child in my arms, looking that every hour would be the last
of its life, and having no Christian friend near me either
to comfort or help me."
In the morning the Indians resumed their journey, marching, as was
their custom, in single file through trails in the forest. A humane
Indian mounted a horse and took Mrs. Rowlandson and her child behind
him. All the day long the poor little sufferer moaned with pain, while
the savages were constantly threatening to knock the child in the head
if she did not cease her moaning. In the evening they arrived at an
Indian village called Wenimesset. Here, upon a luxuriant meadow upon
the banks of the River Ware, within the limits of the present town of
New Braintree, the savages had established their head-quarters. It was
about thirty-six miles from Lancaster. A large number of savages were
assembled at this place, and they remained here for several days,
gathering around their council fires, planning new expeditions, and
inflaming their passions with war dances and the most frantic revels.
The Indians treated their captives with comparative kindness. No
violence or disrespect was offered to their persons. They reared a
rude wigwam for Mrs. Rowlandson, where she sat for five days and
nights almost alone, watching her dying child. At last, on the night
of the 18th of February, the little sufferer breathed her last, at the
age of six years and five months. The Indians took the corpse from the
mother and buried it, and then allowed her to see the grave.
[Illustration: CAPTIVITY OF MRS. ROWLANDSON.]
When Mrs. Rowlandson was driven from the flames of her dwelling, a
Narraganset Indian was the first to grasp her; he consequently claimed
her as his property. Her children were caught by different savages,
and thus became the slaves of their captors. The Indians, by the law
of retaliation, were perfectly justified in making slaves of their
captives. The human mind can not withhold its assent from the justice
of the verdict, "an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth." The
English made all their captives slaves, and women and children were
sold to all the horrors of West Indian plantation bondage. The
Narraganset Indian who owned Mrs. Rowlandson soon sold her to a
celebrated chieftain named Quinnapin, a Narraganset sachem, who had
married, for one of his three wives, Wetamoo, of whom we have
heretofore spoken. Quinnapin is represented as a "young, lusty sachem,
and a very great rogue." It will be remembered that Wetamoo, queen of
the Pocasset Indians, was the widow of Alexander and sister of
Wootonekanuske, the wife of Philip. The English clergyman's wife was
assigned to Queen Wetamoo as her dressing-maid. The Indian
slaveholders paid but little regard to family relations. Mrs.
Rowlandson's daughter Mary was sold for a gun by a _praying Indian_,
who first chanced to grasp her. The Christian Indians joined in this
war against the whites, and shared in all the emoluments of the slave
traffic which it introduced. Mary was ten years of age, a child of
cultured mind and lovely character. She was purchased by an Indian who
resided in the town where the Indian army was now encamped. When the
poor slave mother met her slave child, Mary was so overwhelmed with
anguish as to move even the sympathies of her stoical masters; their
several owners consequently forbade their meeting any more.
After a few days, the warriors scattered on various expeditions of
devastation and blood. Mrs. Rowlandson was left at Wenimesset. Her
days and nights were passed in lamentations, tears, and prayers. One
morning, quite to her surprise, her son William entered her wigwam,
where she was employed by her mistress in menial services. He belonged
to a master who resided at a small plantation of Indians about six
miles distant. His master had gone with a war party to make an attack
upon Medfield, and his mistress, with woman's tender heart, had
brought him to see his mother. The interview was short and full of
anguish.
The next day the Indians returned from the destruction of Medfield.
Their approach through the forest was heralded by the most demoniac
roaring and whooping, as the whole savage band thus announced their
victory. All the Indians in the little village assembled to meet them.
The warriors had slain twenty of the English, and brought home several
captives and many scalps. Each one told his story, and recapitulated
the numbers of the slain; and, at the close of each narrative, the
whole multitude, with the most frantic gestures, set up a shout which
echoed far and wide over mountain and valley.
There were now at Wenimesset nine captives, Mrs. Rowlandson, Mrs.
Joslin, and seven children from different families. Mrs. Joslin had an
infant two years old in her arms, and was expecting every hour to give
birth to another child.
The Indians now deemed it necessary to move farther into the
wilderness. The poor woman, in her deplorable condition, did nothing
but weep, and the Indians, deeming her an incumbrance, resolved to
get rid of her. They placed her upon the ground with her child,
divested her entirely of clothing, and for an hour sang and danced
around their victim with wildest exultation. One then approached and
buried his hatchet in her brain. She fell lifeless. Another blow put
an end to the sufferings of her child. They then built a huge fire,
placed the two bodies upon it, and they were consumed to ashes. All
the captive children were assembled to witness this tragedy, and were
assured that if they made any attempt to escape from slavery, a
similar fate awaited them. The unhappy woman, during all this awful
scene, shed not a tear, but with clasped hands, meekly praying, she
silently and almost joyfully surrendered herself to her fate.
All the day long, the Indians, leading their captives with them,
traveled through the desolate wilderness. A drizzling rain was
falling, and their feet slumped through the wet snow at every step.
Late in the afternoon they encamped, with no protection from the
weather but a few boughs of trees. Mrs. Rowlandson was separated from
her children; she was faint with hunger, sore, and utterly exhausted
with travel, and she sat down upon the snowy ground and wept
bitterly. She opened her Bible for solace, and her eye fell upon the
cheering words,
"Refrain thy voice from weeping and thine eyes from tears,
for thy work shall be rewarded, and they shall come again
from the land of the enemy."
Here, in this wretched encampment, the Indians, their families being
with them, remained for four days. But some of their scouts brought in
intelligence that some English soldiers were in the vicinity. The
Indians immediately, in the greatest apparent consternation, packed up
their things and fled. They retreated farther into the wilderness in
the most precipitate confusion. Women carried their children. Men took
upon their shoulders their aged and decrepit mothers. One very heavy
Indian, who was sick, was carried upon a bier. Mrs. Rowlandson
endeavored to count the Indians, but they were in such a tumultuous
throng, hurrying through the forest, that she was quite unable to
ascertain their numbers. It will be remembered that Mrs. Rowlandson's
side had been pierced by a bullet at the destruction of Lancaster. The
wound was much inflamed, and, being worn down with pain and
exhaustion, she found it exceedingly difficult to keep pace with her
captors. In the distribution of their burdens they had given her two
quarts of parched meal to carry. Fainting with hunger, she implored of
her mistress one spoonful of the meal, that she might mix it with
water to appease the cravings of appetite. Her supplication was
denied.
Soon they arrived at Swift River, somewhere probably within the limits
of the present town of Enfield. The stream was swollen with the
melting snows of spring. The Indians, with their hatchets, immediately
cut down some dry trees, with which they made a raft, and thus crossed
the stream. The raft was so heavily laden that many of the Indians
were knee deep in the icy water. Mrs. Rowlandson, however, sat upon
some brush, and thus kept her feet dry. For supper they made a broth
by boiling an old horse's leg in a kettle of water, filling up with
water as often as the kettle was emptied. Mrs. Rowlandson was in such
a starving condition that a cupful of this wretched nutriment seemed
delicious.
Feeling that they were now safe from attack, they reared some rude
wigwams, and rested for one day. It so happened that the next day was
the Sabbath. The English who were pursuing came to the banks of the
river, saw the smoke of their fires, but for some reason decided not
to attempt to cross the stream. During the day, Wetamoo compelled her
slave to knit some stockings for her. When Mrs. Rowlandson plead that
it was the Sabbath, and promised that if she might be permitted to
keep the sacred day she would do double work on Monday, she was told
to do her work immediately, or she should have her face smashed. The
smashing of a face by an Indian's bludgeon is a serious operation.
The next morning, Monday, the Indians fired their wigwams, and
continued their retreat through the wilderness toward the Connecticut
River. They traveled as fast as they could all day, fording icy
brooks, until late in the afternoon they came to the borders of a
gloomy swamp, where they again encamped.
"When we came," writes Mrs. Rowlandson, "to the brow of the
hill that looked toward the swamp, I thought we had come to
a great Indian town. Though there were none but our company,
the Indians appeared as thick as the trees. It seemed as if
there had been a thousand hatchets going at once. If one
looked before there were nothing but Indians, and behind
nothing but Indians, and from either hand, and I myself in
the midst, and no Christian soul near me."
The next morning the wearisome march was again resumed. Early in the
afternoon they reached the banks of the Connecticut at a spot near
Hadley, where they found the ruins of a small English settlement. Mrs.
Rowlandson had for her food during the day an ear of corn and a small
piece of horse's liver. As she was roasting the liver upon some coals,
an Indian came and snatched half of it away. She was forced to eat the
rest almost raw, lest she should lose that also; and yet her hunger
was so great that it seemed a delicious morsel. They gathered a little
wheat from the fields, which they found frozen in the shocks upon the
icy ground.
The next morning they commenced ascending the river for a few miles,
where they were to cross to meet King Philip, who, with a large party
of warriors, was encamped on the western bank of the stream. Indians
from all quarters were assembling at that rendezvous, in preparation
for an assault on the Connecticut River towns. When Mrs. Rowlandson's
party arrived at the point of crossing, they encamped for the night.
The opposite shore seemed to be thronged with savage warriors. Mrs.
Rowlandson sat upon the banks of the stream, and gazed with amazement
upon the vast multitude, like swarming bees, crowding the shore. She
had never before seen so many assembled. While she was thus sitting,
to her great surprise, her son approached her. His master had brought
him to the spot. The interview between the woe-stricken mother and her
child was very brief and very sad. They were soon again separated.
The next morning they commenced crossing the river in canoes. When
Mrs. Rowlandson had crossed, she was received with peculiar kindness.
One Indian gave her two spoonfuls of meal, and another brought her
half a pint of peas. The half-famished captive now thought that her
larder was abundantly stored. She was then conducted to the wigwam of
King Philip. The Wampanoag chieftain received her with the courtesy of
a gentleman, invited her to sit down upon a mat by his side, and
presented her a pipe to smoke with him. He requested her to make a
shirt for his son, and, like a gentleman, paid her for her work. He
invited her to dine with him. They dined upon pancakes made of
parched wheat, beaten and fried in bear's grease. The dinner, though
very frugal, was esteemed very delicious.
The Indians remained here for several days, preparing for a very
formidable attack on the town of Northampton. During all the time that
Mrs. Rowlandson remained near King Philip, though she was held as a
captive, she was not treated as a slave. She was paid for all the work
that she did. She made a shirt for one of the warriors, and received
for it a generous sirloin of bear's flesh. For another she knit a pair
of stockings, for which she received a quart of peas. With these
savory viands Mrs. Rowlandson prepared a nice dinner, and invited her
master and mistress, Quinnapin and Wetamoo, to dine with her. They
accepted the invitation; but Mrs. Rowlandson did not appreciate the
niceties of Indian etiquette. Wetamoo was a queen, Quinnapin was only
her husband--merely the Prince Albert of Queen Victoria. As there was
but one dish from which both the queen and her husband were to be
served, the haughty Wetamoo deemed herself insulted, and refused to
eat a morsel.
Philip and his warriors soon departed to make attacks upon the
settlements. The Indians who remained took Mrs. Rowlandson and
several other captives some six miles farther up the river, and then
crossed to the eastern banks. Here they remained for some days, and
here Mrs. Rowlandson had another short interview with her son, which
lacerated still more severely her bleeding heart. The poor boy was
sick and in great pain, and his agonized mother was not permitted to
remain with him to afford him any relief. Of her daughter she could
learn no tidings. Wetamoo, Quinnapin, and Philip were all absent, and
the Indians treated her with great inhumanity, with occasional
caprices of strange and unaccountable kindness.
One bitter cold day, the Indians all huddled around the fire in the
wigwam, and would not allow her to approach it. Perishing with cold,
she went out and entered another wigwam. Here she was received with
great hospitality; a mat was spread for her, and she was addressed in
words of tender sympathy by the mother of the little barbarian
household, in whose bosom woman's loving heart throbbed warmly. But
soon the Indian to whose care she was intrusted came in search of her,
and amused himself in kicking her all the way home.
The next day the Indians commenced, for some unknown reason,
wandering back again toward Lancaster. They placed upon this poor
captive's back as heavy a burden as she could bear, and goaded her
along through the wilderness. She forded streams, and climbed steep
hills, and endured hardships which can not be described. Her hunger
was so great that six acorns, which she picked up by the way, she
esteemed a great treasure.
The night was cold and windy. The Indians erected a wigwam, and were
soon gathered around a glowing fire in the centre of it. The interior
presented a bright, warm, and cheerful scene, as Mrs. Rowlandson
entered to warm her shivering frame. She had been compelled to search
around to bring dry fuel for the fire. She was, however, ordered
instantly to leave the hut, the Indians saying that there was no room
for her at the fire. Mrs. Rowlandson hesitated about going out to pass
the night in the freezing air, when one of the Indians drew his knife,
and she was compelled to retire. There were several wigwams around;
the poor captive went from one to another, but from all she was
repelled with abuse and derision.
At last an old Indian took pity upon her, and told her to come in.
His wife received her with compassion, gave her a warm seat by the
fire, some ground-nuts for her supper, and placed a bundle under her
head for a pillow. With these accommodations the English clergyman's
wife felt that she was luxuriously entertained, and passed the night
in comfort and sweet slumbers. The next day the journey was continued.
As the Indians were binding a heavy burden upon Mrs. Rowlandson's
shoulders, she complained that it hurt her severely, and that the skin
was off her back. A surly Indian delayed not strapping on the load,
merely remarking, dryly, that it would be of but little consequence if
her head were off too.
The Indians now entered a region of the forest where there was a very
heavy growth of majestic trees, and the underbrush was so dense as to
be almost impenetrable. Plunging into this as a covert, they reared
their wigwams, and remained here, in an almost starving condition, for
fourteen days. The anxious mother inquired of an Indian if he could
inform her what had become of her boy. The rascal very coolly told
her, that he might torture her by the falsehood, that his master had
roasted the lad, and that he himself had been furnished with a steak,
and that it was very delicious meat. They also told her, in the same
spirit, that her husband had been taken by the Indians and slain.
Thus the Indians continued for several weeks wandering about from one
place to another, without any apparent object, and most of the time in
a miserable, half-famished condition. A more joyless, dismal life
imagination can hardly conceive. One day thirty Indians approached the
encampment on horseback, all dressed in the garments which they had
stripped from the English whom they had slain. They wore hats, white
neckcloths, and sashes about their waists. They brought a message from
Quinnapin that Mrs. Rowlandson must go to the foot of Mount Wachusett,
where the Indian warriors were in council, deliberating with some
English commissioners about the redemption of the captives. "My heart
was so heavy before," writes Mrs. Rowlandson, "that I could scarce
speak or go in the path, and yet now so light that I could run. My
strength seemed to come again, and to recruit my feeble knees and
aching heart. Yet it pleased them to go but one mile that night, and
there we staid two days."
They then journeyed along slowly, the whole party suffering extremely
from hunger. A little broth, made from boiling the old and dry feet of
a horse, was considered a great refreshment. They at length came to a
small Indian village, where they found in captivity four English
children, and one of them was a child of Mrs. Rowlandson's sister.
They were all gaunt and haggard with famine. Sadly leaving these
suffering little ones, the journey was continued until they arrived
near Mount Wachusett. Here King Philip met them. Kindly, and with the
courtesy of a polished gentleman, he took the hand of the unhappy
captive, and said, "In two weeks more you shall be your own mistress
again." In this encampment of warriors she was placed again in the
hands of her master and mistress, Quinnapin and Wetamoo. Of this
renowned queen Mrs. Rowlandson says:
"A severe and proud dame she was, bestowing every day, in
dressing herself, nearly as much time as any of the gentry
in the land, powdering her hair and painting her face, going
with her necklaces, with jewels in her ears. When she had
dressed herself, her work was to make girdles of wampum and
beads."
Wampum was the money in use among the Indians. It consisted of
beautiful shells very curiously strung together. "Their beads," says
John Josselyn, "are their money. Of these there are two sorts, blue
beads and white beads. The first is their gold, the last their silver.
These they work out of certain shells so cunningly that neither Jew
nor Devil can counterfeit. They drill them and string them, and make
many curious works with them to adorn the persons of their sagamores
and principal men and young women, as belts, girdles, tablets, borders
of their women's hair, bracelets, necklaces, and links to hang in
their ears."
Our poor captive, having returned to the wigwam of her master and
mistress, was treated with much comparative kindness. She was received
hospitably at the fire. A mat was given to her for a bed, and a rug to
spread over her. She was employed in knitting stockings and making
under garments for her mistress. While here, two Indians came with
propositions from the government at Boston for the purchase of her
ransom. The news overwhelmed Mrs. Rowlandson with emotions too deep
for smiles, and she could only give utterance to her feelings in sobs
and flooding tears.
The sachems now met to consult upon the subject. They called Mrs.
Rowlandson before them, and, after a long and very serious
conference, agreed to receive twenty pounds ($100) for her ransom. One
of the praying Indians was sent to Boston with this proposition.
While this matter was in progress, the Indians went out on several
expeditions, and returned with much plunder and many scalps. One of
the savages had a necklace made of the fingers of the English whom he
had slain.
It was the custom of the Indians not to remain long in any one place,
lest they should be overtaken by the bands of the colonists which were
every where in pursuit of them. The latter part of April, after having
perpetrated enormous destruction in Sudbury and other towns, the
warriors returned to their rendezvous elated, yet trembling, as they
knew that the English forces were in search of them. Immediately
breaking up their encampment, they retreated several miles into the
wilderness, and there built an enormous tent of boughs, sufficient to
hold one hundred men.
Here the Indians gathered from all quarters, and they had a feast and
a great dance. Mrs. Rowlandson learned from a captive English woman
whom she found here that her sister and her own daughter were with
some Indians at but a mile's distance. Though she had seen neither
for ten weeks, she was not permitted to go near them. The poor woman
plead with anguish of entreaty to be permitted to see her child, but
she could make no impression upon their obdurate hearts.
One Sabbath afternoon, just as the sun was going down, a colonist, Mr.
John Hoar, a man of extraordinary intrepidity of spirit, with a firm
step approached the encampment, guided by two friendly Indians, and
under the very frail protection of a barbarian flag of truce. The
savages, as soon as they saw him, seized their guns, and rushed as if
to kill him. They shot over his head and under his horse, before him
and behind him, seeing how near they could make the bullets whistle by
his ears without hitting him. They dragged him from his horse, pushed
him this way and that way, and treated him with all imaginable
violence without inflicting any bodily harm. This they did to frighten
him; but John Hoar was not a man to be frightened, and the savages
admired his imperturbable courage.
The chiefs built their council fire, and held a long conference with
Mr. Hoar. They then allowed him a short interview with Mrs.
Rowlandson. He brought her messages of affection from her distracted
husband, and cheered her with the hope that her release would
eventually, though not immediately, be obtained. She plead earnestly
with the Indians for permission to return with Mr. Hoar, promising to
send back the price of her ransom; but they declared that she should
not go.
After dinner the Indians made arrangements for one of their most
imposing dances. It was a barbarian cotillon, performed by eight
partners in the presence of admiring hundreds. Queen Wetamoo and her
husband, Quinnapin, were conspicuous in this dance. He was dressed in
a white linen shirt, with a broad border of lace around the skirt. To
this robe silver buttons were profusely attached. He wore white cotton
stockings, with shillings dangling and clinking from the garters. A
turban composed of girdles of wampum ornamented his head, while broad
belts of wampum passed over his shoulders and encircled his waist.
Wetamoo was dressed for the ball in a horseman's coat of coarse,
shaggy cloth. This was beautifully decorated with belts of wampum from
the waist upward. Her arms, from the elbows to the wrist, were clasped
with bracelets. A great profusion of necklaces covered her
well-rounded shoulders and ample bosom. Her ears were laden with
jewels. She wore red stockings and white shoes. Her face was painted a
brilliant crimson, and her hair powdered white as snow. For music the
Indians sang, while one beat time upon a brass kettle.
Soon after the dance, King Philip, who was there with his warriors,
but who appears to have taken no part in the carousals, sent for Mrs.
Rowlandson, and said to her, with a smiling face, "Would you like to
hear some good news? I have a pleasant word for you. You are to go
home to-morrow." Arrangements had been finally made through Mr. Hoar
for her ransom.
On the next morning Mrs. Rowlandson, accompanied by Mr. Hoar and the
two friendly Indians, commenced her journey through the wilderness
toward Lancaster. She left her two children, her sister, and many
other friends and relatives still in captivity. "In coming along," she
says, "my heart melted into tears more than all the while I was with
them."
Toward evening they reached the spot where Lancaster once stood. The
place, once so luxuriant and beautiful, presented a dreary aspect of
ruin. The storm of war had swept over it, and had converted all its
attractive homes into smouldering embers. They chanced to find an old
building which had escaped the flames, and here, upon a bed of straw,
they passed the night. With blended emotions of bliss and of anguish,
the bereaved mother journeyed along the next day, and about noon
reached Concord. Here she met many of her friends, who rejoiced with
her in her rescue, and wept with her over the captives who were still
in bondage. They then hurried on to Boston, where she arrived in the
evening, and was received to the arms of her husband, after a
captivity in the wilderness of three months. By great exertions, their
son and daughter were eventually regained. We now return from the
incidents of this captivity to renew the narrative of Philip's war.