DEATH OF KING PHILIP.
1677
Fallen fortunes of Philip.--Execution of Sam Barrow.--Character
of Wetamoo.--The queen drowned.--Deplorable condition of
Philip.--Indomitable resolution.--Summary punishment.--Disposition
of the army.--Confident of the capture of Philip.--The carnage
commenced.--Rushing into danger.--Death of Philip.--Delight of
Alderman.--Reception of the news.--Ignoble treatment of the body.--An
Indian executioner.--Noble character of Philip.--His reluctance to
commence war.--His foresight.--His humanity.--His mode of
warfare.--Do justice to his memory.--Feelings for him in 1677.--Cotton
Mather's record.--"In his fate, forget his crimes."--Annawan.--Plan for
his capture.--The march.--A violent gale.--Resolution.--Reluctance of
the Indians.--Uncomfortable night.--Successful decoy.--The plan
repeated.--Making proselytes.--Advantages to be gained.--A feast.--The
Indians in good-humor.--Women captured.--Capture of an old man.--His
story.--A new enterprise proposed.--Energetic resolve of Captain
Church.--Enthusiasm aroused.--The old man a guide.--Arrival at
Annawan's retreat.--Drake's description of the place.--Annawan's
retreat.--Annawan's retreat.--Employments of the Indians.--Precipitous
descent.--Mode of entering the retreat.--Annawan captured.--A quiet
surrender.--A grand repast.--Attempted repose.--Effect of
excitement.--Disappearance of Annawan.--A magnificent present.--Address
to Captain Church.--Relation of early adventures.--Attempt to save
Annawan's life.--Tuspaquin.--His exploits.--Superstitious
belief.--Discovery of the Indians.--Capture of Tuspaquin's
relatives.--Outrageous violation of faith.
The heroic and unfortunate monarch of the Wampanoags was now indeed a
fugitive, and almost utterly desolate. A few of the more noble of the
Indians still adhered faithfully to the fortunes of their ruined
chieftain. The colonists pursued the broken bands of the Indians with
indefatigable energy. A small party sought refuge at a place called
Agawam, in the present town of Wareham. Captain Church immediately
headed an expedition, pursued them, and captured the whole band. A
notorious Indian desperado called Sam Barrow was among the number. He
was a bloodthirsty wretch, who had filled the colony with the terror
of his name. He boasted that with his own hand he had killed nineteen
of the English. Captain Church informed him that, in consequence of
his inhuman murders, the court could allow him no quarter. The stoical
savage, with perfect indifference, said that he was perfectly willing
to die, and only requested the privilege of smoking a pipe. He sat
down upon a rock, while his Indian executioner stood by his side with
his gleaming tomahawk in his hand. The savage smoked a few whiffs of
tobacco, laid aside his pipe, and calmly said, "I am ready." In
another instant the hatchet of the executioner sank deep into his
brain. He fell dead upon the rock.
On the 6th of August one of Philip's Indians deserted his master and
fled to Taunton. To make terms for himself, he offered to conduct the
English to a spot upon the river where Wetamoo had secreted herself
with a party of Pocasset warriors. Twenty of the inhabitants of
Taunton armed themselves and followed their Indian guide. He led them
to a spot now called Gardiner's Neck, in the town of Swanzey.
At the beginning of the war, Wetamoo, flushed with hope, had marched
to the conflict leading three hundred warriors in her train. She was
now hiding in thickets, swamps, and dens, with but twenty-six
followers, and they dejected and despairing. Next to King Philip,
Wetamoo had been the most energetic of the foes of the English. She
was inspired with much of his indomitable courage, and was never
wanting in resources. The English came upon them by surprise, and
captured every one but Wetamoo herself. The heroic queen, too proud to
be captured, instantly threw off all her clothing, seized a broken
piece of wood, and plunged into the stream. Worn down by exhaustion
and famine, her nerveless arm failed her, and she sank beneath the
waves. Her body, like a bronze statue of marvelous symmetry, was soon
after found washed upon the shore. As faithful chroniclers, we must
declare, though with a blush, that the English cut off her head, and
set it upon a pole in their streets, a trophy ghastly, bloody,
revolting. Many of her subjects were in Taunton as captives. When they
beheld the features of their beloved queen, they filled the air with
shrieks of lamentation.
The situation of Philip was now indescribably deplorable. All the
confederate tribes had abandoned him; the most faithful of his
followers had already perished. His only brother was dead; his wife
and only son were slaves in the hands of the English, doomed to
unending bondage; every other relative was cold in death. The few
followers who still, for their own protection, accompanied him in his
flight, were seeking in dismay to save their own lives. His domain,
which once spread over wide leagues of mountain and forest, was now
contracted to the dark recesses and dismal swamps where, as a hunted
beast, he sought his lair. There was no place of retreat for him. All
the Connecticut Indians had become his bitter foes, because he had
embroiled them in a war which had secured their ruin. The Mohawks,
upon the Hudson, were thirsting for his blood.
Still, this indomitable man would not think of yielding. He
determined, with a resolution which seemed never to give way, to fight
till a bullet from the foe should pierce his brain. In this hour of
utter hopelessness, one of Philip's warriors ventured to urge him to
surrender to the English. The haughty monarch immediately put the man
to death as a punishment for his temerity and as a warning to others.
The brother of this Indian, indignant at such severity, deserted to
the English, and offered to guide them to the swamp where Philip was
secreted. The ruined monarch had returned to the home of his childhood
to fight his last battles and to die.
Captain Church happened to be at this time, with a party of
volunteers, at Rhode Island, having crossed over by the ferry from
Tiverton. Here he met the Indian traitor. "He was a fellow of good
sense," says Captain Church, "and told his story handsomely." He
reported that Philip was upon a little spot of upland in the midst of
a miry swamp just south of Mount Hope. It was now evening. Half of the
night was spent in crossing the water in canoes. At midnight Captain
Church brought all his company together, and gave minute directions
respecting their movements. They surrounded the swamp. With the
earliest light of the morning they were ordered to creep cautiously
upon their hands and feet until they came in sight of their foes. As
soon as anyone discovered Philip or any of his men, he was to fire,
and immediately all were to rise and join in the pursuit. To make sure
of his victim, Captain Church also formed a second circle surrounding
the swamp, placing an Englishman and an Indian behind trees, rocks,
etc., so that no one could pass between them. He also stationed small
parties in selected places in ambuscade.
Having completed all his arrangements, he took his friend Major
Sandford by the hand, and said,
"I have now so posted my men that I think it impossible that Philip
should escape us."
He had hardly uttered these words ere the report of a musket was heard
in the swamp, and this was instantaneously followed by a whole volley.
Some of the Indians had been discovered, and the murderous work was
commenced. The morning had as yet but just dawned. An awful scene of
dismay, tumult, and blood ensued. Philip, exhausted by days and nights
of the most harassing flight and fighting, had been found soundly
asleep. The few warriors still faithful to him, equally exhausted,
were dozing at his side. A party of the English crept cautiously
within musket shot of their sleeping foes, discharged a volley of
bullets upon them, and then rushed into their encampment.
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF KING PHILIP.]
The dreams of the despairing fugitive were disturbed by the crash of
musketry, the whistling of bullets, and the shout and the onset of his
foes. He leaped from his couch of leaves, and, like a deer, bounded
from hummock to hummock in the swamp. It so happened that he ran
directly upon an ambush which Captain Church had warily established.
An Englishman and the Indian deserter, whose name was Alderman, stood
behind a large tree, with their guns cocked and primed. As Philip,
bewildered and unconscious of his peril, drew near, the Englishman
took deliberate aim at him when he was but at the distance of a few
yards, and sprung his lock. The night dews of the swamp had moistened
the powder, and his gun missed fire. The life of Philip was thus
prolonged for one half of a minute. The traitor Alderman then eagerly
directed his gun against the chief to whom but a few hours before he
had been in subjection. A sharp report rang through the forest, and
two bullets, for the gun was double charged, passed almost directly
through the heart of the heroic warrior. For an instant the majestic
frame of the chieftain, as he stood erect, quivered from the shock,
and then he fell heavy and stone dead in the mud and water of the
swamp.
Alderman, delighted with his exploit, ran eagerly to inform Captain
Church that he had shot King Philip. Church ordered him to be
perfectly silent about it, that his men might more vigorously pursue
the remaining warriors. For some time the pursuit and the carnage
continued. Captain Church then, by a concerted signal, called his army
together, and informed them of the death of their formidable foe. The
tidings were received with a simultaneous shout of exultation, which,
repeated again and again, reverberated through the solitudes of the
forests. The whole army then advanced to the spot where the sovereign
of the Wampanoags lay gory in death. They had but little reverence for
an Indian, and, seizing the body, they dragged it, as if it had been
the carcass of a wild beast, through the mud to an upland slope, where
the ground was dry. Here, for a time, they gazed with exultation upon
the great trophy of their victory, and spurned the dishonored body as
if it had been a wolf or a panther which had been destroying their
families and their flocks. Captain Church then said,
"Forasmuch as he has caused many an Englishman's body to lie unburied
and to rot above the ground, not one of his bones shall be buried."
An old Indian executioner, a vulgar, bloodthirsty wretch, was then
called to cut up the body. With bitter taunts he stood over him with
his hatchet, and cut off his head and quartered him. Philip had one
remarkable hand, which was much scarred by the explosion of a pistol.
This hand was given to Alderman, who shot him, as his share of the
spoil. Alderman preserved it in rum, and carried it around the
country as a show, "and accordingly," says Captain Church, "he got
many a penny by it." We would gladly doubt the statement, if we could,
that the head of this ill-fated chief was sent to Plymouth, where it
was for a long time exposed on a gibbet. The four quarters of the
mangled body were hung upon four trees, and there they remained
swinging in the moaning wind until the elements wasted them away.
Thus fell Pometacom, perhaps the most illustrious savage upon the
North American continent. The interposition of Providence alone seems
to have prevented him from exterminating the whole English race upon
this continent. Though his character has been described only by those
who were exasperated against him to the very highest degree, still it
is evident that he possessed many of the noblest qualities which can
embellish human nature.
It is said that with reluctance and anguish he entered upon the war,
and that he shed tears when the first English blood was shed. His
extraordinary kindness to the Leonards, inducing him to avert
calamities from a whole settlement, lest they, by some accident, might
be injured, develops magnanimity which is seldom paralleled. He was a
man of first-rate abilities. He foresaw clearly that the growth of
the English power threatened the utter extermination of his race. War
thus, in his view, became a dire necessity. No man could be more
conscious of its fearful peril. With sagacity which might excite the
envy of the ablest of European diplomatists, he bound together various
heterogeneous and hostile tribes, and guided all their energies.
Though the generality of the Indians were often inhuman in the
extreme, there is no evidence that Philip ever ordered a captive to be
tortured, while it is undeniable that the English, in several
instances, surrendered their captives to the horrid barbarities of
their savage allies.
"His mode of making war," says Francis Baylies, "was secret
and terrible. He seemed like the demon of destruction
hurling his bolts in darkness. With cautious and noiseless
steps, and shrouded by the deep shade of midnight, he glided
from the gloomy depths of the woods. He stole on the
villages and settlements of New England, like the
pestilence, unseen and unheard. His dreadful agency was felt
when the yells of his followers roused his victims from
their slumbers, and when the flames of their blazing
habitations glared upon their eyes. His pathway could be
traced by the horrible desolation of its progress, by its
crimson print upon the snows and the sands, by smoke and
fire, by houses in ruins, by the shrieks of women, the
wailing of infants, and the groans of the wounded and the
dying. Well indeed might he have been called the 'terror of
New England.' Yet in no instance did he transcend the
ordinary usages of Indian warfare.
"We now sit in his seats and occupy his lands; the lands
which afforded a bare subsistence to a few wandering savages
can now support countless thousands of civilized people. The
aggregate of the happiness of man is increased, and the
designs of Providence are fulfilled when this fair domain is
held by those who know its use; surely we may be permitted
at this day to lament the fate of him who was once the lord
of our woods and our streams, and who, if he wrought much
mischief to our forefathers, loved some of our race, and
wept for their misfortunes!"
There was, however, but little sympathy felt in that day for Philip or
any of his confederates. The truly learned and pious but pedantic
Cotton Mather, allowing his spirit to be envenomed by the horrid
atrocities of Indian warfare, thus records the tragic end of
Pometacom:
"The Englishman's piece would not go off, but the Indians
presently shot him through his venomous and murderous heart.
And in that very place where he first contrived and
commenced his mischief, this Agag was now cut in quarters,
which were then hanged up, while his head was carried in
triumph to Plymouth, where it arrived on the very day that
the church was keeping a solemn thanksgiving to God. God
sent them in the head of a Leviathan for a thanksgiving
feast."
We must remember that the Indians have no chroniclers of their wrongs,
and yet the colonial historians furnish us with abundant incidental
evidence that outrages were perpetrated by individuals of the
colonists which were sufficient to drive any people mad. No one can
now contemplate the doom of Pometacom, the last of an illustrious
line, but with emotions of sadness.
"Even that he lived is for his conqueror's tongue;
By foes alone his death-song must be sung.
No chronicles but theirs shall tell
His mournful doom to future times.
May these upon his virtues dwell,
And in his fate forget his crimes!"
The war was now virtually at an end. Still there were many broken bands
of Indians wandering through the wilderness in a state of utter
desperation; they knew that to surrender doomed them to death or to
hopeless slavery. Though they were unable to wage any effective warfare,
they could desolate the settlements with murders and with terrible
depredations.
A few days after the death of King Philip, intelligence was brought to
Plymouth that Annawan, Philip's chief captain, a man of indomitable
energy, was ranging the woods with a band of warriors in the vicinity of
Rehoboth and Swanzey, and doing great mischief.
Annawan was now commander-in-chief of all the remaining Indian forces.
His death or capture was accordingly esteemed a matter of great
moment. Captain Church immediately gathered around him a band of
his enthusiastic troops. They were so devoted to their successful
commander that they declared their readiness to follow him as long as
an Indian was left in the woods. They immediately commenced their
march, and ranged the woods along the Pocasset shore. Not finding any
Indians, they crossed the arm of the bay in canoes to Rhode Island,
intending to spend the next day, which was the Sabbath, there in
religious rest. Early the next morning, however, a messenger informed
the captain that a canoe filled with Indians had been seen passing
from Prudence Island to the west side of Bristol, which was then
called Poppasquash Neck. Captain Church, thinking that these men were
probably going to join the band of Annawan, resolved immediately to
pursue them. He had no means of transporting his troops but in two or
three frail birch canoes. He crossed himself, however, with sixteen of
his Indian allies, when the gale increased to such severity, and hove
up such a tumultuous sea, that the canoes could no longer pass.
Captain Church now found himself upon Bristol Neck with but sixteen
Indian allies around him, while all the rest of his force, including
nearly all of his English soldiers, were upon Rhode Island, and cut
off from all possibility of immediately joining him. Still, the
intrepid captain adopted the resolve to march in pursuit of the enemy,
though he was aware that he might meet them in overwhelming numbers.
The Indians expressed some reluctance to go unaccompanied by English
soldiers; finally, however, they consented. Skulking through almost
impenetrable thickets, they came to a salt meadow just north of the
present town of Bristol. It was now night, and though they had heard
the report of two guns in the woods, they had met no Indians. A part
of their company, who had been sent out on a skulk, had not returned,
and great anxiety was felt lest they had fallen into an ambush and
been captured. The night was dark, and cold, and dreary. They had not
a morsel of bread, and no food to cook; they did not dare to build a
fire, as the flame would be sure to attract their wakeful enemies.
Hungry and solitary, the hours of the night lingered slowly away. In
the earliest dawn of the morning, the Indian scouts returned with the
following extraordinary story, which proved to be true. They said that
they had not advanced far when they discovered two Indians at a
distance approaching them upon one horse. The scouts immediately hid
in the brush in parallel lines at a little distance from each other.
One of the Indians then stationed himself as a decoy, and howled like
a wolf. The two Indians immediately stopped, and one, sliding from the
horse, came running along to see what was there. The cunning Indian,
howling lower and lower, drew him on between those lying in wait for
him, until they seized and instantly gagged him. The other, seeing
that his companion did not return, and still hearing the faint
howlings of the wolf, also left his horse, and soon experienced the
same fate.
The two captives they then examined apart, and found them to agree in
the story that there were eight more Indians who had come with them
into the Neck in search of provisions, and that they had all agreed to
meet at an old Indian burying-place that evening. The two captives
chanced to be former acquaintances of the leader of the scouting
party. He told them enticing stories of the bravery of Captain Church,
and of the advantages of fighting with him and for him instead of
against him. The vagabond prisoners were in a very favorable condition
to be influenced by such suggestions. They heartily joined their
victors, and aided in entrapping their unsuspecting comrades. The
eight were soon found, and, by a continuance of the same stratagem,
were all secured. All these men immediately co-operated with Captain
Church's company, and aided in capturing their remaining friends. In
this perhaps they were to be commended, as there was nothing before
them but misery, starvation, and death in the wilderness, while there
was at least food and life with Captain Church.
With their band thus strengthened there was less fear of surprise. A
horse was killed, roaring fires built, and the Indians, roasting the
meat upon wooden spits, exulted for a few hours in a feast of steaks
which, to them at least, were savory and delicious. The Indians
usually carried salt in their pockets: with this alone they seasoned
their horse-flesh. As there was not a morsel of bread to be obtained,
Captain Church had no better fare than his savage companions.
The Indians were now in exceeding good-humor. All having eaten their
fill, and loading themselves with a sufficient supply for the day,
they commenced their march, under the guidance of the captives, to the
place where they had left their women and children. All were surprised
and captured. But no one could tell where Annawan was to be found. All
agreed in the declaration that he was continually roving about, never
sleeping twice in the same place.
One of the Indian prisoners entreated Captain Church to permit him
to go into a swamp, about four miles distant, where his father was
concealed with his young wife. He promised to bring them both in.
Captain Church, thinking that he might, perhaps, obtain some
intelligence respecting Annawan, decided to go with him. Taking with
him one Englishman and a few Indians, and leaving the rest to remain
where they were until his return, he set out upon this enterprise.
When they arrived on the borders of the swamp, the Indian was sent
forward in search of his father. Pretty soon they heard a low howling,
which was promptly responded to by a corresponding howl at a distance.
At length they saw an old man coming toward them with his gun upon
his shoulder, and followed by a young Indian girl, his daughter.
Concealing themselves on each side of the narrow trail, Captain
Church's party awaited their approach, and seized them both.
Threatening them with terrible punishment if they deceived him with
any falsehood, he examined them apart.
Both agreed that they had been lately in Annawan's camp; that he had
with him about sixty Indians, and that he was at but a few miles'
distance, in Squannaconk Swamp, in the southeasterly part of Rehoboth.
"Can I get there to-night?" inquired Captain Church. "If you set out
immediately," the old Indian replied, "and travel stoutly, you can
reach there by sunset."
Just then the young Indian who had been in search of his father
returned with his father and another Indian. Captain Church was now in
much perplexity. He was very desirous of going in pursuit of Annawan
before the wary savage should remove to other quarters. He had,
however, but half a dozen men with him, and it was necessary to send a
messenger back to acquaint those who had been left of his design.
Collecting his little band together, he inquired if they were ready to
go with him to endeavor to take Annawan. The enterprise appeared to
them all very perilous. They replied,
"We are willing to obey your commands. But Annawan is a renowned and
veteran warrior. He served under Pometacom's father, and has been
Pometacom's chief captain during this war. He is a very subtle man, a
man of great energy, and has often said that he would never be taken
alive by the English. Moreover, the warriors who are with him are very
resolute men. We therefore fear that it would be impossible to take
him with so small a band. We should but throw away our lives."
Still, Captain Church, relying upon his own inexhaustible resources,
and upon the well-known despondency and despair of the Indians,
resolved to go, and with a few words roused the enthusiasm of his
impulsive and fickle followers. He sent the young Indian, with his
father and the young squaw, back to the camp, while he took the other
old man whom he had captured as his guide. "You have given me my
life," said the Indian, "and it is my duty to serve you."
Energetically they commenced their march through the woods, the old
man leading off with tremendous strides. Occasionally he would get so
far in advance that the party would lose sight of him, when he would
stop until they came up. He might easily have escaped had he wished to
do so. Just as the sun was setting, the old man made a full stop and
sat down. The rest of the company came up, all being very weary, and
sat down around him.
"At this hour," said the old man, "Annawan always sends out his
scouts. We must conceal ourselves here until after dark, when the
scouts will have returned."
As soon as the darkness of night had settled over the forest, the old
man again rose to resume the march. Captain Church said to him,
"Will you take a gun and fight for us?"
The faithful guide bowed very low, and nobly said, "I pray you not to
impose upon me such a thing as to fight Annawan, my old friend. I will
go along with you and be helpful to you, and will lay hands on any man
who shall offer to hurt you."
In the gloom of the wilderness it was now very dark, and all kept
close together, and moved cautiously and silently along. Soon they
heard a noise as of a woman pounding corn. All stopped and listened.
They had arrived at Annawan's retreat. Captain Church, with one
Englishman and half a dozen Indians, most of whom had been taken
captive that very day, were about to attack one of the fiercest and
most redoubtable of Philip's chieftains, surrounded by sixty of his
tribe, many of whom were soldiers of a hundred battles. Drake, in his
Book of the Indians, gives the following description of this noted
place:
"It is situated in the southeasterly corner of Rehoboth,
about eight miles from Taunton Green, a few rods from the
road which leads to Providence, and on the southeasterly
side of it. If a straight line were drawn from Taunton to
Providence, it would pass very nearly over this place.
Within the limits of an immense swamp of nearly three
thousand acres there is a small piece of upland, separated
from the main only by a brook, which in some seasons is dry.
This island, as we may call it, is nearly covered with an
enormous rock, which to this day is called Annawan's Rock.
Its southeast side presents an almost perpendicular
precipice, and rises to the height of twenty-five or thirty
feet. The northwest side is very sloping and easy of ascent,
being at an angle of not more than thirty-five or forty
degrees. A more gloomy and hidden recess, even now, although
the forest-tree no longer waves over it, could hardly be
found by any inhabitant of the wilderness."
Creeping cautiously to the summit of the rock, Captain Church looked
down over its precipitous edge upon the scene presented below. The
spectacle which opened to his view was wild and picturesque in the
extreme. He saw three bands of Indians at short distances from each
other, gathered around several fires. Their pots and kettles were
boiling, and meat was roasting upon the spits. Some of the Indians
were sleeping upon the ground, others were cooking, while others were
sitting alone and silent, and all seemed oppressed and melancholy.
Directly under the rock Annawan himself was lying, apparently asleep,
with his son by his side. The guns of the Indians were stacked at a
little distance from the fires, with mats spread over them to protect
them from the weather. It seemed impossible to descend the precipitous
face of the rock, and Captain Church accordingly crept back and
inquired of his guide if they could not approach by some other way.
"No," answered the guide. "All who belong to Annawan's company are
ordered to approach by that entrance, and none can from any other
direction without danger of being shot."
The old man and his daughter had left the encampment of Annawan upon
some mission; their return, therefore, would excite no suspicion. They
both had tule baskets bound to their backs. Captain Church directed
them to clamber down the rocks to the spot where Annawan was reposing.
Behind their shadow Church and two or three of his soldiers crept
also. The night was dark, and the expiring embers of Annawan's fire
but enabled the adventurers more securely to direct their steps. The
old chief, in a doze, with his son by his side, hearing the rustling
of the bushes, raised his eyes, and seeing the old Indian and his
daughter, suspected no danger, and again closed his eyes. In this
manner, supporting themselves by roots and vines, the small party
effected its descent undiscovered. Captain Church, with his hatchet in
his hand, stepped directly over the young man's head, and seized his
weapons and those of his father. The young Annawan, discovering
Captain Church, whipped his blanket over his head, and shrunk up in a
heap. Old Annawan, starting from his recumbent posture, and supposing
himself surrounded by the English army, exclaimed, "Ho-woh," _I am
taken_, and sank back upon the ground in despair. Their arms were
instantly secured, and perfect silence was commanded on pain of
immediate death. The Indians who had followed Captain Church down over
the rock, having received previous instructions, immediately hastened
to the other fires, and informed the Indians that their chief was
taken a captive; that they were surrounded by the English army, so
that escape was impossible; and that, at the slightest resistance, a
volley of bullets would be poured in upon them, which would mow them
all down. They were assured that if they would peacefully submit they
might expect the kindest treatment.
As Church's Indians were all acquainted with Annawan's company, many
of them being relatives, the surprised party without hesitancy
surrendered both their guns and hatchets, and they were carried to
Captain Church. His whole force of six men was now assembled at one
spot, but the Indians still supposed that they were surrounded by a
powerful army in ambush, with loaded muskets pointed at them. Matters
being thus far settled, Annawan ordered an abundant supper to be
prepared of "cow beef and horse beef." Victors and vanquished partook
of this repast together. It was now thirty-six hours since Captain
Church and his men had had any sleep. Captain Church, overwhelmed with
responsibility and care, was utterly exhausted. He told his men that
if they would let him have a nap of two hours, he would then keep
watch for all the rest of the night, and they might sleep. He laid
himself down, but the excitement caused by his strange and perilous
position drove all slumber from his eyelids. He looked around him, and
soon the whole company was soundly sleeping, all excepting Annawan
himself. The Indian and the English chieftain lay side by side for an
hour, looking steadfastly at each other, neither uttering a word.
Captain Church could not speak Indian, and he supposed that Annawan
could not speak English. At length Annawan arose, laid aside his
blanket, and deliberately walked away. Almost before Captain Church
had time to collect his thoughts, he had disappeared in the midnight
gloom of the forest. Though all the arms of the Indians had been taken
from them, Captain Church was apprehensive that Annawan might by some
means obtain a gun and attempt some violence. He knew that pursuit
would be in vain in the darkness of the night and of the forest.
Placing himself in such a position by the side of young Annawan that
any shot which should endanger him would equally endanger the son, he
remained for some time in great anxiety. At length he heard the sound
of approaching footsteps. Just then the moon broke from among the
clouds, and shone out with great brilliance. By its light he saw
Annawan returning, with something glittering in his hand. The
illustrious chieftain, coming up to Captain Church, presented him with
three magnificent belts of wampum, gorgeously embroidered with
flowers, and pictures of beasts and birds. They were articles of court
dress which had belonged to King Philip, and were nearly a foot wide
and eight or ten feet long. He also had in his hands two powder-horns
filled with powder, and a beautiful crimson blanket. Presenting these
to Captain Church, he said, in plain English,
"Great captain, you have killed King Philip. I believe that I and my
company are the last that war against the English. I suppose the war
is ended by your means, and therefore these things belong to you. They
were Philip's royalties, with which he adorned himself when he sat in
state. I think myself happy in having an opportunity to present them
to you."
Neither of these illustrious men could sleep amid the excitements of
these eventful hours. Annawan was an intelligent man, and was fully
conscious that a further continuance of the struggle was hopeless.
With the most confiding frankness, he entertained his conqueror with
the history of his life from his earliest childhood to the present
hour. The whole remainder of the night was spent in this discourse, in
which Annawan, with wonderfully graphic skill, described his feats of
arms in by-gone years, when, under Massasoit, Philip's father, he led
his warriors against hostile tribes.
As soon as day dawned, Captain Church collected his men and his sixty
prisoners, and, emerging from the swamp, took up their march for
Taunton. They soon gained the Taunton road, about four miles from the
town, and there, according to appointment, met Lieutenant Howland,
with the men who had been left behind. They lodged at Taunton that
night. The next morning all the prisoners were sent forward to
Plymouth excepting Annawan. Captain Church was anxious to save his
life, and took the old chieftain with him to Rhode Island. After a few
days he returned with him to Plymouth. Captain Church plead earnestly
that Annawan's life might be spared, and supposing, without any doubt,
that this request would not be denied him, set out, after a few days,
in pursuit of another small band of Indians who were committing
robberies in the vicinity of Plymouth.
The leader of this band was Tuspaquin, sachem of Namasket. At the
beginning of the conflict he had led three hundred warriors into the
field. He led the band which laid nineteen buildings in ashes in
Scituate on the twentieth of April, and which burned seventeen
buildings in Bridgewater on the eighth of May. Also, on the eleventh
of May, he had burned eleven houses and five barns in Plymouth. The
English were consequently exceedingly exasperated against him.
Tuspaquin had great renown among his soldiers. He had been in
innumerable perils, and had never been wounded. The Indians affirmed
that no bullet could penetrate his body; that they had often seen them
strike him and glance off.
Intelligence had been brought to Plymouth that Tuspaquin was in the
vicinity of Sippican, now Rochester, doing great damage to the
inhabitants, killing their horses, cattle, and swine.
Monday afternoon Captain Church set out in pursuit of him. The next
morning they discovered a trail in the forest, and, following it
noiselessly, they came to a place called Lakenham, where the thicket
was almost impenetrable. Smoke was discovered rising from this
thicket, and two Indians crept in to see what could be discovered.
They soon returned with a report that quite a party of Indians, mostly
women and children, were sitting silently around the embers. Captain
Church ordered every man to creep on his hands and feet until they had
formed a circle around the Indians, and then, at a given signal, to
make a rush, and take them all prisoners. The stratagem was entirely
successful.
Captain Church found, to his extreme satisfaction, that he had
captured the wife and children of Tuspaquin, and most of his
relatives. They said that he had gone, with two other Indians, to
Wareham and Rochester to kill horses. Captain Church took all his
prisoners back to Plymouth except two old squaws. They were left at
the encampment with a good supply of food, and were directed to inform
Tuspaquin on his return that Captain Church had been there, and had
captured his wife and his children; that, if he would surrender
himself and his companions at Plymouth, they should be received
kindly, be well provided for, and he would employ them as his
soldiers.
The next day Captain Church had occasion to go to Boston. Upon his
return after a few days, he found, to his extreme chagrin and grief,
that Tuspaquin had come in and surrendered; that both he and Annawan
had been tried as murderers, and had been condemned and executed. This
transaction can not be too severely condemned.