Part 11

It was now September, and the soft haze of Indian summer drowsily hung over the once peaceful hills and valleys of Massachusetts, making it so strange to believe in war, that even the followers of King Philip found it impossible to fight. But the stern commands of the last of the Wampanoags was for more slaughter, and, a month after the burning of Brookfield--when most of the garrison was absent from Hadley--the savages fell upon it with sudden and unexpected fury. It was fast-day, and the people were in the meetinghouse, when a wild warwhoop sounded from the forest, the loud report of a musket followed, and, as the startled congregation rushed into the street, a band of howling red men poured into the village with yells of savage hatred and defiance. Seizing their ever-present flintlocks, the men of Hadley backed away to the garrison house, forming a screen for the women and children behind them, but it was impossible to reach it, as they were cut off by the swarms of Indians. They retreated to another building (incapable of being defended from the inside) and here held off the exultant braves. It was a desperate situation, for should they go down before the onslaught, no quarter would be given to their loved ones and the Puritans knew that they must win in order to keep all that was dearest to them in life. Their hands trembled as they fired at the whooping warriors, now crouching behind fence posts and buildings, and pouring a steady fire into the brave defenders of Hadley, who, unnerved by the sight of their helpless families, fought grimly and desperately as the savages pressed ever nearer in front. The Puritans wavered; their line fell back and the fate of Hadley hung upon the trembling balance of a moment.

Suddenly, a loud cry sounded from the interior of the house, and an aged man of soldierly bearing and commanding presence, rushed into the open with sword in hand. "On, Englishmen, on!" he shouted, "back with this yelling vermin! Back! Drive them into the forest!"

There was a quick response from the stout Puritans, who were not lacking in courage, but who needed leadership. They rose to their feet. They rushed forward upon the yelling foe. In the place of despair, now energy and hope stirred their hearts, and as the calm old man walked among them with words of cheer, they pressed upon the attackers with a new vigor. The Indians fell back with dismay, and, as numbers of their foremost scouts were knocked to the ground--pierced by the well-directed shots of the English--suddenly they fled into the woods, pursued by the impetuous defenders of Hadley on the dead run. When the sound of the retreat had died away, the men gathered together in the village to thank their aged leader. He was not there. From whence he had come, no one knew, and none had seen him disappear. The man was a mystery.

Such is the story of the fierce fighting at Hadley and of the strange appearance of the ancient knight, whose presence turned the tide of conflict at a time when victory was most needed. It would be pleasant to believe that this were some friendly spirit come to aid the Puritans--some ghostly retainer from the dim ages of the past--but such cannot be the case. Eventually, it was known that one Colonel Goffe--a fugitive from England--was concealed in the house of a Mr. Russell at Hadley, and, as he was an old soldier and a veteran of the war in England, it was impossible for him to remain quiet when he saw the doughty villagers getting the worst of the battle with the Indians. It was unknown to the people that he was among them, for he was a regicide (or assassin of the King of England) and had he been discovered, it would have been necessary for some citizen or some magistrate to have returned him to the mother country. Fortunate, indeed, had it been for the people of Hadley that a fugitive from justice had been among them.

September was a fatal month for the English. On the same day that Hadley was attacked, a large force of King Philip's men visited Deerfield, where they burned several houses and barns, and killed two men. At Northfield, the blockhouse was besieged, all the dwelling houses were burned, and a dozen settlers were slaughtered by the savages, while a Captain Beers, who went to the relief of the town with thirty soldiers, was ambuscaded by the Indians and killed. Only ten of his followers escaped. Deerfield was again attacked, and more houses were burned, while the surrounding country was swept bare of all settlers, farm utensils, and cattle belonging to the whites. The frontiersmen clustered together at Deerfield and Hadley, determined to sell their lives dear, if the worst came to the worst, and eagerly awaited an opportunity to avenge themselves upon their cruel foe.

When the farmers fled from the vicinity of Deerfield, they left a quantity of unthreshed grain, and so a company of eighty picked men--the flower of Essex County--under the command of Captain Lathrop of Ipswich, was sent from Hadley to complete the threshing and load the grain on wagons. This they did, and as they were returning through the forest, the soldiers halted in a grove of trees near a brook, where the men broke ranks and loitered to and fro in the shade, off their guard, and with their muskets and armor upon the ground. But alas! the crafty Indians had been all night upon their trail, waiting for just such an opportunity, and suddenly seven hundred painted braves, sheltered by the trees, poured a withering fire of balls and arrows into the unsuspecting followers of Lathrop. All but seven of the whites were killed, the rest escaped through the dense forest to bear the sad tidings to their friends, while the Indians held a riotous scalp dance over the remains of their victims. Because of this massacre, the brook, to this day, is called Bloody Brook.

As the savages sang and danced hilariously, a Captain Mosely, who had heard the firing and had seen the fugitives, hurried to the spot with several followers. From eleven o'clock in the morning, until dusk, he held his own against the redskins, when one hundred whites and sixty friendly Mohegan Indians arrived to assist him. The victorious savages were driven off with great loss and were pursued for some distance, while only one white man was killed and eleven were wounded. When Captain Mosely came up as the followers of King Philip were collecting spoils and scalps, he took off his wig and stuffed it into his breeches pocket so that he could be in good fighting trim, and thus use his rifle with ease. This act was seen by the Indians, and one cried out:

"Englishman got two heads! Me cut off one, he got another and put it on! Ugh! Ugh! I no like to fight man with two heads." And in consequence of this, several of the braves made off into the gloom of the forest, believing that they were leagued against Old Nick.

Philip, himself, was not active in these skirmishes and seems to have directed the plan of operations from his own wigwam and not to have taken a very prominent part in the fighting. Although numerous captives were brought to him, there is not an instance of his having maltreated a single white person, even while the hard-fisted Puritans were selling his own people into European slavery, or torturing and hanging them. A Mrs. Rowlandson was captured and brought to his camp where he not only invited her to call at his lodge, but, when she did so, bade her sit down and smoke a peace pipe. When next he met her, he requested her to make a garment for his child, and gave her a shilling for it. He afterwards took the trouble to visit her in order to tell her that "in a fortnight she should be her own mistress." What is still more to his credit, we read that when a certain James Brown of Swanzey came to his camp with a letter just before the commencement of hostilities, and the young warriors were about to kill him, Philip interfered and stopped these wild braves, saying that his father had told him to show kindness to Mr. Brown.

On the breaking of the war the King of the Wampanoags gave strict orders that no one should injure any of the members of the Leonard family, for these people had been very kind to him and had often repaired his guns when out of order. Thus the settlement of Taunton--where the Leonards resided--was almost entirely unmolested during the war, although in the very path of the struggling armies. Instances such as this show King Philip to have been a man of warm impulses, generosity, kindness, and forbearance--characteristics which some of the Puritan leaders, themselves, were lacking in.

The war had been disastrous for the English, and, stung with the bitterness of defeat, those in power determined to now use every effort to cripple the allied tribes under the leadership of Philip. The Narragansetts were secret allies of the Wampanoag Chief, and, as they had a large fort in South Kingston, R. I., built upon five or six acres of dry ground and encircled by a swamp, it was determined to attack and burn the stronghold. Palisades and a circle of felled trees surrounded the citadel, and it was defended by numerous warriors armed with flintlock muskets, which they had either stolen, or bartered, from the English. Massachusetts furnished five hundred and twenty soldiers for the army of conquest, Plymouth one hundred and fifty-nine, and Connecticut three hundred, while one hundred and fifty friendly Mohegan Indians went along as guides and scouts. This army of over a thousand men moved against the Narragansetts--under the leadership of stout Governor Winslow of Plymouth--confident of success, and singing hymns of victory. It was in December--the snow lay deep upon the ground--but it did not chill the ardent spirits of the Puritan troops.

At four o'clock in the afternoon the soldiers were in the vicinity of the fort and ready for the assault. They lined up in preparation for a rush upon the entrance, which was protected by a high blockhouse and had, in front of it, a log breastwork about five feet high, but, as luck would have it, a long log of considerable thickness jutted out through the palisade, and, with a rush, the Massachusetts men ran over the frozen swamp, leaped upon the fallen tree trunk and pushed towards the entrance. A withering fire from the Narragansetts threw them into confusion, and, in order to save themselves from slaughter, the brave soldiers cast themselves upon their faces. Many were killed and lay about in the snow, but, not daunted for an instant by this savage fire, the white soldiers again leaped to their feet, and, cheered by the cry, "They run," "They run," stormed over the tree, penetrated the stockade, and drove the Indians out of their position in the blockhouse.

Many continued to fall, while the Narragansetts, rallying again, began to press forward. But, at this juncture, the Connecticut troops made their way into the stockade through a breach in the palisade and took the warriors in the flank. All the Puritan leaders of this division fell dead, but the soldiers struggled like demons, and, as the men of Plymouth scrambled into the opening made by their entrance, the Narragansetts fell back, foot by foot, while the warriors fought desperately from the shelter of the bags and baskets of grain in the wigwams. At this moment fire burst from the tepees and the wind swept a mighty wave of flame through the fort, while the crackling of the burning wood and skins was mingled with the shrieks of the women and children, the yelling of the warriors, and the harsh yells of the sturdy Puritans.

The Indians were driven from the stockade into the swamp, where from the shelter of the thick wood, they still kept up a vigorous fire on the white troops, but, as the gloom of a wild winter's night settled upon the scene of battle, those Puritan leaders who had survived the carnage gathered around Captain Winslow in the glare of the blazing wigwams, while the driving snow turned their figures white against the flaming background. Their ammunition was nearly exhausted, and, as they knew that the Narragansetts--after rallying in the morning--might be upon them, a retreat was decided upon. So the tired and weary troops, leaving twenty of the dead in the fort to deceive the Indians, and carrying the wounded upon litters made of muskets and saplings, began a long and dreary march to the settlements. Many lost their way and wandered all night amid the storm, while seven of the Captains and about seventy-five of the soldiers died as a result of this exposure during the next few days. It had been a bitter contest, and the blow had not been a decisive one, as Philip--the wary and indefatigable Indian leader--was still alive.

The little town of Lancaster is in the far interior of Massachusetts, and this was attacked, next year, in February, by the Wachusett Indians. One of the Sachems of this tribe had married a sister of Philip's wife and thus there was a close bond of sympathy between these warlike people and the followers of the King of the Wampanoags. There were several garrison houses in the village, and in one--the Rowlandson house--were gathered about fifty men and women, who, awakened one cold and cheerless morning by the wild Indian war cry, rushed to the windows and looked out. The sight which met their eyes was terrifying, for several houses were in flames, and the Indians, whose dim forms were almost indistinct in the morning haze, were massacring the inmates with knives, muskets and tomahawks.

Soon the Rowlandson house itself was attacked, and, as it lay on the summit of a hill, the Indians crouched along the crest and poured a continuous fire upon it. For two hours the defenders held their own, until a cart filled with flax, hemp and hay--seized from the barn--was wheeled to the side and set on fire. The roof and sides of the garrison house were soon alight, and men, women and children rushed out in the vain hope of reaching the next house. It was in vain. They were all either killed or captured. The Indians carried off the cattle and survivors of the attack, while, a few days later, the town was abandoned to its fate.

Deerfield had also been deserted, and the Indians had taken possession of the untilled cornfields and had planted them afresh; while some miles beyond, at the falls on the Connecticut River, a large body of them was camped, in order to catch a supply of fish for King Philip's armies. A stout Captain Turner was at Hatfield when news was brought that the savages were near by in force, so, gathering one hundred mounted men, he made a night ride of twenty miles, and, as the sound of the approach was deadened by the rapids in the river, the English found the Indians fast asleep. At daybreak, on May 10th, the troops left their horses in a ravine and marched a mile or two to the rear of the savages, who had been so certain of their seclusion that they had not even posted a guard. Spreading out in a circle, the Puritans suddenly made a rush into the camp. The surprise was complete, and although many of the savages took to their canoes, they were washed over the falls and drowned in the frothing, eddying water. Many hid among the rocks, but they were seized and put to death by the sword; while scores were shot as they attempted to cross the river. Over three hundred warriors were thus destroyed, while the gallant Turner did not lose a single soldier, and, from this success, had the honor of having the falls named after him.

Not far off was another party of Indians, and, when they heard the noise of the fight, they came to the aid of their own blood, and were soon on Turner's tracks. Sad to relate, a panic seized the white troops--for a rumor was spread about that King Philip was at hand with a thousand warriors. A large number of the whites were cut off; Turner himself was killed; but the main body, with their tongues fairly hanging from their mouths--like the British troops in the retreat from Lexington--reached the settlement at Hatfield. The disaster had been a severe blow to Philip, for it broke up his fishery and many of his best sachems had been slain. In reprisal, he made an attack upon Hatfield, but the Indian warriors were so badly whipped that they retreated into the wilderness to mourn their losses and prepare for the last desperate stand of the war.

It was now spring of the year 1676, and, realizing that they must use every effort to put an end to hostilities, the Colonies called into active service every able-bodied man or boy who could shoulder a musket. All who could be spared from work upon the farms were sent out upon expeditions against the various bands of warring savages. Nor were the whites always successful, for many disasters came to the different bands of fighting men, as they marched and countermarched through the dense woodland of the interior of Massachusetts, where the moose still had its habitation, and the beaver, lynx, and bear were often to be met with. Thus one Captain Wadsworth was surprised as he went to the relief of Sudbury, Massachusetts, was entrapped in an ambush, and was killed, with sixty of his men. Shortly afterwards, a Captain Pierce with fifty Englishmen and twenty friendly Indians, when but eight miles from Providence, was surrounded, and, although his men formed in a circle, back to back, they were practically all killed or captured.

A messenger from the Captain was waiting at the church door, to inform a Captain Edwards that Pierce needed assistance, as the fierce fight was going on in the woods, and, had he not delayed in giving his message, because it was Sunday, and he did not want to disturb the meeting, there is no doubt that this fight would have had a different termination. Not long afterwards, things were reversed, and three hundred mounted men--English and Praying Indians--overtook a body of nearly the same number of Narragansetts in a swamp in their own country and completely annihilated them. Their chief was asked if he had anything to say before they executed him. "Yes," said he, "I shall die before my heart is soft, or I have said anything unworthy of myself. It is well. Ugh! Ugh!"

This was the beginning of the end. The tide of success for King Philip began to ebb, and, under the leadership of that hard, fighting man, Captain Church (who was more than a match for the Indians in cunning, as well as courage), those warriors who were still in the field against the whites were soon driven to the last ditch. Day and night Church followed the savages into the swamps and forests, so that they were reduced to live--if they did not actually starve or freeze--upon dead horses, clams and roots. The loss of chiefs and warriors disheartened the Indians, and their large expeditions were abandoned; while to distract pursuit, they split into small parties and fled into the solitude of the forest. Philip himself retreated to the neighborhood of his former settlement at Mount Hope, like a fox, who, when the hounds are hot upon his trail, seeks his burrow. He was set upon on all sides, and only escaped capture by many a hairbreadth.

The red warrior was now a desolate and desperate man, the last Sachem of an ancient race, without subjects, without territory, hunted like a deer, in daily fear of capture, in danger of starving and with no shelter at night for his head. All of his chief counsellors and best friends had been killed; his uncle was shot down at his side; his wife and child (an only son) were captured. Alone, friendless, and deserted, he hid in the dense forest, awaiting the doom which surely and relentlessly awaited him. "You have made Philip ready to die; you have made him as poor and miserable as he used to make the English, for you have now killed and taken all his relatives," said some Indian prisoners whom Church captured, as he looked for the Wampanoag Chief in the swamp.

Philip was hiding near Assowomset Pond, while numerous bodies of mounted troops and friendly Indians guarded the trails which led to it and scoured the country in all directions. So hunted and afraid was he that he fled southward in the hope of reaching the country of the Narragansetts. Hot in pursuit of the fleeing Sachem, Captain Church left Plymouth in search of the quarry, beat the woods about Pocasset, and finally ferried his men across the arm of Narragansett Bay--which here juts into the land--and camped with them in Rhode Island. The Captain paid a visit to a friend's house, some eight miles away, when two horsemen rode up, who called out:

"What will you give for some news of Philip, Captain?"

"I will give a good deal," replied the rough soldier.

"Then we can tell you where he is," said one--a Major Sanford--"for a Wampanoag has just come to our camp and told us that, as Philip had killed his brother for giving him advice that displeased him, he had fled from him, fearing the same fate, and, in revenge, will tell us where to find him."

"Let me see him at once," cried Church. "We will immediately be upon King Philip's trail."

So, riding immediately into the camp where the Wampanoag had been taken, they found him willing to guide them to Philip's hiding place. The whole English force, marching with great speed, crossed the water at Bristol Ferry, and soon arrived shortly after midnight at the north end of a miry swamp near Mount Hope. A small force was sent into the underbrush at daybreak to beat up Philip's hiding place and drive him into flight, while soldiers and Indians were placed behind trees, all around the swamp, so as to stop him if he attempted to get out.

"I have placed my men so that it is scarce possible for Philip to escape," said Captain Church to a companion, when suddenly a shot whistled over their heads and the noise of a gun in the direction of Philip's camp was immediately followed by the sound of a volley.

Some of the soldiers had crept upon their stomachs close to the sleeping camp, when the Captain in charge saw an Indian looking at him from behind a stump. He consequently fired at him immediately, and thus the Indian camp was, in a second, thrown into confusion. The Indian who had been shot at had been missed. It was Philip, who, seizing his pouch, gun, and powder horn, plunged immediately into the swamp, clad only in his trousers and moccasins.

As the King of the Wampanoags dashed down one of the many trails leading into the undergrowth, he was seen by a soldier and a friendly Indian from their hiding place behind a tree. The soldier raised his gun to fire, but the morning mist had dampened his powder and his musket would not go off. But the Indian fired immediately, sending one bullet through the heart of King Philip, and another, two inches above it. The great chief fell upon his face in the mud, while the savage who had laid him low rushed to Church with the news, and, when the whole force was assembled and had been informed of Philip's fate, they greeted the information with loud cheers. The friendly Indians, seizing the body by the leggins, drew it out of the mud to the highland, where it was immediately cut up. The head was severed from the body, carried to Plymouth, set upon a pole and paraded through the streets. It was then placed in a conspicuous spot, where it remained for nearly twenty-five years.