THE UNCROWNING OF A KING

PHILIP'S ADVENTURES AND DEATH

When Massasoit, the friend "tried and true," of the English, died, he left two sons,—possibly more, but only two figure on the pages of history. The oldest was Moanam, or Wamsutta, and the second Metacomet, the former being heir to the chieftaincy of the Wampanoags. Before the father died, he brought his two sons into the open court at Plymouth, and asked that each be given a Christian name, in token of his wish that the good understanding with the colonists should continue unbroken. The elder was, therefore, called Alexander, and the second Philip. You will note the classical character of these names, as they were thus given in memory of the famous heroes of ancient times.

It was not long before Alexander was in trouble with the English. Rumors reached the governor and council that he was plotting with the Narragansetts for a war against the whites. The record says that such good proof of the truth of these reports reached the authorities that they ordered Alexander to appear before them and make explanation.

Because he did not do so at once, an armed force was sent in July, 1662, to bring him to Plymouth. He was arrested with a number of his armed followers, and being ill, asked leave to visit his home. He was allowed to do so, and died on the way. One of our leading historians says the suspicions of the English had no real cause, and their course toward Alexander was unjust to the last degree. He may have been innocent, or he may have been guilty.

Be that as it may, the death of Alexander, on the threshold of his reign, was bad from every aspect. Philip declared that his brother had been poisoned at the hands of the English. Many of his people believed the charge, and it was whispered by more than one white man. Possibly it was true, though we cannot think so.

The result of the elder brother's death was to bring Philip to the "throne" of the Wampanoags. He ranks as one of the greatest Indians in history. He was wise, eloquent, far-seeing, brave, resourceful, chivalrous at times, merciless at others, and a leader of remarkable ability. Resentful as he felt towards the English, he saw the madness of a war against them, by his tribe alone, though they welcomed him with ardor to the chieftaincy. Following the example of his father and brother, he went before the court at Plymouth, and renewed the league that had lasted for so many years.

It was a long time before a ripple of trouble came between Philip and the whites. The latter kept stealing the ground in his neighborhood, until the day came when he could not reach his home at Mount Hope from any direction without crossing the property claimed by some colonist. He was angered, and complained to the authorities. He was answered by the charge that he was secretly training his men for war. Instead of going to court, the chief invited the officers to meet him for a talk. They did so at Taunton. Philip denied that he had any thoughts of harm to the whites, but said his warriors were preparing for defence against the Narragansetts. The whites kept to their charge, and he finally owned that there was truth in what they said. He was quite meek, and signed a pledge of friendship, and promised to turn over the arms of his warriors to the authorities.

This conference was held in the month of April, 1671. Beyond all doubt, Philip's submission was only a pretence in order to gain time. He had been accused of such designs again and again, until, as he said to one of his friends, he could not make the English believe he was their friend, and he might as well become their enemy. There must have been warrant on the part of the whites for doubting his truth, for after-events proved that he was plotting not only at that time, but had been laying his far-reaching plans for months.

It has been said that New England, during its early colonial days, had five powerful Indian confederacies. While the Wampanoags could not put more than a thousand warriors in the field, the united tribes could muster twenty-five thousand. What a resistless army they would form, if they would combine to destroy the pale faces that had come across the great water to steal their hunting grounds! King Philip's dream was to bring about such a union, and he now bent all his energies to the task.

The Wampanoag leader saw the necessity of care, time, and thoroughness in his preparations. It would be the height of rashness to strike before everything was ready. He held back the impatience of his followers, and was slowly moulding his grand scheme into form, but when fully a year was needed in which to perfect it, the war was brought on by an unexpected event.

As a result of the self-sacrificing labors of Eliot, the missionary among the Indians, many of these people had been turned from their evil ways and become Christians. One of those professing conversion was John Sassamon, who had been partly educated at Cambridge, and served as school-teacher at Natick. He was cunning and artful, and became interpreter or secretary to Philip, who could not read or write English. In this situation he acted as a spy upon the chieftain, and betrayed all the secrets he could gather to the authorities. Philip discovered his treachery and determined to put him to death, but, knowing he was certain to be charged with the crime, it was carried out by three others, who no doubt were hired by Philip himself. In the month of January, 1675, the body of Sassamon was found under the ice in a pond near Middleborough, with such marks of violence as to show he had been murdered before being thrust into the water. Three Indians were charged with the crime, one being a close friend of Philip, and all were hanged on evidence which in these days would not have been admitted in court.

Philip with good reason believed that the authorities would try to get hold of him, and, if they did so, he too would be executed as an "accessory before the act." He had not yet brought about the vast union of tribes that was under way, but he made up his mind to wait no longer. The squaws and children of the Wampanoags were sent to the Narragansetts, and the warriors stripped for the fray.

New England shuddered at what she saw was coming. The 24th of June, 1675, was appointed a day of fasting and prayer that the awful peril might pass by. The people gathered in their churches, and never were more fervent appeals sent to heaven than on that sultry Sunday in early summer, more than two hundred years ago. At the end of the services at Swansea, the people were walking quietly homeward, nearly every one talking of the dreadful danger that threatened, when without the slightest warning, a party of Indians hiding in the woods, fired upon them. One man fell dead, and several were wounded. Two others started on a run for a surgeon, but had gone only a few rods, when they were shot down. A general rush was made for the blockhouse or fort, and others were slain. The Wampanoags were very active, and in the course of a few minutes had several buildings in flames. Before the whites could rally, they dashed into the woods and were gone. The attack at Swansea was the opening of King Philip's War.

The chieftain pressed the war "all along the line." Taunton, Namaskat, Dartmouth and other towns were attacked, and many lives lost and buildings burned. The settlements were so placed as to be much exposed in this method of warfare. They were far apart, the homes separated by no little space, and with slight means of defence. As a rule, each settlement had one large building, called a fort, specially intended for such danger. Corn and supplies were kept in these rude defences, into which the people rushed upon the first appearance of peril. The Indians showed no mercy, and old age, lusty manhood, feeble woman and helpless infancy went down before the tomahawk and scalping knife. There was no saying where the next blow would be struck. In the gloomy depths of the forest, on the shores of the lonely river, in the open,—everywhere, the warriors dashed like so many tigers savagely athirst for human blood.

The war was kept for a time within the Plymouth colony. Rhode Island tried to keep out of it, but could not. Several settlers were killed at Tiverton, and a number of buildings were burned on the outskirts of Providence. In the middle of July, Captain Hutchinson entered the Narragansett country with an armed force, and made a treaty of peace with that tribe. This cut off one of the strongest supports on which Philip had counted, but did not check his ardor. Being hard pressed at Pocasset, he and his son took refuge in a swamp. The whites decided to surround it and starve him out with his followers. They hurriedly enclosed the place on every side, only to learn after a time that the chief and nearly all his men had stolen out in the darkness and got away. Finding that they had gone to the country of the Nipmucks, Captain Hutchinson, at the head of a company of horse, hurried thither to prevent their joining Philip. But the chief had already won them over, as they had shown by killing five people at Mendon. Hutchinson fell into an ambuscade and lost sixteen of his men, the leader being among the killed. The survivors hurried to Brookfield and warned the people of their danger. They were about a hundred in number, and knowing the Indians would soon come, they swarmed into the only stone structure in the place, carrying with them a few such articles as they could snatch up, and taking no time to add to the slight stock of provisions already stored there.

Hardly had they crowded the refuge when the whooping warriors dashed into the settlement, firing their rifles, and using the torch with a vigor that soon set every building in flames except the fort itself. All this destruction, however, could avail nothing so long as the people themselves were not reached. Unless the roof of the stone structure was fired, the defenders were safe, and were sure to fight to the last. Could they have been certain of mercy, they would have surrendered, but every one knew what fate awaited him, if the hostiles once gained the upper hand. The grim pioneers were on the alert at every window and loophole, and the first warrior who tried to steal forward, torch in hand, was riddled by the deadly marksman. By and by, the attempt was repeated with more caution, but the dusky miscreant could not get near enough without showing himself for an instant, and that instant was his last. Then the Indians grew more careful in their movements.

And yet every person in the fort knew he was doomed unless help arrived. The arrows tipped with burning tow, which circled over in the air and struck the roof with a thud, plainly heard within, did not hold at first, but by and by some of them clung, and little twists of smoke appeared. These were put out by the watchful garrison, but the time was sure to come when their enemies must succeed.

The one thing necessary was for a swift runner to steal out of the building and gain a start upon the hostiles. The first one who made the attempt was captured, and a few minutes later the shouting savages were seen kicking his head to and fro as if it were a football. After a time, another man managed to get outside, but he was seen, and had barely time to scramble back through the door held open a few inches against such a failure. A third effort ended the same way, and then for the time the plan was given up, though plenty of volunteers were ready to make the dash whenever their friends thought there was the slightest chance of success.

With the coming of darkness, the peril of the settlers increased. Each side had grown more cautious. Knowing that every attempt to reach the fort would be met with death, the Indians refrained from the venture. Burning arrows curved through the air, but the roof was kept safe. At a late hour, the full moon rose above the tree tops and showed a startling danger. During the darkness, the Nipmucks had gathered a large mass of leaves, twigs, and dry branches and silently heaped them against one end of the building. When the defenders first saw the mass, smoke was rising from it. Showing that the torch had done its work. Unless the fire was quickly put out, nothing could save the whites from the most frightful of deaths.

Suddenly a half-dozen men dashed through the door drawn softly inward, and leaping upon the burning stuff, kicked and flung it in all directions. The Nipmucks ran up to tomahawk them, but their friends were watching and picked them off with thrilling skill. Those who did not fall, fled, and they and their companions opened fire on the daring life-savers. But the work was over in a few minutes, and they leaped back into the building without one having received so much as a scratch.

The incident was repeated soon after with exactly the same results, the brave band scattering the burning mass and getting safely back under the unerring rifles of their comrades. But, best of all, in the confusion, one of the fleetest runners among the whites succeeded in dodging into the woods unnoticed, and sped like a deer for Boston, thirty miles away.

The Nipmucks kept up their attacks through the rest of the night, the next day and the night which followed that. It seems a miracle how the defenders held out for so many hours. The men took turns in snatching a few minutes' sleep and swallowing a mouthful of food, but not for one minute were they off their guard. The roof caught fire again and again, but holes were cut through the shingles, and water dashed upon the twists of flame, until after a time the charred, jagged openings showed in almost every square yard of surface, presenting a most desperate appearance.

On the third day, the Nipmucks piled a wagon frame with hemp, flax, wood and hay, set fire to it and backed it up against the house. By keeping it between them and the garrison, they were shielded against the rifles of the defenders, who, without the power of harming one of them, saw with despairing hearts the blazing mass surge against the end of the building, and the smoke pour through windows and loopholes in a stifling cloud.

There was no way of rushing out and dragging the blazing stuff away, for before the lumbering vehicle could be budged, the hostiles would destroy the whites. Among the men, women and children, there was not one who saw a ray of hope or the faintest chance of escape.

And yet every one was saved! At the critical moment, the windows of heaven were opened, and the rains descended so that the flames were put out, and all the stuff so wetted that it could not be kindled again.

But it looked as if the saving of the poor defenders was only for a time, since the Nipmucks had but to press their siege to bring success. But throughout the hours of the first night and a part of the day, the runner who dodged unseen into the surrounding woods was speeding toward Boston. He reached the town and found Major Simon Willard, a veteran of three-score and ten, as eager as the most youthful officer to rush to the rescue of Brookfield. Leaping into the saddle, he led fifty horsemen at a gallop for the settlement. They swooped down like a cyclone, just as night was closing in, and attacked the Nipmucks with the utmost fury. Back and forth dashed the horsemen, shouting, striking and crushing down whenever a chance offered. The few who were quick enough to leap into the woods and get away left fourscore stretched lifeless on the ground, many of whom had fallen under the guns of the garrison.

King Philip's war was marked by more than one strange incident. One of these occurred a few days after the saving of Brookfield. The people in Hadley were at church, when they were attacked by a large body of Indians. The preacher, as many a one had done before him, bounded down from the pulpit and was among the first to rush outside and catch up one of the guns stacked there, and to lead in the defense. The assault was so sudden and fierce that it was impossible to rally all the people from their panic. The cool-headed hurried the women and children into the church, or rather compelled them to stay there, while the men strove to beat back the hostiles.

It quickly became clear that the day was lost unless the brave but scattered men, each of whom was fighting on his own hook, could have a leader, who would bring order out of the wild chaos. Suddenly the leader appeared, and not one of the amazed people could tell where he came from. He was tall, with a long, flowing white beard, and carried a sword in one hand. Swinging it over his head, he shouted his commands in the ringing tones of a trumpet, and with wonderful quickness brought order and confidence where all had been confusion in the leaderless defense.

Placing himself at their head, he led a charge which scattered the Indians like chaff. Then, when all danger had gone, the strange deliverer vanished as strangely as he had appeared. He had come, he had acted, and now he was gone.

Many believed he was more than a human being,—one sent by heaven to save them in their peril. But he was as much flesh and blood as those whom he had rescued, being no other than General Goffe, who had fled with another comrade from England, for having been one of the judges who sentenced Charles I. to the scaffold. When the son of the executed king came to the throne, after the death of Cromwell, and the passing away of the Commonwealth, Charles II. ordered the death of all those who had condemned his father. Goffe and Whalley fled to the American colonies, and though search was made for them, their friends kept them hidden, and they were never arrested. General Goffe was hiding in the house of one of these friends at Hadley at the time of the Indian attack. Peeping out, he saw the dreadful danger, caught up his sword and rushed to the defence. When all danger was over, he quietly went back to his hiding place, and lived a number of years afterward.

On the same day that Hadley was attacked, the Indians burned several houses and barns at Deerfield, and some weeks afterward Northfield was almost destroyed, a dozen settlers being slain. Captain Richard Beers hurried from Watertown with thirty-six men to the relief of Northfield, but in a fight on the road lost twenty of his troop. Beers retreated to a hill and fought until his ammunition was spent. Then he being killed, the others fled. The garrison at Northfield was saved by the arrival of one hundred men who went with the troops to Hadley.

About the middle of September, Captain Lathrop left Beverly with nearly a hundred men to bring in the corn, grain and valuable articles at Deerfield. In his command were "the very flower of Essex county," eighteen of them belonging to Deerfield. They finished threshing the grain, loaded it into wagons, and started for Hadley on the morning of the 18th. They had seen no signs of Indians, and halted near a small brook to rest. The weather was sultry, and they were tempted by the abundance of luscious grapes growing near. Leaving their weapons in the wagons, they began plucking and eating the fruit, but a large force of Indians had been stealthily following them all night, and now rushed upon them with such fury that only seven out of the whole number escaped.

Captain Mosely was scouting with seventy men, and, hearing the firing knew what it meant. He galloped in all haste to the place and attacked the Indians, but they are believed to have been under the command of Philip himself, and rallied and drove Mosely in turn. Then another force of English and friendly Mohegans appeared, and the Indians were driven off with the loss of nearly a hundred men. The waters of the little stream ran red that day, and it has ever since been known by the name of "Bloody Brook."

By this time the success of Philip had alarmed all New England. He kept drawing allies to his side, and it was soon learned that the powerful Narragansetts were about to join him. It was necessary, therefore, to strike a crushing blow at this ally. If they could be overthrown, little hope would be left to Philip, while, on the other hand, failure would be disastrous beyond measure to the greater part of New England. The campaign must be pushed with a vigor that would destroy Philip and his allies.

Massachusetts, Connecticut and Plymouth placed fifteen hundred armed men in the field, nearly one-half of whom were furnished by Massachusetts. To these were joined one hundred and fifty Mohegans, but they gave little help in the campaign that followed. Governor Josiah Winslow commanded this large body of troops.

The Narragansetts, to the number of more than three thousand, were gathered in an immense swamp at South Kingston, Rhode Island. Philip was there and meant to stay through the winter. The stronghold was one of the largest of its kind ever known on this continent, including fully five hundred wigwams, and covering three or four acres in the form of an island, which was surrounded by strong palisades on every side. The only path leading to the fort was a narrow footbridge of logs. Here enough food was collected to last the multitude of Indians until spring. The weather was very cold, and snow lay to the depth of two or three feet on the level. In these circumstances, the Narragansetts did not believe they were in any danger of molestation.

It was a difficult and dangerous task that the soldiers had laid out for themselves, for the Indians could be counted upon to make a desperate resistance, and there were enough of them behind those intrenchments to give their assailants all and quite possibly more than they could do.

The soldiers were so ill-supplied with food that, despite the bad weather, they dared not wait. From a captured prisoner, Governor Winslow had learned of the single approach to the stronghold. The footbridge was so narrow that two men could not walk abreast. The first arrivals started on a run across the support, but were shot down the moment they came within range. Others took their places only to fall in turn. When six captains and a large number of privates had been swept away, those behind them fell back, and it looked as if the whole force was checked.

But Captain Mosely, whom a singular good fortune seemed always to attend, had managed by some means to get within the fort at the rear with a handful of men, and all were fighting hand to hand against overwhelming odds. Their shouts brought others to their side, and by almost superhuman efforts, the Indians were driven from their main stronghold. Men, women and children ran in terror from wigwam to wigwam, chased by men as merciless as they, who spared none. In the assault at the rear, Captain Benjamin Church was wounded three times. He kept on fighting, and wished to save the wigwams with their valuable supplies, but the torch was applied, and the immense stronghold became a roaring conflagration.

Driven into the open, the Indians fought with the same fierce bravery as at first, and inflicted great loss upon the troops. But they were forced from the fort, which was now in possession of their enemies. Of the Indians, more than seven hundred were slain, while eighty of the English were killed and a hundred and fifty wounded.

Captain Church and Governor Winslow wished to stay in the stronghold, since it was the place where the wounded could have proper attention, but the surgeon and Captain Mosely opposed, believing the warriors would return to the attack and drive them out. Their advice was followed, and, as a consequence, many of the wounded, who otherwise might have been saved, died before reaching the end of the dismal march of eighteen miles.

Among the prisoners was the head sachem of the Narragansetts, who, because he had violated his treaty with the whites, was put to death. The providential arrival of a vessel from Boston with supplies was all that saved the survivors from perishing of starvation.

This crushing blow to the Narragansetts would have ended the war had Philip been among the captured or slain, but he escaped and became more active than ever. He fled with most of the defeated warriors to the Nipmuck country, and made a visit to the Mohawks of New York, whom he strove to persuade to join him in the uprising against the English, but they refused, and the Wampanoag orator roused the Indians elsewhere. In the course of a month, the war was raging over an area of three hundred miles. Settlers who lived beyond the confines of villages were attacked, generally in the dead of night, and often when the weather was bitterly cold or a violent storm raged. They fought bravely, but few thus assailed escaped. Husband and wife, and, perhaps one or two of the larger children, joined in defending the home that was doomed from the first. The helpless ones were often tortured, and in other instances, were carried off to a captivity to which a quiet death would have been merciful. Warwick and Providence, in Rhode Island, narrowly escaped being laid in ashes, and Medford, Weymouth, Groton, Lancaster, and Marlborough—all in Massachusetts—were burned.

The Indians were so successful that they grew more daring. As if to show their contempt for the English, a body went to the deserted fields at Greenfield and began planting corn, showing thereby that they expected to harvest it. Captain William Turner, some twenty miles away, was so indignant over the "nerve" of these redskins, that he resolved to teach them a lesson. He gathered more than a hundred troopers, and rode so hard that he reached Deerfield before daylight on the morning of May 10.

The attack was a surprise to the warriors, who fled to their canoes in such fright that they forgot to take their paddles, and many were swept over the falls. They were assailed so determinedly that more than two hundred were slain. Sad to say, however, the great advantage thus gained was worse than thrown away. Another force of hostiles was in the neighborhood, and unexpectedly attacked the English. Somehow or other, the rumor spread among the whites that their enemies were under the lead of Philip himself. When there was not the least doubt of destroying the Indians, the troopers were seized with a panic and fled in headlong confusion. The enemy, much less in number, pursued them for several miles, and killed one-third of the English, including Captain Turner himself. This sad affair gave its name to Turner Falls.

Despite the many successes of the Indians, they were doomed to failure in the end. The English far outnumbered all the warriors Philip could bring into the field, and they were better disciplined and more capable than the dusky natives. The defeats of the latter became so numerous that the seat of war shifted from Massachusetts southward to Connecticut and Rhode Island. Knowing that the quickest road to peace was by pressing the war vigorously, Massachusetts passed a rigid law for the impressment of soldiers, and Captain Church, who had recovered from his wounds received in the swamp fight at Kingston, gave the hostiles no rest. He shrewdly scared a number of Philip's allies into leaving his cause and coming to the side of the English. Even among the Indians were many who saw the certain overthrow of Philip and the triumph of the English. When assured that none of these would be punished if they abandoned the chieftain, and warned that if they did not do so very soon, they would suffer the vengeance of the authorities, a large number made haste to accept the offer. Then, at the right moment, Massachusetts made known that she would pardon every Indian who laid down his arms within two weeks. So many took advantage of this offer, that the uprising received a fatal blow, and the danger to the English was past.

But Philip was not among those who cringed. He probably knew that although his warriors might be forgiven by the English, no pardon awaited him. A white man can be as fiendish as any savage, and that too without trying very hard, and many of those who preached the Gospel of love and forgiveness, were yearning for a chance to wreak vengeance upon the barbarian.

And yet Philip must have seen for a long time that he was waging a hopeless war. Since the longer he fought the more bitter would become the anger of the English against him, the question naturally arises, "Why then did he continue to fight?" To this, the answer is that such is Indian nature, and such the spirit of the warrior.

Ere long he became a fugitive, harried night and day. He was often obliged to flee in desperate haste, and make the quickest possible change of quarters. Some of his escapes could not have been narrower. One day, in a furious skirmish, a soldier recognized an Indian as the uncle of Philip, because of which he leveled his musket and shot him down, and yet the warrior at the side of the victim, who was spared and whose identity was unsuspected, was Philip himself. He cut off his hair, stained his face, and changed his clothes, so that many of his acquaintances failed to identify him. This stratagem saved the sachem more than once from the English, who were trying to run him to earth.

When everything was going wrong, one of his men ventured to suggest to him, that he should try to make terms with the whites. The chief whirled like lightning, his face aflame with fury, and brained the insolent warrior. But the victim had a brother, who bided his time, and then made the sachem pay dearly for his ferocious cruelty.

Philip was devotedly attached to his wife and only son. He stealthily made his way to their home at Mount Hope, with a few of his faithful followers. His presence was betrayed to his enemies, who suddenly descended upon him. Philip escaped by a hair's breadth, but his wife and boy were carried off prisoners. The authorities at Plymouth solemnly debated over the question as to what should be done with these captives. Some favored putting them to death, but it was finally agreed to sell them as slaves. This was done, as in the case of many others, and they were sent to the Bermudas.

Captain Church was bent upon capturing or killing Philip. Many times he was close upon him, and it is quite likely the two saw each other more than once, but the royal fugitive was saved by the disguise named. His warriors kept steadily falling away from him, and he was harassed by that torturing of all doubts—the distrust of the loyalty of those that remained at his side. He must have asked himself many a time, as he looked into the stern, painted faces, whether all were true, or whether some of them were not planning his betrayal while they professed friendship.

One day an Indian hurriedly entered the camp of Captain Church at Tiverton. He was the brother of the man who had been slain by Philip for daring to suggest that he should make peace with the English. The hour for his revenge had come. He told Church that Philip and a few of his warriors were on a piece of land at the southern end of the swamp, near the base of Mount Hope. Church questioned the runner closely, and was satisfied he was telling the truth. He was familiar with the place and he knew the description given by his informant was correct.

No time was lost. Church had quite a number of men whom he hurried to the swamp. He placed them so as to surround it, and then ordered several of his best scouts to go within and rout out the fugitive. Philip was such an expert in woodcraft, and slept so lightly, that the men knew he was sure to discover their approach before they could get a sight of him in the tangled fastnesses.

Such proved the fact. The chieftain heard the stealthy footsteps, and, catching up his gun, rushed with a swift, noiseless tread along one of the faintly marked paths. Near the outlet he came upon a white man and an Indian. The soldier leveled his musket and pulled trigger, but the weapon flashed in the pan. The Indian took careful aim at Philip, as he was running toward him, and sent a bullet through his heart. The chieftain fell forward on his hands and face into the mud and water, his gun flying from his hands. Thus passed away one of the greatest American Indians that ever lived—great in strategy, great in perseverance.

It is worth noting that the Indian who fired the fatal shot was Alderman, brother of the victim of Philip's anger. The gun barrel which carried the bullet may be seen to-day in the Historical Museum at Plymouth.

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