Charles H. L. Johnston

One day old Massasoit came to the settlement at Plymouth bringing with him two brown and sturdy Indian youths, and, taking them to the Governor's house, he said, with a great show of good will:

"These are my two sons. You English make fine names. Better names than Indian make. Ugh! Ugh! You give white name to my children."

"It shall be as you say," replied the obliging Governor, as he gazed with much admiration at the two little Wampanoags. "I shall call one Alexander, after Alexander the Great, and the other Philip, after the other Grecian conqueror who bore that name in ancient history."

"Ugh! Ugh! It is well!" said Massasoit, and, after smoking a pipe of peace with his friend, the Englishman, he returned to his quiet life at Mount Hope.

KING PHILIP, OR METACOMET.

Alexander—the elder of the two sons—ruled over the destinies of his race after the peaceful death of his father, but, as he grew in strength and intelligence, he saw the white men increasing in the land of his ancestors, like locusts in the hot summer. Ship after ship came over from England bringing cargoes of supplies and eager men, anxious to obtain a foothold in the new country and build a home in the wilderness. Plymouth became a good-sized settlement, Boston a flourishing port, Salem a trading place from which ships sailed as far as the West Indies; while at Deerfield, Northampton, and Hadley—far in the interior of Massachusetts—clusters of log cabins and clapboarded houses dotted the clearings.

The white men became more and more eager to possess the land of the Indians; more greedy for farms; more harsh to the lazy, dreamy savages who cared not for houses, for cattle, or for the luxuries of the whites; but preferred their own simple life, the pleasures of hunting and fishing, and their smoky, drafty wigwams. They were always at leisure, all of their surroundings had been free to them before the advent of the Puritans, their wants were few, and were easily supplied. Now, clearings and farms began to spoil the once trackless forests; where once they could roam at will, now those of another race had sown their corn and forbade them to hunt and fish in the streams near by. The silent woods echoed with the axe and saw of the toiling, energetic men from a far distant land, and the Indian began to reflect upon the future when all of his hunting grounds would vanish and he would have to move farther inland, among the warlike Mohawks, if he wished to live amidst the silence of the wilderness.

Wetamoo, a wealthy Indian Princess, became the bride of Alexander, and as she had many followers and much wampum, the oldest son of Massasoit became a man of as much prominence as his father had been before him. His wealth made him arrogant, and stories came to the ears of the settlers at Plymouth that he was plotting, with the Narragansetts, to openly revolt against them and begin a war with those with whom his father had been so friendly. Whether these stories were true, or not, it is difficult to say; at any rate the Puritans believed them, and so summoned him to attend the court at Plymouth and clear himself of suspicion. He refused to pay any attention to these commands. Major Winslow was, therefore, ordered to go to Mount Hope and arrest him with the aid of ten well-armed soldiers who were to add to their number as they proceeded through the settlements which lay between. He had gone but a short way when he came upon the Wampanoag chief in a hunting-lodge. Within were eight or ten warriors, all armed; but the whites secured their guns, and entering the house, clapped a pistol to the breast of Alexander, telling him that if he stirred or refused to go, he was a dead man.

The proud Sachem was outraged at this treatment and violently upbraided the Colonel who had taken him; declaring with passion that the Governor had no right to believe the idle rumors which came to his ears from lying savages, and that he would not stir. But the cold steel of the pistol at his chest was reflected in the eye of the soldier who held it. The Indian had no choice, and, when his first anger had subsided, he went along moodily and in great dejection, with his attendants following in the rear. A kind soldier offered him a horse, but he said that he could walk as well as any squaw, and so proceeded to Marshfield, where the night was spent. In the morning a high fever raged in his veins. He was violently ill—so ill that it was thought best not to move him by the physicians of the town, but when he plead that he be allowed to go home, stern Winslow consented. He was released, on giving his parole to return when next summoned, and so, borne on a litter by his faithful men, he left his captors for his own abode. His retainers had not carried him far before he died, amidst the lamentations of those about him and the wailings of his squaw Wetamoo, who declared that the English had poisoned her brave husband.

Thus Philip, or Metacomet—the second son of Massasoit—came to be chief of the Wampanoags. He was about twenty-three years of age, tall, strong, handsome, and with a spirit as proud and haughty as that of his departed brother, who was so sensitive that he had perished as a result of his own injured dignity. Had the English been kind and conciliatory to the new Wampanoag chieftain, they might have gained his friendship instead of his ill will, but the continual nagging which they subjected him to increased his resentment against them and nurtured in him a sullen distrust of all white men and those connected with them. One of the new chief's earliest measures was to come to Plymouth and appear before the court, thus following the example of his father and his brother, for he pledged himself to use every effort to continue the peace which had always existed between the Colonists and those of his own race. For several years after this, the intercourse between the settlers and Indians went on as before, but deep in the hearts of both the red men and whites was a growing suspicion and distrust, which finally came to a point in 1671, when Philip openly made complaint of the encroachment of the English upon his hunting-grounds.

Rumors came thick and fast to the men of Plymouth that the savages were contemplating war, that they were oiling their guns, which they had purchased from the traders, and were sharpening their hatchets. The Plymouth Government was alarmed. "The Indians are impertinent in their bearings towards all Englishmen," wrote a prominent settler to the Governor, and so that officer of the crown sent word to Philip that he wished to see him and hold a conference with him at Taunton. At first the proud chief refused to come to meet the English, but he apparently changed his intentions, for on April 10th, 1671, a message was received from him, inviting the officers of the Plymouth Government to meet him in a "pow-wow," but demanding that two hostages should be sent him as a guarantee of his own safety. When these were received, he came to Taunton with many followers, and, seeing military preparations among the English in the town, took up a position upon the outskirts, near a mill, and refused to move from this ground until three commissioners sent from Massachusetts came out to meet him, and persuaded the now unfriendly chief that no harm would be done him if he came to greet the Governor. So, with glances of suspicion and distrust, the Indians entered the church where was the Governor, surrounded by soldiers in slouch hats with broad brims, long swords, iron breastplates and unwieldy guns. The followers of King Philip were naked to the waist, had their faces and bodies painted in many colors, and were, for the most part, armed with long bows and with quivers full of arrows, although a few who knew how to use them had guns in their hands.

"I charge you with warlike designs against us," said Governor Prince. "Many have told me that you and yours prepare for open hostility against the English."

In the dark eyes of Philip gleamed the fire of intense anger, as he replied:

"It is an untruth. I have sharpened my hatchets and arrows because I feared an attack by the Narragansetts, who are unfriendly to me and mine." As he spoke, the looks of defiance which his warriors cast at the English showed that if the soldiers should dare to lay a hand upon their chieftain, there would be certain bloodshed.

A long talk was now held, and, in the end, the defiant Sachem agreed to renew the old peace covenant between himself and the English, and to surrender all firearms into their hands as long as there was any suspicion of war upon their part. But he had no intentions of doing this and of thus placing himself at the mercy of the English, nor could he have forced his warriors to do so had he so wished, for the Indians had come into possession of large numbers of muskets which they used for killing game, and which they considered as much a necessity as their own clothes. Thus, although the conference ended in peace, the English soon took measures to enforce the compliance with its terms and so awakened intense hatred and anger in the hearts of King Philip's men. The guns of the Assowomsett and Middleboro Indians were seized by force; the Saconet braves were threatened with war if they refused to deliver up their firearms, and, as in September only seventy guns had been handed in to the Plymouth authorities, they again summoned proud Philip to appear before them and to give the reason why his men did not live up to their agreement. He did not appear before them until he was fully prepared to answer the accusations.

The charges against the Wampanoag Sachem were that he had neglected to bring in his arms; that he had refused to come to the English court when sent for; that he had harbored bad Indians; had been insolent to the Massachusetts magistrates, and had misrepresented matters to them. To these accusations he replied that he was as much a subject of the King of England as were the Plymouth Colonists themselves, which was true; that as he was a subject of the King he was not obliged to run at the beck and call of the Colonists, for they were only subjects as he himself was; and that he was unable to make his men give up their guns as they needed them for supplying themselves with deer meat and wild turkeys. His arguments were good, but he could not convince the hard-fisted magistrates of the righteousness of his cause.

"You must sign a new treaty with us," said stern Governor Prince. "And you must agree to pay tribute of one thousand English dollars every year in fur and peltries. Also bring us five wolves' heads a year and do not engage in war with other tribes, or sell your lands to others, without consulting first the Plymouth Council. As for delivering the guns to us, this you need not do, as you say that your warriors need them for obtaining game in order to live by, but, if you further insult our white ambassadors you must expect to smart for it."

"How! How!" muttered King Philip, as he withdrew. "Ugh! You English want everything your way, but it shall be as you say."

So, turning his face towards Mount Hope, he had soon disappeared into the forest and only the sighing of the wind in the pine branches came to the ears of the relentless counsellors, who, sure of their strength and resources, had begun to use force upon the weaker and less energetic race. They watched his retreating form with frowns of determination upon their brows.

For three years peace reigned in the forest. The Narragansetts, Wampanoags, and Nipmucks resigned themselves to the inevitable domination of the English, but hunters and trappers told of the sullen manner of the independent Indians and of the lack of stockades at the far distant towns of the interior. The great body of Colonists went upon their way in fancied peace and security, tilled the soil, cut down the trees of the forests, and broke new roads through the wilderness with no thought of danger. So low was the interest in the Provincial militia that no elections for military officers were held by the people and their officers were appointed by the general court. But suddenly an episode occurred which woke the slumbering spirit of war and again fired the angry passions of both red men and white. This was a murder.

There had been living among the Wampanoags at Nemasket, an Indian converted to Christianity by John Eliot, a Puritan missionary. This savage was named Sassamon, a cunning and plausible fellow, who accompanied King Philip to the last conference with the Governor, as an interpreter. He was close to Philip, was in his confidence, and hearing him speak often of a desire to go to war against the English, he one day journeyed to Plymouth, and told the people there to be on their guard, for the Wampanoag chief was determined to massacre them if he had a favorable opportunity. This alarming news was not believed by Governor Prince, "for," said he, "all Indians are, by nature, untruthful and wish to make you fear them." So the Puritans paid little heed to this information, especially as Philip, himself, soon came to the settlement, declaring that he wished for peace; that he had heard of Sassamon's talk; and that he wanted to tell them that such sayings were untruthful and absurd.

Today a few survivors of the Nemasket tribe of Indians live upon the edge of Assowomset Pond, four miles south of the village of Middleborough, Massachusetts, and on the surface of this quiet sheet of water was found floating the body of Sassamon, in the spring of the year. Bruises upon his body aroused the suspicions of the whites, who came to the belief that he had been killed during the winter and his remains thrown beneath the surface of the pond, in revenge for his treacherous talk. Three Indians were arrested on suspicion, but they claimed that Sassamon had been drowned while fishing and that the marks upon his body were caused by contact with the ice. In spite of this, they were called before a jury of whites and Indians, and, upon the evidence of an Indian who claimed that he was an eye witness of the affair, were sentenced to be hung. The last red man to swing for the crime confessed that the other Wampanoags had really murdered the red man and that he had been a looker-on, but not a participator in the deed. In spite of thus turning "States Evidence" he was first reprieved and then executed, and, although there was no actual proof of King Philip's connection with this terrible affair, it was evident that he had decreed that Sassamon should die as a fit punishment for his tale-bearing to the English settlement.

The execution of the three Indians aroused the angry passions of the Wampanoags to fever heat and they soon began to annoy the white settlers who had the misfortune to live in the neighborhood of Mount Hope. The peaceful folk at Plymouth now had rumors of ravage and excesses of all kinds. Houses were robbed while the men were in the fields at work; cattle were shot when they were beyond the hearing of the farmers' wives; corn was stolen; outbuildings were set on fire in the night, and sheep were mysteriously slaughtered. A Christian Indian came, one day, to Governor Prince, and said: "Strange warriors swarm to King Philip's village. His women and children are being sent to the Narragansetts. He and his men are thick as flies, and they are armed and ready for a long war." Alarm and terror spread among the far-distant settlements, and some persons of imaginative minds saw comets in the form of blazing arrows shoot across the skies, while the thunder of hoofs of invisible horsemen, and the whistle of unseen bullets, were heard upon the still air as the peace-loving villagers walked to and from their meeting-houses. "To arms! To arms!" was the cry, as the rumors of the Indian uprising grew more and more frequent, and the stern-faced Puritans oiled their Cromwellian muskets, cleaned out the fuse pans, and set their wives busily to work moulding leaden bullets. War—cruel, savage, relentless war, was soon to burst upon the white settlers of Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and Connecticut.

And, as we look upon the events which led up to this conflict, we see that King Philip and his men had good reason to make one desperate attempt to rid the country of the superior race of whites. "What can we do against you English?" Philip had said in a conference at Bristol Neck. "If we surrender our arms to you, you do not deliver them back to us without charging us a fine; you take our land away from us and pay us practically nothing. You cheat us whenever we have dealings with you. As we have no fences around our cornfields, your horses and cattle trample out our food. You sell our men liquor, get them drunk, and then, when they hurt the sober Indians and your cattle, you fine us so heavily that we must needs sell our land to pay it. When you English first came to our country, my father Massasoit was a great man, and you white men were weak and poor. He gave you more land than I now possess. Yet you seized upon my brother Alexander, forced him to come to you with a loaded pistol, and killed him by your cruel treatment. You will not believe the testimony of our brothers in your court, and every lying white man's tale against us is credited."

These accusations were all true; the English had crowded the men of a different race and manner of living back into the interior, and, desiring their land, had cheated, browbeaten and robbed them of their possessions with a supreme contempt for their feelings. To compete with the Puritans, the Wampanoags had to adopt their ways, but they were content with their own manner of living; were satisfied with their wigwams and primitive method of tilling the soil, and did not want the care or trouble of tending to flocks of sheep and herds of cattle, which made the white man rich and prosperous. It was the stronger race against the weaker, and, as has always happened, the Indians had to give way to those of greater intelligence and thrift.

Philip was driven to bay and forced into a fight by the passions which he was unable to control, yet he must have known that he could not win. The Narragansetts had not joined him. The surrounding tribes gave him little assurance that they would fight with him to the bitter end, and, although tradition has it that the Indians had seven or eight thousand fighting men, it is probable that their actual numbers were about three thousand five hundred. No general conspiracy had been organized, and, although many individual Indians were sure to join with Philip's warriors, he could count upon no assistance save that of his own followers. So the hostilities began with the odds decidedly against the native Americans.

The little village of Swansea, Massachusetts, was not far from the Wampanoag capital of Mount Hope, and here on Sunday, June the 20th, 1675, a war party of eight Indians crept stealthily into the quiet street as the settlers were at church. They entered a house, upturned tables, chairs, and bedsteads; stuck arrows through the pictures, and then killed some peaceful cows grazing on the village common. But an old man and his son were at home, and, as they saw the thieving savages issuing from a neighbor's house, the father seized his musket and told his boy to "shoot a robbing varmint." Putting the gun to his shoulder the young man fired from a window, dropped a savage with the first bullet, and turned around smiling, when the Indian crawled to his feet and made off. Later in the day some friendly Indians came to the village and asked why the brave had been shot. "Because he was a robber," replied the old man. "Is he dead?" "Yea," was the answer. "That is good," shouted the boy who had pulled the trigger, and, from the looks of hate upon the faces of the visitors, it could be seen that they were maddened by the young man's idle words.

Messengers were sent in haste to Plymouth, troops were ordered to march to Taunton, and, at the same time, the next Sunday was appointed as a solemn one for prayer and the chanting of psalms, with the request that war be turned aside. But these supplications to heaven were to be of no avail, for, as the settlers of Swansea returned from their meeting house upon the next Lord's day, suddenly the wild warwhoops of the savages and crack of rifles was heard from the depths of the woods, on either side of the path. One Puritan soon lay dead upon the ground, another was badly wounded through the body, and two young men who were running back to the village for a large gun, were found dying in the road, as the fleeing settlers came slowly towards their homes, with faces towards the lurking foe and their few muskets speaking loudly in answer to the wild whoops of the painted braves. Barricading themselves in the strongest farmhouses, they fought a desultory battle all through the day, but next morn six persons were found dead in an outlying log house, which was farther from the protection of the village. Their heads were scalped and their bodies had been brutally disfigured.

There were forty thousand English in New England, and, at the first news of this tragedy, men donned their armor, seized their guns, and soon were marching in numbers towards the scene of hostilities. The Praying Indians—those converted by the English missionaries—refused to join with King Philip's men and either did not fight at all, or marched with the whites. The Pequots and Mohegans of Connecticut would not take the field against the Colonists, for the war had broken out a year before King Philip had intended it to, and he had not had time to persuade these to become his allies. He, himself, is said to have wept, as the tidings of these first outrages of the war were brought him, for, savage as he was, he no doubt relented at the idea of disturbing the long peace which his father—the good Massasoit—had preserved with the Puritans. But the die was cast; from now on there was to be no rest for the Indian Sachem; and, although he must have known that, in the end, he would surely be defeated, he plunged into the campaign with a brave resolution to conquer the oppressors of his people. His own following consisted of six hundred warriors, eager and ready for the fray. The Narragansetts were willing to assist, the Nipmucks and the Indians residing upon the Connecticut River were prepared for a long war, and all the Indians upon the coast of Maine, fully two hundred miles away, were soon engaged in the common cause of the race—the extermination of the whites. Tradition has it that between seven and eight thousand fighting men were enrolled in the war under the leadership of Philip, but, in reality, there were probably about thirty-five hundred.

On June 20th, a panting messenger came into Plymouth upon a blown and winded horse.

"Arm! Arm!" he cried to the settlers. "The house of John Winslow at Swansea has been plundered by the Indians and many houses have been burned while the people had been at church. War is begun and we must defend ourselves to the last ditch."

A stalwart Captain—a carpenter by trade, and Church by name—was one of the first to bear the dreadful news.

"To arms!" he shouted, as he ran to the house where muskets and balls were kept. "We'll soon show King Philip's men that the Puritans can fight as well as they can hoe corn." And, before two houses were passed, twenty horsemen galloped down the main street in the direction of Taunton; their swords gleaming in the bright sun, and their breastplates flashing like the saucepans in the kitchens of the good housewives.

Church was a stout soldier and as ready with his broadsword, as he was with his hammer and saw. His spirit was burning for a fight, and, joined next day by numbers of friendly Indians and troops, under Major Cudworth and Bradford, he pressed on to Swansea, meeting people fleeing from their homes, wringing their hands, and bewailing the losses of their houses and their herds. A part of his force was sent to escort a guide called Brown to his home at Wanamoiset, on June 23rd, and, meeting a part of the garrison going out to bring in corn from some deserted houses, they told the drivers not to go on as Indians were near. "We do not fear them," said the foragers, "for we could handle King Philip's whole army," and thus boasting and laughing, they proceeded onward. But scarcely had they gone more than two miles, when loud war-cries sounded from either side of the forests, accompanied by the sharp crack of rifles, and, to their dismay, they found themselves in an ambuscade. "Turn, men, back to the town," shouted the head of the force, but, although they quickly retreated, six of their number were shot and fell into the roadway, where the skulking braves soon made short work of them. In the following week this settlement, for which they gathered provisions, was abandoned to its fate, and the inhabitants sought refuge in Rhode Island.

Meanwhile two hundred and fifty fighting men of Boston had joined the intrepid Church at Swansea, where there was skirmishing with lurking Indians in the brush, but no battle with any great numbers of King Philip's men. "On, on, to Mount Hope!" was the slogan of the eager Puritans, as, with over five hundred warriors, the angry settlers crossed over the bridge at Swansea, and, with horsemen upon the flanks to prevent an ambuscade, pushed on towards the home of King Philip. They passed by groups of empty wigwams, the smoking ruins of the homes of settlers, Bibles torn to pieces and thrown into the roads in defiance of their Christian teachings; while the heads of men and women stuck on stakes bore full witness of the fury of the savages. The rain fell in torrents as they pressed forward to the Indian town, but, when they rushed exultantly amid the homes of the Wampanoags, not a savage was to be seen, and a heavy trail towards the shore showed that all had escaped to the inland country. Disgusted, but not disheartened, the white men camped for the night in the drenching mist and rain, and, leaving a force to build a fort, after a few days of fruitless search for the savages, the soldiers retired to Swansea and Rehoboth.

Philip had been too clever to be caught at his own home, which was without strong defenses, and had crossed the mouth of the Taunton River to the Pocasset swampland, where he and his men had hidden themselves. He was too wise to engage in open battle with the English, his tactics being those of defense and quick forage, rather than that of meeting the whites upon even terms. Furthermore, he hoped to prolong the war until he could get other western tribes to join with him and thus eventually drive the English into the sea. Should he have some great victory, he expected to gain the assistance of the powerful Mohawks of New York State, and with these to aid him in battle, the Colonists would have little chance for success. So—sullenly and craftily—he lay in the dense undergrowth, waiting for the English to find him in his lair, while he dispatched numerous messengers to the surrounding tribes, asking for the aid in this desperate war.

And he did not have long to wait for the enemy, as Captains Church and Fuller were soon upon his trail, with thirty-six men who were burning for a shot at the despoilers of their homesteads. They crossed the river and penetrated the dense Pocasset swamp, where suddenly a few of their number in advance ran into a small body of the savages. These fled, without offering to fight, and so the rest pushed forward upon the track which the great body of Indians had left as they had retreated into a dense pine swamp. But, suddenly, the sharp rattle of a snake sounded from the undergrowth. Another and still another was heard, and, more terrified by this enemy than by the savages, Church turned to his men to say:

"Back, boys! These serpents are worse than the Black Serpents whom we search for. We must out of this and look for the cunning varmints by a different route."

So they retreated from the wood, passed down the shore towards a neck of land called Punkatee, and soon came upon fresh Indian signs and a wigwam full of plunder. This made them push on much faster, and suddenly they were overjoyed to see two of the enemy in a field of ripening peas. Church and his men immediately fell flat upon their faces, hoping to surprise the two savages, but the eyes of the braves were keen. They saw the glint upon the steel breastplates of the English, and so took to their heels. A fence lay in their path, and as they climbed it, one turned around to discharge his gun. As he did so, a Puritan hit him with a bullet, so that he dropped into the thicket upon the other side, with a great yell of rage and pain. The English rushed forward, hoping to capture him, but, like a cat with nine lives, he wriggled away in the thick underbrush and disappeared.

The Puritans pressed forward, but the sharp ping! ping! from fifty Indian rifles spoke from the silent forest, which warned them that they were surrounded. Blood-curdling yells of defiance sounded in hideous unison as they advanced, and, perceiving that they were in an ambush, Captain Church cried out: "Retreat! Retreat to the fence, lie down behind it, and stand off these yelping wolves." The soldiers obeyed, and, as they reached this friendly shelter, the hill in front of them was fairly black with the swarming warriors of King Philip, whose bright guns glittered in the sun. As they spread out to surround the small band of Puritans, the rattle of bullets in the grass warned the gallant Church that he must retreat, or else all would be lost.

Giving the order to fall back to the beach, the intrepid Captain soon had his men near the water's edge, where they protected themselves behind fallen boulders and stripped off their coats, so as to let their friends see them from the opposite shore. The soldiers were so hungry that they stopped to gather some raw peas upon the way, being peppered by the Indian bullets as they did so, and losing one of their number. At last they all tumbled down behind an old hedge where Captain Church lay, and remained quiet under a withering fire from the Indians, who took possession of the ruins of an old stone house that overlooked them, and endeavored to pick off as many as they could. A hot fight went on. Things began to look black for the small band of Puritans, who were now outnumbered ten to one, and whose powder and ball began to grow very scarce.

In this situation, a sail boat approached from the opposite shore, with a canoe trailing at the stern, but the Indians kept up such a warm fusillade at her that they made her keep some distance away. "Send your canoe ashore," shouted the men, "and take us off, for our ammunition is near gone and we will be overpowered."

But the fellows upon the boat were afraid to venture nearer and kept a safe distance away.

"If you don't send your canoe ashore," roared Church, "I will fire upon you myself. Come—paddle in so that some of my men can get away."

The angry tones of the Captain apparently made the master of the boat lose all desire to aid the band of fighters, and away he sailed, leaving the men to shift for themselves. The Indians, seeing the boat go away, fired thicker and faster than ever, so that a few of the Puritans, who were good runners, began to talk of escaping by flight. But the courageous Captain Church exhorted them to keep up a bold front, to save their ammunition until they saw the head of an enemy, and to be of good cheer, because he was certain that help would soon be at hand. Thus he kept up the spirits of his followers until, just at nightfall, a sloop was seen approaching.

Cheer after cheer came from the throats of the tired men, as a canoe touched upon the bank, and, two at a time, they were paddled off to the ship. Church was the last to come off, for he had left his cutlass near an old well in front of the Indians, and he refused to go until he had found it. As he climbed aboard the sloop, he took one parting shot at the savages with his last bit of powder, which was only sufficient to send the bullet half way to the shore. Two balls from King Philip's men struck the canoe as he went aboard, one grazed the hair of his head, and another partly penetrated a stout, leather girdle right in the middle of his breast, which was fortunately of sufficient thickness to turn the leaden missile aside. Thus ended the first actual skirmish of the war.

Philip was now safe in the swamp, so the pursuit of his wary men was left to some Massachusetts troops who were back from the Narragansett County, where they had gone to secure the friendship of the Narragansett warriors. Church's men—the soldiers from Plymouth—were hurriedly dispatched to the town of Dartmouth, where the savages had burned most of the houses, had stolen cattle, sheep, and horses, and had murdered a number of the inhabitants. Here some two hundred Wampanoags came in and gave themselves up to the troops, upon the strength of promises made by the Captain of the garrison that they would receive kind treatment and would not be harmed. But, in spite of this, the town council voted that, inasmuch as several of these savages had been actors in the late uprising against the whites, and, as the rest had been compliers in the insurrection, that they should be sold into slavery for the good of the country. The soldiers loudly protested against this decision, but sold they were, and shipped to Cadiz, Spain, under one Captain Sprague, who treated them in a rough and brutal manner. Is it any wonder that the rest of the Indians continued the war and refused to end it, to give any quarter to the whites, or to sign any truce, until their last resource had been exhausted?

Meanwhile the Massachusetts forces had surrounded the Pocasset cedar swamp where Philip hid with Wetamoo (his dead brother's wife) and her men, who had fastened bushes about themselves, so that they could steal about undetected among the leaves and shoot down their pursuers. Some of the Puritan troops pushed into the undergrowth in a courageous attempt to be the first to capture the wily chief, but they were ambuscaded, shot at by an unseen enemy, and eight were killed. This proved that discretion was the better part of valor, and so the troops decided to starve out King Philip, as the point of land on which the swamp lay was surrounded upon all sides but one by water. So sure, indeed, were the whites of effecting the capture of all the Indians that a part of the troops returned to Boston, leaving but one hundred men behind them to finish the work and end the war with one blow. But they little gauged the ability of King Philip as a campaigner, for he had rather different ideas of fighting than his opponents. Quietly getting together enough drift wood to make a stout raft, he launched it upon the shore (not watched by the Puritans), paddled across to the other side of the river, and departed for the country of the friendly Nipmucks, leaving his women and sick to be captured by the Massachusetts troops.

At daybreak, he and his men were seen by various farmers as they passed through the open country which lay between them and the land of the Nipmucks. At Rehoboth, the settlers, reinforced by some fifty Mohegan warriors, attacked him without serious loss to the whites, although thirty of King Philip's men were soon weltering in their own blood. The Wampanoag Chief was fighting for his life, and he fought well, urging on his hardy braves by word and gesture, and animating them to deeds of daring by exposing himself freely upon the firing line. The whites and friendly Indians were unable to capture his devoted band and soon they were lost in the thick forest, into the gloomy depths of which the attackers dared not follow.

In a short time Philip was among the friendly Nipmucks, uncaught, unawed by the show of English force, and bent upon forcing the fighting to the extent of his ability. About a fortnight before his escape from Pocasset swamp, as the good minister in the First Parish Church in Boston was delivering his sermon, a courier rushed into the building, with the startling information that the little town of Mendon had been attacked, and that about six of the inhabitants had been slain. The congregation left the place of worship in the greatest alarm, for they now saw that all the Indians in Massachusetts had risen against them, and that, if a treaty of peace were not soon effected, a large army would have to be sent against the savages. So a Captain Hutchinson, escorted by a Captain Wheeler, with twenty horsemen, was sent towards the Indian settlement, with directions to patch up a peace. The messenger, travelling in advance, requested the Indians to meet the English at a certain spot, and this the Indians agreed to do, but when Hutchinson and his men arrived there, not a red warrior was to be seen.

The good Hutchinson was well known in these parts, as he had a large farm near by, where he employed many of the Indians in the fields, and so, hardly thinking that they could be attacked, the men went carelessly through the forest, whistling, laughing and singing songs of gayety and mirth. But suddenly a shot sounded from the gloomy depths of the wood; another and another followed; while blood-curdling yells showed that the Indians were near by, and had ambuscaded the unthinking white troops. They were thrown into terrible confusion. After a short stand they retreated as fast as possible, taking aim at the unseen enemy from the tree stumps and fallen timber, but, as the little band emerged from the shadow of the trees, eight of their number fell dead and a dozen were wounded. Wheeler was shot clean through the body and his horse was killed underneath him, while brave Hutchinson was so badly injured that he died shortly afterwards. Thus, defeated and dismayed, the troops retreated to Brookfield, under the guidance of two friendly Praying Indians, who knew every inch of the country, and, under their direction, they took a bypath which led them in the rear of a large force of redskins who had closed in on their rear, during the skirmish in the forest, thus hoping to annihilate them. When the disorganized band reached the town (a settlement of twenty houses) they took refuge in the Inn, the strongest house in the place and there they were immediately joined by all the inhabitants.

Two messengers were now dispatched on horseback to hasten to the nearest settlements for aid, but, as they reached the edge of the town clearing, shots rang out from the underbrush, yells of defiance told them that the Nipmucks were advancing, and so they returned, at full speed, to join their friends. That evening, one of these was peering out of a garret window, when a bullet from the watchful enemy struck him in the forehead and caused instant death, thus warning the defenders of the Inn that an attempt to escape would be fruitless, and that they must now fight to the last ditch. There were twenty-six fighting Puritans in the fortified dwelling, the women and children were in one room; the wounded in another. Outside, the Indians kept up a continual yelling and shouting as they poured volley after volley of shot, which came against the walls like hail. They set fire to the deserted dwellings of the town and the crackling flames and black smoke warned the inhabitants of Brookfield that their homes would be no longer standing at the end of this unequal battle. The fate that was to befall them was evident, for one rash man, venturing out of the Inn to run to his father's house not far away, was caught by the cruel redskins, his head was cut off and, after kicking it about like a football, it was placed upon a pole and set up in full view of the surrounded Englishmen, with fierce yells and cheers of defiance from the red demons who had killed him.

In the night the savages roared like so many bulls, sang weird songs of war, and fired against the walls of the Inn until three o'clock in the morning, when they attempted to set fire to the house by means of hay and other combustibles which they brought to one corner and touched off with a firebrand. But the brave white men dashed out into the open under a murderous fire from the Indians, which wounded only two, and with great exertion put out the blaze before the Inn itself had ignited. Meanwhile, one Ephraim Curtis, a swiftfooted youth, crawled by the savages in the early gray of the morning, and, eluding the vigilance of the sentinels, made all haste for Marlborough, the nearest settlement. His comrades grimly sat down to wait for what Providence should bring them, determined that they would sell their lives dear, and, if they were to die, it would not be until after they had sent many a redskin to the next world before them.

Among these Nipmucks were several renegade Praying Indians, and, as the shot continued to pour in upon the garrison, next morning, they collected in great numbers near the church—only a gunshot away—and scoffed, blasphemed and joined in a hideous attempt to sing a mocking hymn. The garrison, with religious anger, fired upon this ribald crew with vigor and soon saw them retreating in confusion, carrying several dead and wounded with them. All during the afternoon fresh hordes of warriors came in to join the foe, while the yelling braves redoubled their efforts to burn the Inn. Arrows, tipped with burning rags dipped in brimstone, were shot upon the roof, while the men within cut away the shingles under them and put out the blaze. The yelling braves piled hay and flax against the walls, for a second time, which they set on fire, as they crowded around the door in order to shoot down anyone who came out or force an entrance should anyone open it. A ball of fire was shot into the garret which fell in a great mass of tow, but was fortunately extinguished immediately by one of the soldiers, and in these fearful straits the garrison broke down the house wall and put out the flames from the inside.

"Merciful Providence, what shall we do?" shouted a stout Puritan at this moment. "Our water has given out!"

"I will get more," cried one Thomas Wilson, running into the yard, but he was shot in the upper jaw and in the neck so painfully that he cried out in his anguish; whereupon the Indians set up a great shout of triumph, thinking they had killed him. Fortunately his wound was not serious and he recovered in a short time; but he got no water, and thus the beleagured men and women were in desperate straits indeed. The Indians had barricaded the end of the meetinghouse and the barn belonging to the garrison, with boards and hay, and so, protected from the bullets of the settlers, they fought at close quarters and kept up an incessant fire. But, seeing that their only hope for success was in burning the house, they now brought up a cart which was made from a barrel and piled with hemp, flax, hay and other inflammable materials, and set it on fire, as they rolled it towards the mansion. Nothing, it seemed, could now save the Colonists, for the poles on the cart were of such a length that the whites could not hit the Indians who pushed it. At this awful moment, Heaven came to the aid of the courageous English. A heavy thunder shower suddenly fell, and, as the burning cart was extinguished by the raindrops, the Indians set up a wail of disappointment, as they heard the cheers from the interior of the Inn.

Two days and a night had now elapsed since the messenger to the settlements had passed through the lines of hostile Indians, and, whether he had reached the friends of the settlers or not, was unknown to the now worn-out defenders of the last house in Brookfield. They gloomily fired at the savages as they cautiously showed themselves, and, as the darkness of another night began to fall, you can well imagine their feelings of excitement, when, above the howlings of the Nipmucks, was heard the tramp of a column of horse. The Indians began to withdraw—they suddenly disappeared altogether—and, to the joy of all, a gray-haired Puritan at the head of some forty-six stout Massachusetts yeomen rode into the streets of the town and rescued the half-starved garrison. Cheer after cheer rent the air, as the danger was known to be past. By the lurid light of some burning barns, the Nipmucks retreated into the blackness, firing desultory and random shots at the reinforcements as they did so. The garrison was saved. Women sobbed aloud; strong men wept like babies; and tears of cheerfulness were intermingled with those of sorrow for the brave fellows who had fallen in the fray. Brookfield was soon abandoned by all, and the cattle of the once prosperous settlers grazed among the ruined walls and charred timbers of the homes of their masters. King Philip's men had well begun their awful work upon the people of New England.

And this dread destruction continued, for the settlers were few, their homes were without stockades, and they were thoroughly unprepared for making a decent resistance against the overwhelming numbers of the Indians. The Nipmucks, with King Philip as director of affairs, had moved westward towards the town of Hadley, where was a large Indian encampment of supposedly friendly red men. "We will go out and fight Philip," they told the English. "We are your friends, not his." But the friendly Mohegan warriors gathered about the Puritan leaders. "Do not believe them," said they, "for they will give the enemy warning, when on the warpath, by shouting. Do not believe them." So, it was ordered that these warriors should come to the English troops and give up their arms, in token of their friendship. But the Indians left their village in a body (it was a group of wigwams with a stockade about it) and fled. The English pursued, next day, and overtook them in a swamp ten miles distant, where they attacked with vigor, firing from behind trees and boulders in true frontier fashion. The fight was sharp and bloody. It lasted for three hours, and in the end, the savages made good their retreat, leaving twenty-six warriors upon the field, while nine of the Englishmen died in the arms of their comrades, who were unable to capture a single red man.

Not far off was the little settlement of Deerfield, with about one hundred and twenty-six sturdy settlers living there. Three of the houses had palisades about them, but the rest were thoroughly unprotected. Philip's emissary had stirred up all the Indians hereabouts, and men went to meeting with their arms over their shoulders; ammunition was stored in the meetinghouse and each man furnished himself with at least five charges of powder and shot. In spite of this, the Indians found them thoroughly unprepared, when, a week later, they fell upon the little settlement, and, although the settlers rallied together in the centre of the village, the redskins soon set fire to all the houses and barns beyond range of the white men's trusty flintlocks. Not daring to leave the protection of their palisades, they saw the labor of long years of patient toil go up in smoke, while their sheep, oxen, and cows were driven off by their enemies. A few days later, Squakeog, a town fifteen miles distant, met the same fate, while some nine or ten settlers, who did not reach the garrison house soon enough, were easily slain by the crafty Indian braves. The red hand of war lay heavy upon the Massachusetts frontier.

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.

The death of the mighty Sachem of the Wampanoags practically ended the war, although some Indians, in small parties, held out a bit longer throughout all of New England. Hostilities had lasted for more than a year, and had been disastrous to the settlers; for thirteen towns had been destroyed, six hundred buildings had been burned, six hundred men had been either killed or tomahawked; numberless cows, sheep and horses had been stolen, and great numbers of the men of New England had been disabled by wounds. There was hardly a family throughout Massachusetts and Rhode Island that did not mourn its dead. The power of the Indians had been forever destroyed, for not only had many families been entirely obliterated, but hundreds had been driven to the far West, or had been captured, sent to the West Indies, and sold as slaves.

Philip had fought his fight, and had fallen, as a guardian of his own honor, a martyr to the soil of his fathers, and of the proud liberty which was his birthright. Never again was the Indian to possess the soil of New England and hunt in freedom and ease through its forests, as of yore. The Anglo-Saxon had conquered, and to the white man and his civilization the land was to forever belong. Thus the first great war between the different races ended just as all subsequent conflicts between the red men and the white were to terminate. The white man was to be found invincible.