unite all the tribes under his control, to drive the white man from the land, and thus to avenge the death of her husband and his brother. He Philip was a man of great endowments. clearly understood the power of the English, and distinctly foresaw the peril the Indians would incur by waging war against adversaries so formidable. For nine years he probably brooded over this subject, gradually accumulating resources, strengthening alliances, and distributing more extensively among the Indians the deadly weapons of war. The Indians and the colonists were year after year becoming more and more exasperated against each other. The dangers of collision were growing more imminent. Many deeds of violence and of insult on both sides ensued. The The spring of the year 1671 had now arrived. Colonies had been established in Connecticut, in Rhode Island, and in Massachusetts. Plymouth colony and the Massachusetts colony at Boston, subsequently combined, were then distinct. The Plymouth colony had become greatly extended, and many flourishing towns were growing up in the wilderness. The Governor of Plymouth, alarmed by some warlike preparations which Philip seemed to be making, sent an imperious command to him to come to Taunton and answer for his conduct. The proud Wampanoag, taking with him a band of warriors, armed to the teeth, and painted and decorated with the most brilliant trappings of barbarian splendor, approached within four miles of Taunton. Here he established his encamp ment. With native-taught dignity he sent a message to the English governor, informing him of his arrival at that spot, and requiring him to come and treat with him there. The Governor, either afraid to meet these warriors in their own encampment or deeming it beneath his dignity to attend the summons of an Indian chieftain, sent Roger Williams, with several other persons, to assure Philip of his friendly feelings, and to entreat him to come to Taunton, as a more convenient place for their conference. Philip, with caution which subsequent events proved to have been well-timed, detained these men as hostages for his safe return, and then with an imposing retinue of his painted braves proudly strode into the streets of Taunton. We blush to record that the Plymouth people had seriously contemplated attacking Philip and his band, and making them all prisoners; but the hostages which were left behind, and the remonstrances of some commissioners who were present from Massachusetts, prevented this deed of treachery. Philip consented to refer the difficulties which existed between himself and the Plymouth colony to the arbitration of the commissioners from Massachusetts. That he might meet his accusers upon the basis of equality, he demanded one-half of the meeting-house in which the council was to be held for himself and his warriors. The other half was assigned to the Plymouth people. The Massachusetts commissioners, as umpires, occupied the seat of council. The result of the conference was a treaty in which mutual friendship was pledged, and in which Philip agreed to surrender the warlike arms of his people to the Governor of Plymouth, to be detained by him as long as he should see reason. Philip and his warriors immediately surrendered their arms. Others were to be sent in within a given time. Philip gave up the guns of the Middleborough Indians, who were in the midst of the English settlements, while the more remote Indians ranging the unbroken wilderness retained their arms. The shrewdness of Philip was conspicuous in this act. The Middleborough Indians had been constrained by the absence of game to cultivate their fields of corn. They were so intimately connected with the English, and so entirely in their power, that it was probable that, in the event of war, they would be compelled to become the allies of the white man. Thus Philip, by disarming them, did not weaken his own cause. The summer passed away, and the Plymouth people still thought they saw indications of approaching hostilities. Accordingly they sent another summons to Philip, requiring his presence at Plymouth on the thirteenth day of September. At the same time they sent communications to the colonies of Massachusetts and Rhode Island, stating their complaints against Philip, and soliciting assistance in the approaching war. Philip, instead of obeying this summons, repaired to Massachusetts according to the terms of the treaty, to submit the difficulties to the gentlemen who had been umpires in the former council, and to them he entered his complaints against the people of Plymouth. The court in Massachusetts, having thus heard both sides, returned a communication to the people in Plymouth, assuming that there was at least equal blame on both sides. They proposed a general council on the 24th of September, to be held at Plymouth, where King Philip and delegates from the several colonies should meet to adjust all their differences. The council met at the time appointed. Many bitter complaints were entered by Philip and by the Plymouth people against each other. Yet each, knowing the power of the other, dreaded open war. A treaty of peace and friendship was drawn up, which was mutually subscribed. Two years then passed away without any decisive measures. Philip was very evidently making preparations for a great struggle. Squantum was now dead, but a Christian Indian, by the name of John Sasamon, acted as interpreter between the Indians and the English. He was apparently a good man, and very friendly to those from whom he had learned the principles of the Gospel. Ascertaining what was going on among his countrymen, Sasamon went to Plymouth and communicated his discovery to the Governor. He enjoined the strictest secrecy as to what he had communicated, assuring his English friends that, should the Indians learn that he had betrayed them, he would immediately be murdered. Philip by some means ascertained his treachery. By Indian law he was doomed to death, and it was the duty of any subject of Philip to kill him at the first opportunity. Early in the spring of 1675 Sasamon was suddenly missing. At length his body was found in Assawamsett pond in Middleborough. He had been executed according to the Indians' ideas of justice, and his body had been thrust down through a hole in the ice. Three Indians were arrested by the Plymouth people on suspicion of being his murderers, were tried, condemned, and hung. The hanging of three of Philip's prominent men because they were suspected of executing the time-honored laws of his people, exasperated King Philip to the highest degree. His headstrong young warriors all through the forest, reckless of danger, breathed vengeance and shouted the war-cry. The old warriors, deliberative and cautious, kindled their council fires, inflamed themselves with a recital of their wrongs, and then clashing their weapons, danced themselves into a frenzy of rage. But Philip was still anxious to postpone hostilities until he had more thoroughly united the scattered tribes who bowed in allegiance to his commanding mind. The aspect of affairs was now very threatening. The Governor of Massachusetts, who had condemned the course pursued by the Plymouth people, sent an embassador to King Philip to demand of him why he would make war upon the English, and to solicit a new treaty of friendship. The proud monarch of the forest replied to the embassador: "Your Governor is but a subject of King Charles of England. I shall not treat with a subject. I shall treat of peace only with the king, my brother. When he comes, I am ready." The ex Philip now found it impossible longer to restrain the passions of his young men. asperation was so general that even the praying Indians joined the cause of Philip. The Indians sent their wives and children to the seclusion of the tribes more remote in the wilderness, and endeavored, by all possible annoyances, to provoke the whites to battle. They cherished the superstitious notion, which the English had probably taught them, that those who fired the first gun and shed the first blood would be conquered. On the 24th of June the Indians so provoked the people of Swansey by killing their cattle and other injuries, that they fired upon them, and an Indian was killed. This opened the drama of blood and woe. The signal was now given to sink, burn, and destroy. With amazing energy and with great strategic skill, the warriors of Philip, guided by his sagacity, plied their work of devastation. Swansey was speedily burned to the ground. Villages and farmhouses all along the frontier were soon in flames. The Indians were every where. People of the frontier towns, in consternation, sent runners to Plymouth and to Boston for assistance. In three hours after the arrival of the messenger water did not allow the sloop to approach the shore. He sent, therefore, a small canoe which could take off but two men at a time. The embarkation immediately commenced. The En in Boston, one hundred and twenty men were on the march for the rescue. Day and night they pressed forward toward Mount Hope to attack King Philip in the very heart of his dominions. The English moved with such prompt-glish, very skillful in the use of the musket, still ness, pressing into their service all whom they met as they advanced, that King Philip was taken quite at unawares. He was dining with a small band of his warriors when the English made their appearance. Philip and his party fled into the wilderness. The English vigorously pursued them, and shot down sixteen of their number. kept their innumerable foes at bay. It was sure death for any Indian to step from behind his rampart. The heroic Church was the last to embark. As he was retreating backward, boldly facing his foes, a ball passed through the hair of his head, two others struck the canoe as he entered it, and a fourth buried itself in a stake which accidentally stood just before the middle of his breast. The English, conscious of the intellectual power of Philip, devoted their main energies for his capture dead or alive. Large rewards were offered for his head. The savage monarch had retired with a large party of his Wampanoag warriors to an almost impenetrable swamp adjacent to Taunton River. The English, ascer A more harassing and merciless warfare than now ensued imagination can hardly conceive. The Indians seldom presented' themselves in large numbers, never gathered for a decisive action; but dividing into innumerable prowling bands, with numbers varying from twenty or thirty to two or three thousand, they attacked the lonely farm-house, the small and distant settlements, and often, in terrific midnight on-taining his retreat, immediately assembled forces set, plunged with torch and tomahawk into the large towns. Captain Benjamin Church, with thirty-six men, was attacked on the 8th of July, in the southern extremity of Tiverton, by a body of three hundred Indians. The English retreated to the sea-shore. The ground, fortunately, was very stony, and every man immediately threw up before him a pile of stones for a breast-work. Behind these ramparts for six hours they beat back their swarming foes. The Indians availed themselves of every stump, rock, or tree in sight, and kept up an incessant firing. Just as the ammunition of the English was exhausted and night was coming on, Captain Golding, a heroic man, crossed the wide bay in a sloop from Bristol, and came to their relief. The shoal sufficient to surround the swamp. They now felt sure of their foe. Philip, with the cunning characteristic of his race, sent a few of his warriors to the edge of the swamp to show themselves. The English rushed upon them, and in the ardor of their pursuit, forgot their accustomed prudence. Suddenly, from the dense thicket, a party of warriors in ambush poured in upon the pursuers a volley before which fifteen of their number fell dead. The survivors precipitately retreated from the swamp. The English, taught a lesson of caution by this misadventure, now resolved to guard every avenue of escape from the swamp. For thirteen days and nights they vigilantly continued their watch. In the mean time Philip, in the recesses of his hiding-place, constructed canoes, and seizing a favorable opportunity, passed his whole force across the Taunton River, and retreated through the wilderness to invigorate and direct his allies on the shores of the Connecticut. Philip was now in the rear of all his foes, with the boundless wilderness behind him for refuge, and with the opportunity of selecting at leisure his points of attack. Through the whole summer blood flowed in torrents. The Indians were every where victorious. They had immensely the advantage in this terrible warfare, for they were entirely at home in the wilderness, and were also as familiar with the settlements as were the colonists themselves. Like packs of wolves they came howling from the wilderness, and, leaving blood and smouldering ruins behind, howling they disappeared. At last the storms of winter came, and, though there was a slight respite from attack, terror reigned every where. Philip had retired with his warriors to an immense swamp in the region now incorporated | into the town of South Kingston, in Rhode Island. Here he had built five hundred wigwams of unusually solid and durable construction, and with much sagacity had fortified every avenue to his retreat. In this strong encampment, in friendly alliance with the Narragansets, he was maturing his plans for a terrible assault upon all the English settlements in the spring. Three thousand persons were assembled in this Indian fortress. They were amply supplied with provisions. Hollow trees, cut off about the length of a barrel, were filled with corn, and these, piled one above another, were ranged around the inside of the wigwams, so as to render them bullet-proof. In the interior of the swamp, where the encampment was established, there were three or four acres of dry land, called the Island, a few feet higher than the surrounding marsh. The English were apprised, through friendly Indians, of the terrible peril which menaced them. In December, 1675, the united army of the three colonies commenced its march to attack the foe. The result of the conflict was by no means certain. The Indians were well provided with powder, guns, and ball. They were excellent marksmen. They had chosen a position in itself almost impregnable, and with much skill had thrown up ramparts which defended every approach. An almost impenetrable forest, tangled with every species of undergrowth, presented the most favorable opportunity for all the stratagems of Indian warfare. The English, struggling through the swamp in advancing to meet their foes, would be every where exposed to the bullets of unseen antagonists. The Un the open air, exposed to the bleak wintry wind, which, though it fanned their fires, pierced with an icy chill their unprotected frames. ground, upon which they threw themselves shelterless for sleep, was covered with snow. expected delays in their march had consumed their provisions, and they were now half-famished. Their cheerless supper utterly exhausted their stores. Their situation seemed quite desperate, and but for the treachery of one of the Narraganset Indians, who betrayed his countrymen, probably the whole English army would have been annihilated, and then every English settlement would have been swept away by an inundation of blood and flame. The English knew nothing of the swamp, of its approaches, or of its formidable defenses. A narrow and intricate footpath, winding through the marsh, led to the Island. The miry bogin which assailants would sink to the waist, and in which in places the water was collected into wide and deep ditches-surrounded the encampment. There was but one point of entrance, and this was by a tree which had been felled across the deep and stagnant water which at that place prevented any other approach. A block-house, at whose port-holes many sharpshooters were stationed in vigilant guard, commanded the narrow and slippery avenue. It was thus necessary for the English, in storming the fort, to pass in single file along the slender stem, exposed, every step of the way, to the rifles of the Indians. Ramparts had also been thrown up to flank the narrow entrance. High palisades surrounded the whole island, and a hedge of fallen trees, a rod in thickness, and with the intertwined branches rising many feet in the air, effectually protected the besieged from any sudden rush of their foes. The approaches to the Malakoff and the Redan were not attended with greater peril. There is no incident recorded in the annals of war which testifies to higher bravery than that which our forefathers displayed on this occasion. Boldly the English plunged into the swamp. Being fully acquainted with all the modes of Indian warfare, they forced their way along until they arrived at the fort. Both parties fought with the utmost determination. Several times, as the English endeavored to rush along the tree into the fort, they were swept off to a man by the bullets of the Indians. For four hours the battle raged with undiminished fury. Upon the slender and fatal avenue six captains and a large number of privates were soon slain. saulting party, in dismay, were beginning to recoil before certain death, when, by some unexplained means, a few English soldiers crossed the ditch at another place, clambered through the trees, and over the palisades, and with great shoutings assailed the defenders of the one narrow avenue in the rear. The as On the 18th of December, after a long and suffering march, the English were encamped about eighteen miles from the fortress of the Indians. Philip, through his runners, had kept himself informed of their daily progress, The Indians, in their consternation, were for and was ready to receive them. The morning a moment bewildered. The English, availing of the 19th dawned cold and gloomy. The themselves of the panic, rushed across the tree, English, without tents, had passed the night in and got possession of the breast-work which com manded the entrance. Soon the whole army were within the intrenchments. The interior was an Indian village of five hundred wigwams, crowded with women and children. Here an awful scene of carnage ensued. The savage warriors, shrieking the war-cry, fled from wigwam to wigwam, and selling their lives as dearly as possible. The snow which covered the ground was soon crimsoned with blood, and strewed with the gory bodies of the slain. Every wigwam was soon in flames. Many women and children had sought refuge in them-"no man knoweth how many," says a writer of that day-and perished miserably in the wasting conflagration. At last Philip, with his surviving warriors, leaped the barricades, and fled into the recesses of the swamp. In this terrible conflict, which lasted for about four hours, eighty of the English were slain, and one hundred and fifty wounded, many of whom afterward died. Seven hundred of the Indian warriors were slain outright, three hundred more subsequently died of their wounds. The English were now masters of the fort. But the whole inclosure was covered with mangled corpses, and the roaring, crackling flames were consuming every thing. Corn had been stored in the wigwams, in great abundance, but it was all consumed. The vanquished foe, though driven from the fort, still continued the fight, and from the trees of the swamp kept up for some time a deadly fire upon their victors. Many of the English fell, while shouting victory, before these bullets. ages, who were filling the swamp with their howlings, to direct their unerring aim. It was greatly to be apprehended that in the night the Indians would make another onset to regain their lost ground. Prowling from hummock to hummock behind the trees in the almost impassable bog, they could, through the night, keep up a very harassing fire. It was another conquest of Moscow. In the hour of the most exultant victory the victors saw before them a vista but of terrible disasters. A precipitate retreat from the swamp was decided to be necessary. The The English had marched in the morning, almost breakfastless, eighteen miles over the frozen, snow-covered ground. Without any dinner they had entered upon one of the most toilsome and deadly of conflicts, and had continued with Herculean energies to struggle against sheltered and outnumbering foes for four hours. And now, cold, exhausted, and starving, in the darkness of a stormy night, they were to retreat through an almost pathless swamp, dragging after them one hundred and fifty of their bleeding, dying companions. horrors of that retreat can never be told. They are hardly surpassed by the scenes at Borodino. There was no place of safety for them until they should arrive at their head-quarters of the preceding night, eighteen miles distant. The wind moaned through the tree-tops of the swamp, and the keen blast swept over the bleak and frozen plains as the exhausted troops toiled along. Many of the wounded died by the way. Others, tortured by the freezing of their unbandaged wounds, and by the grating of their splintered bones, as they hurried along, shrieked aloud in their agony. It was long after midnight before they reached their encampment upon the shores of the bay. |