Chapter III: Part 3

"I shall not do aught that you wish of me," replied the haughty Chief to the requests of the ambassadors. "Am I not King of this country? Do I not own it by direct descent from my parents? Does the Indian not hold this land from the Great Father? And, as for this picture of the Great Father of the English which you bring me," here he turned to a portrait of James the First which the envoys had given him, "to show my feelings for him, I hereby step on him." So saying, he threw the portrait upon the ground and put his foot so heavily upon the face of good King James that he broke it into a hundred portions. Thus, seeing that they could have no effect upon the irate monarch, the envoys withdrew to their canoes and paddled home to Jamestown, as angry as it is possible to conceive.

The imagination can well picture what the feelings of the settlers must have been at this time. Surrounded in the forest by a skulking foe who watched their movements with vindictive hatred, they feared to venture into the open unless in numbers and well armed. Forced to flee from their plantations, they huddled together in the stockaded towns like so many sheep, unable to till any fields save those in the vicinity of their own fortifications, and continually fired at (while ploughing or working upon their harvests) by the lurking savages. A few of their numbers had escaped from the hands of the Indians and had brought news of torture which made the blood boil and which the pen cannot picture. The smouldering ruins of their once peaceful homes dotted the surrounding country. Wives, sisters, children, had fallen before the ruthless tomahawk, and, stirred by feelings of the greatest hatred, the white men longed for an opportunity to have a fair fight with the crafty redskins; and so busily made bullets for serving in an advance into the land of the enemy.

In the autumn and winter of 1622, a series of attacks upon the savages was made by the irate white men. More Indians are said to have been slain at this time than had ever fallen before the hands of the English since the settlement of Jamestown. And the tactics employed by the Colonists do not show them to have been the men of sweet and gentle disposition which they are often said to have been, for, in order to get even with their red enemies, they availed themselves of a stratagem as cruel and treacherous as any which the Indians utilized against the whites. A peace was offered to the followers of Opechancanough, which they accepted, and the understanding was had between red men and whites that the savages would be left alone while they planted and harvested their corn crop. So, believing in the word of the palefaces, the Indians tilled the soil, planted their corn, and were about to harvest it, when the English surrounded them, fell upon them in all directions at a given hour upon an appointed day, killed hundreds of the defenseless savages, and destroyed a vast quantity of provisions. Among these cruelly murdered were several of the most famous war captains, and for some time Opechancanough, himself, was said to be among the slain, a rumor which caused great rejoicing among the whites. But--after some months--it was learned that this crafty chieftain was still at large and as active as ever before.

"I shall yet have the head of this arch conspirator," cried Governor Wyatt, when news was brought him that Opechancanough was alive. "Come, men, we will march against this murderous varlet, raze his village to the ground, and chase him into the foothills of the Blue Ridge." He had no need to urge on the Virginian Long Knives; they were only too anxious for an opportunity to attack the despoiler of the peace of their adopted country, so, in the spring of 1625, a goodly body of stout rangers pushed into the forest in the direction of Pamunkey--the stronghold of the Chief of the Chickahominies. Their advance was cautious, stealthy, sure, yet, as they came to the vicinity of the Indian town, wild cries echoed from every side, they were shot at from the brush, and, before they realized it, they were in a furious melée with the followers of Opechancanough. But the Long Knives knew how to fight in Indian fashion, and crouching behind logs and fallen trees, they soon began to pick off the screeching braves, who darted from tree to tree in the endeavor to dodge the straight shots of the palefaces. The fight was hot and furious. The Long Knives pressed on to Pamunkey, and, although the red men made a stout rally before the village, they were beaten back, only to see the smoke soon curling from their burning wigwams and storehouses. Governor Wyatt, in person, now urged on his men to a renewed attack on the braves, and, although the Indians were beaten off through the forest, the whites could not pursue them as far as Mattapony, only four miles distant, and the principal depot and rallying point of Opechancanough. Satisfied with the day's work, the English now retreated to their own settlements, leaving the Indians in full possession of their most valued town.

The war had now lasted for three years, and in spite of all their efforts, the English had not driven the Indians from their rallying places and settlements. "By heaven, they know how to fight," said stout Governor Wyatt, "and this Opechancanough is more than a match for us. But I will catch them again with the same stratagem which I used before, and I will wipe these treacherous war dogs from the soil of this country." So saying, he sent a proclamation to the Chickahominies and Pamunkies, requesting them to come to a certain place for a conference, where he intended to surround and capture most of them. But the plan failed of success, and these Indians--under the direct guidance of Opechancanough--were more troublesome than ever. At this period they refused absolutely to have anything to do with either Wyatt or his representatives. The skirmishing went on for four years between the angry white men and the bloodthirsty red warriors, and at the end of that time, a march was made by the Indian braves towards Jamestown, which so alarmed the Governor that he collected every available man to stem the outbreak.

The two armies met in a stout skirmish soon afterwards. It was a hot fight, and, as usual, the Indians were worsted in the affair. They withdrew to the forest, beaten but not overawed, while the Colonists were too much injured to follow them. A peace commission was now sent to Opechancanough, but he refused to listen to any overtures from the whites. He scoffed at all ideas of a settlement of the difficulties which lay between himself and the Colonists, and withdrew in sullen anger into the forest. "By all that I love," cried Governor Wyatt, "I will force this fellow to treat with me," and sending a large armed force towards Pamunkey, some time later, he secured a temporary truce with the fierce Opechancanough. But so little dependence was placed on it, that, while the commissioners on both sides were adjusting the preliminaries, a proclamation was issued by the Governor which forbade the Colonists from either parleying or trading with the Indians. The truce was understood to be only a temporary affair, yet for nine years no further hostilities occurred between the settlers from England and the red men. Meanwhile more and more white Colonists came to Virginia. The settlements rapidly increased in size, while the Indians, through disease and lack of medical knowledge, did not increase with any great rapidity.

Opechancanough was not yet a friend to the white man, although he was apparently upon friendly and peaceable terms with the Colonists. Nursing his anger and resentment, he remained at his home in the forest, meditating upon the best means for expelling the English from the country and secretly forming a plan for another massacre of the plantation owners. Moody, vindictive, sour, the old Chieftain would sit gloomily before his wigwam, speculating upon the future and dreaming of the cheerful moment when he would be able to have Virginia for his own people. Thus he brooded, while dissensions grew among the Colonists and an insurrection against the Governor of Virginia took place among the English. The time had again come for Opechancanough to strike. The moment had arrived which he had waited for through nine long years, and, rousing himself from the torpor which had held him for this period, he determined upon a great and decisive blow which would rid him forever of the accursed English.

The great Chieftain was now very aged. His voice shook as he gave his orders. Yet, when he had sent out word for a gathering of his warriors, his commands were taken to the very remotest tribes of his confederacy with speed and accuracy. As in the first outbreak, he again determined to attack the scattered settlements at a certain time, to station large forces near the points to be assaulted, and to give the more distant posts to the leading Chiefs of the several nations in his confederacy of Indian tribes. He, himself, was to lead the advance against the settlements nearest to Mattapony; the whole Indian force was to assemble without making any noise, and if any brave was found who had breathed a word of the conspiracy, he was to be immediately shot to death and all his family with him. The whites were to be completely annihilated, and no quarter was to be shown to either women, children, or aged persons. It was a great design, well thought out, carefully concealed, and thoroughly prepared. Let us see how it succeeded.

When the signal for attack was given, the hidden warriors poured forth from the forest, and swept down upon the plantations like a flight of locusts. As in the massacre many years before, the Colonists were totally unprepared for this sudden advance, and, at first, hundreds of them fell before the raiding parties of the bloodthirsty red men. Five hundred men, women, and children perished under the tomahawks of the followers of Opechancanough: the scourge of Virginia. Many others were carried away in captivity. Their log houses, supplies of corn, household utensils, farming instruments, and live stock were destroyed. Their houses were burned with all that they contained. Only a few, who lived in the remotest plantations, were able to make an escape to the more thickly populated portions of Virginia and warn the inhabitants that the Indians were again upon the war path. Dissensions among the Colonists were speedily forgotten. Under the dread of a frightful slaughter, the settlers, who had been warring with each other, determined to march together against the red men. Their ploughs were left in the furrows. All who were able to bear arms were enrolled in a militia in defense of the Colony, and a chosen body, under the command of Governor Berkeley, marched into the enemy's country. Blood was in their eyes, and in their hearts was the one word--revenge.

The fighting which now occurred was bloody. No historian has left a record of it, but we can well imagine how the infuriated Englishmen fell upon the followers of Opechancanough when they found them. The Indians were checked in their advance upon the peaceful settlers. They were beaten back, defeated again and again, and were forced to give up their invasion. Berkeley's troops were light-armed and lightly dressed, so that they could move with speed against the little warriors of the forest. Some of them had horses and on these they could often head off the flying redskins and effect their capture. They did great damage and often routed the followers of Opechancanough when the battle which they were fighting with the English was very even.

As for Opechancanough, himself, he had become extremely feeble and decrepit from old age and was unable to walk. Borne about on a litter by four stout braves, he directed the fighting of his warriors and, although weak in body, still possessed a proud and imperious spirit. His flesh became macerated, his sinews lost their elasticity, and his eyelids were so heavy that he could not see, unless they were lifted up by the hands of his faithful attendants. In this forlorn condition he was directing the course of a battle, when Berkeley's horse burst through the thicket in the rear of his men, and, terrified by fear of capture, his own attendants were forced to run away. The great Chief was left upon the ground, and soon a cheering body of Colonists stood around him, howling with the pleasure of having taken--after years of attempt--the bold, resolute Chief of the Chickahominies and their allied tribes. By special command of Governor Berkeley he was carefully carried to Jamestown, where people crowded around in wonder to see the fallen monarch of the Virginian wildwood.

The English had now lost their vindictive hatred for this wily monarch. They saw the man who had inspired such terror in a forlorn and abject condition. Shattered by age and misfortune, he presented a sorry appearance, as he lay, half dead, upon the litter of boughs and deerskins which his own people had fashioned for him. To the honor of the Colonists, they treated the distinguished captive with tenderness and the respect which his appearance and talents demanded, while he, himself, was as proud and haughty as a Roman Emperor. He uttered no complaint or showed no uneasiness at his capture. Fearing that he would be tortured, he showed no humility, and was imperious, defiant, and spirited in his language and demeanor. So, he lay, curiously gazed upon by the gaping Colonists, and eagerly watched by the soldiers who had effected his capture.

Opechancanough reclined thus for several days attended by his affectionate Indian servants, who had begged permission to wait upon him. He was near ninety years of age, and it is said that Governor Berkeley proposed to take him to England, as a living argument to counteract the representations made by some persons in that country, that Virginian climate was too unhealthy for any one to gain long life who resided there. The great Chief was reserved and silent, and, as if anxious to show his English enemies that there was nothing in their presence to even arouse his curiosity, he rarely allowed his attendants to raise his eyelids. Thus he was lying, when one of the soldiers set to guard him raised his gun, and, in a spirit of revenge for all the suffering which the great Chieftain had caused, shot him through the back. He was grievously wounded, but did not die immediately.

To the last moment of his life, the haughty Opechancanough preserved the dignity and serenity of his bearing. He made no murmur of pain or fear and stolidly awaited the end which was rapidly approaching. Only a few moments before he expired he heard an unusual amount of noise in the room where he lay, and requesting his attendants to raise his eyelids, saw a number of Colonists crowding around him in order to gratify their curiosity and amazement. The dying Chieftain raised himself weakly upon one arm, and, with a voice and air of authority, asked that Governor Berkeley be immediately called in. When the latter made his appearance, Opechancanough cried out, in a thin and trembling voice: "Had it been my fortune, sir, to have taken Sir William Berkeley prisoner, I should never have exposed you as a show for my people."

A few hours later the mighty Sachem breathed his last, amid the weepings and lamentations of his Indian attendants. He had been an implacable enemy to the whites; he had led two fairly successful insurrections against them, and he had been the cause of untold misery and suffering. Yet, he felt that his cause was a just one; he saw that he must either exterminate the English or they would exterminate his own people, and he fought for the preservation of his race. His own countrymen were more under his control than under that of Powhatan, himself, and they considered him to be in no way related to Powhatan, but represented him as a prince of a foreign nation, come from a great distance somewhere in the southwest: probably Mexico. He has been called by some a politic and haughty prince, and one English statesman has named him the Hannibal of Virginia. At any rate he was a man of influence, power, and ability. His record is a good one for an Indian, and had his followers been possessed of the knowledge of civilization and warfare which the white men held, there is little doubt that Virginia, for many years, would have been the exclusive habitation of the redskins. Peace to the ashes of misguided and unfortunate Opechancanough of Virginia. He fought for a cause which, from his viewpoint, was as just as that of his conquerors. He was never captured in battle until old age made it impossible for him to escape, and he died by a foul and unexpected blow, from one of a race which should be well ashamed of such a deed.

SASSACUS AND UNCAS:
RIVAL CHIEFTAINS OF THE PEQUOT REBELLION

The English are an adventurous people and none were more so than burly Captain Stone, a hardy mariner, who, in the summer of 1633, made a coastwise trip from Maine to Virginia in a little schooner. Attracted by the broad harbor of the Connecticut River, he sailed by the rocky bluffs at the entrance and was soon gliding between the green hills which roll back from either side of the sparkling waters of the stream. Charmed by the peaceful scene, he kept on drifting up the winding water course, until he finally dropped anchor beneath a headland covered with the sweet-scented bushes of the sumach and wild plum.

"It seems that this is a likely place for the partridge or grouse," said one of the seamen, as the ship lay peacefully at anchor on the quiet water. "What say you, good Captain, if I and two others go ashore with our fowling pieces to look for game?"

"Good," answered the stout Captain, "and if you see a deer, be sure and bring it down, for we are much in need of fresh meat upon our vessel."

"All right, we will go at once," said the seaman, and, quickly selecting two companions who armed themselves with flintlocks, the sporting sea-dogs were soon ashore. That night they did not come back, but, thinking that they had wandered off in the quest of venison, Captain Stone did not give the matter a second thought.

When morning dawned, a canoe, filled with Indians, was seen coming from the shore. "How! How!" said the red men, when the canoe came near the ship. "We bring presents to white man. We want to see big house on water."

A Sachem of the Pequot Indians was in the bow of the birch-bark boat, and, as he smiled in a friendly fashion, the Captain gave orders that he should be allowed to come on board with all his dozen men. Not long afterwards, he was agreeably conversing with them in his cabin. The crew were in the cook room, getting their luncheon, when, overcome by the drowsy heat of the day, and with no suspicion that the redskins were other than peaceful braves, the Captain fell asleep in his bunk.

Silently the Indians sneaked to the cupboard--where the muskets were kept--and seized them. Then, when all were passed to the waiting braves, the Sachem crept over to the sleeping Captain Stone, and, with one swift blow, brained him with his hatchet. Immediately his followers rushed to the small room where the crew were peacefully eating, and, aiming at them through the window, shot at those who were nearest. All leaped to their feet and made a rush for the door in order to grapple with their assailants. Three lay groaning upon the floor, as the rest rushed upon the vindictive savages who, using their knives and spears, cut at the sailors with cruel vengeance. A desperate struggle commenced.

The whites and Pequots struggled back and forth upon the narrow deck, which now grew slippery with blood. More than one savage was knocked overboard, but, as they outnumbered the crew, it was plainly evident that the outcome of the struggle would be in their favor. Suddenly, a loud report was heard. The decks flew asunder from the force of an explosion below. The splitting timbers belched outwards upon the blue waters of the quiet stream, and, with a muffled roar, both red men and white were shot into the water. Some clung to the wreckage, some hung on to the canoe and boats, as--in lurid flames and black smoke--the remains of the little schooner were burned to the water's edge. But, although hurled into the water, most of the Pequots escaped, were picked up by their companions, and paddled back in the canoes and ship's boats to complete the massacre. When night came, only a few charred timbers, floating upon the surface of the Connecticut, were left to mark the scene of the tragedy.

This was in 1633, when the Puritans were well established at Plymouth and Boston, and were continually pushing into the interior to find good farm lands. Sassacus was Chief Sachem of the warlike Pequots, and, in spite of this massacre, sent a messenger to the Governor of Massachusetts--in the year following--to gain his friendship and alliance. His emissary brought two large bundles of sticks with him and a large quantity of wampum. "I will give as many skins of the beaver and otter as I send pieces of wood," was the message which King Sassacus sent to the Chief Executive of Massachusetts, "and I wish your friendship and allegiance. Will you sign a treaty with me?"

"I return you a fine moose-skin coat," answered the Governor to this request, "but I cannot make a treaty with you unless you send proper warriors for me to treat with, and enough of them. Furthermore, your men have murdered Captain Stone, my friend, and I can make no peace with you until you deliver to me the Pequots who killed him and his men."

Sassacus was a warrior of high renown. He had twenty-six sachems, or war captains, under his control, and could muster--at any time--seven hundred warriors. His residence was upon the Atlantic, at Groton, Connecticut, and near the Mystic River he had a splendid stronghold, situated upon a verdant eminence, which gradually descended to the waters of the sparkling stream. He and his men looked upon the English as intruders, who had no right to come to the soil of Connecticut. But, as the intrepid Sassacus had warred with the Dutch at New York, so that they had cut off his trade with them, he wished to now gain the good will of the English, near Boston. The Pequots were men of the utmost independence of spirit and had conquered most of the smaller tribes lying around them. They called these people whom they captured "women" and "cowards."

"Your Captain Stone took two of our men," said the emissary from Sassacus. "He detained them by force and made them pilot him up the river. The Captain and the crew then landed, taking the guides on shore, with their hands bound behind them. The Pequots next fell upon the white men and killed them. The vessel, with the remainder of the crew, was blown up, I do not know why, nor wherefore."

This was a pretty good story, and as the Governor of Massachusetts could not substantiate his own side, he was inclined to believe it, for he had no means of proving its falsity. So a treaty was concluded, with the following terms:

I. The English to have such land in Connecticut as they needed, provided they would make a settlement there; and the Pequots to render them all the assistance that they could.

II. The Pequots to give the English four hundred fathoms of wampum, forty beaver and thirty otter skins, and to surrender the two murderers whenever they should be sent for.

III. The English to send a vessel immediately, to trade with them, as friends, but not to fight them, and the Pequots would give them all their custom.

Having signed this document, the emissary from Sassacus and his companion started back on their five days' journey to the habitation of their Chief. But, unfortunately for them, the Pequots were then at war with the Narragansetts, and a party of about two hundred and fifty warriors of the latter tribe had come as far as Neponset (the boundary between Milton and Dorchester) for the avowed purpose of waylaying and killing the two Pequots on their way home. Learning of this, the Governor sent an armed force to request a visit from these Narragansett braves, and two Sachems--with about twenty men--obeyed the summons. "We have been hunting around the country," said they, "and came to visit the Indians at Neponset, according to old custom. We meant no harm to the Pequots. They can go home in safety." And they kept good this promise, so that the two Pequots made their return trip in perfect security.

For two years white settlers moved into Connecticut, and took up farms in the most fertile places. But the Indians were soon unfriendly. An Englishman named Oldham, who had been trading in Connecticut, was murdered by a party of Block Island braves, several of whom were said--by the frontier settlers--to have taken refuge among the Pequots, who gave them ample protection. When the Governor of Massachusetts heard of this, he was exceedingly wroth, for Oldham was a resident of Dorchester and was a friend of his. So, ordering Captain Endicott of the State Militia to appear before him, he said:

"I commission you, good sir, to put to death the redskins of Block Island, with ninety of our soldiers. Spare the women and children, but bring them away and take possession of the Island. Then go to the Pequots and demand the murderers of Captain Stone, Oldham, and other Englishmen who have been killed, and one thousand fathom of wampum for damages. Also get some of their children as hostages, which, if they refuse, you must take by force."

Endicott was not long in starting upon his mission, and soon had captured Block Island and burned the villages of the natives. He then sailed for Pequot Harbor, where a warrior of the army under Sassacus came out in a canoe to demand who the intruders were. The River Thames, where now the rival crews of Yale and Harvard struggle for supremacy on the water, emptied into this harbor, and upon either bank were the homes of the Indians.

"I wish to see Sassacus, your Chief," said Endicott.

"He has gone to Long Island," the Indian replied.

"Then I wish to speak with the next in authority," continued the leader of the Massachusetts troops, "and I wish to have the murderers of Oldham given up to my care."

The Pequot brave did not reply and paddled to the shore, followed by the English troops, who landed and stood--fully armed--a short distance from the beach. The Indians in numbers gathered around them, but the head Sachem did not put in an appearance. "He will come," said the fellow who had been in the canoe, "if you English will lay down your arms. We will, at the same time, leave our bows and arrows at a distance."

But Endicott grew angry at this, as he believed it to be a pretext for gaining time. "Begone, you Pequots," he thundered. "You have dared the English to come and fight you, and we are ready." The Indians withdrew to a short distance, and then the leader of the whites ordered his men to advance. A shower of arrows poured upon them, as they did so, but the English discharged a hot volley which killed several and wounded fully twenty of the redskins. At this they fled, while the troops pressed on to their village and burned it to the ground.

At night the little army returned to the five ships which had brought them, and next day they went ashore upon the west side of the river and burned all the wigwams and smashed all the canoes of the Pequots' families who lived upon the bank of the Thames. The Indians shot at them from behind rocks and trees, but their arrows did little damage, and so, with the loss of not a single man, the troops set sail for Boston. "They came home all safe," says a historian, "which was a marvelous providence of God, that not a hair fell from the head of any of them, nor were there any sick or wounded in the little army."

Sassacus was now infuriated with the whites. In retaliation for this attack upon his people, he ordered war upon the white settlers of Connecticut. The forts and settlements of the English were assaulted in every direction. No boat could pass up and down the Connecticut River in safety. The hard-working farmers could neither hunt, fish, nor cultivate their lands. People went armed to their work in the fields and to church on Sunday, while a guard was stationed outside the meeting houses during service. At the mouth of the Connecticut River, the English had a fortification, called Fort Saybrook. In October five of the garrison were surprised and killed, as they were carrying in some hay from a field near by. Not long afterwards several vessels were captured, and the sailors were tortured by the Pequots. Saybrook Fort was besieged, the outhouses were burned, and the few cattle that were not killed often came in at night with the arrows of the Pequot warriors sticking in their sides. Early in March four of the garrison were caught outside the walls of the fort and massacred, while a horde of red warriors surrounded the stockade on all sides, challenging the English to come out and fight in the open, mocking them with catcalls, groans, hisses, and imitations of the screams of those whom they had captured, and boasting that the Pequots would soon drive all the English into the sea. They would often rush up to the gate in the endeavor to gain an entrance, but a discharge of grapeshot from a cannon made them retreat into the timber.

It is said that a Puritan, or a New Englander, is slow to anger, but once get him aroused and he will fight as no other man can fight on earth. This is what put an end to Sassacus. For when the savage marauders threatened Agawam (Springfield), Hartford and Windsor, and carried off several women from Wethersfield, the Massachusetts colony sent an army of ninety men to Saybrook Fort, commanded by Captain John Mason, an experienced and able soldier. A body of Mohegan Indians, under Uncas, joined them here, for they were unfriendly to Sassacus, as he and his savage Pequots had often killed the members of this tribe. They were to prove of little value in the campaign, but their presence added a spirit of confidence to the English soldiers.

At the head of the Mystic River, where now is the thriving town of Stonington, Connecticut, Sassacus had his principal fortification. It was really a large Indian town, surrounded by a stout palisade, and was crowded with men, women and children. Mason decided to attack it, but, being a good soldier, determined to throw the watchful Pequots off his scent. He, therefore, first sailed down to the Pequot (Thames) River, and pretended to land at its mouth. The savages were closely watching him, and when, instead of landing, he bore away to the southward and coasted along the Narragansett Bay, the natives thought that he was in retreat. "Ugh! Ugh!" said the warriors. "He little heart. He no fight! We brave men. We can beat all the English in the country!"

But Mason was a shrewd campaigner, and dropping anchor at a point in the bay, where he was protected from the prying eyes of the Pequot scouts, he lay to for some time, and then landed his soldiers through the heavy surf which was then raging. Marching inland, he stopped at a fort of the friendly Narragansetts, under Canonicus and Miantonomo, who were cold and distrustful, saying: "We doubt that such a small body of you English can carry the strong palisades of Sassacus. But we will help you when you advance upon them tomorrow." Mason had so little confidence in the word of these allies that he surrounded the fort, that evening, with a strong guard, fearing that the Indians would betray his approach to the Pequots.

Next day the little army of white soldiers pushed on through the woods in the direction of the great Pequot stronghold, where the followers of Sassacus were resting in fancied peace and security. It was a hot day--the 25th of May--and the warriors were much oppressed by their heavy armor breastplates and the weight of their ponderous flintlocks. They forded the Pawcatuck River and camped at a place called Porter's Rocks, at the head of the Mystic River, which was but two miles from the Pequot encampment. Scouts crept near the palisades that evening, and heard the sounds of songs and laughter within, for the redskins were having a big feast. Perfectly unconscious of the peril that lurked so near them, some of the braves were boasting that the English had fled without striking a blow to avenge the death of thirty white settlers whose scalps hung in the wigwams of the Pequot braves. They danced, sang, and caroused until late in the night.

Mason passed among his men, and said: "Sleep lightly. Arouse yourselves at the first flush of dawn. When you strike the Indians, fight like bloodhounds. Give no quarter, for they have given no quarter to our people."

Deep sleep hung over the Indian camp, as at daybreak the Puritan army started for the stockade. Guided by Uncas--the Mohegan chief--and Wequash, a Pequot who had turned traitor to his tribe, they were soon led to the outskirts of the sleeping village. A hush of deep quiet hung over the habitations of Sassacus and his people. Robins piped from the trees. Song-sparrows trilled from the verdant underbrush, and the flute-like call of thrushes came from the depth of the wood, now beautiful with the fresh green of early spring. It hardly seemed possible that scenes of dreadful carnage would soon be enacted in the midst of this quiet beauty, but silently and cautiously the men with iron breastplates surrounded the circular stockade. Behind them, their Indian allies formed a circle, but advanced with no show of courage or enthusiasm. The garrison slept peacefully on, when suddenly a dog barked, and a Pequot warrior, leaping to his feet in alarm, cried out, "Owanux! Owanux!"--"Englishmen! Englishmen!"

In front of Mason was a barricade of brush heaps at one entrance to the village. Opposite this was another opening, and, as the stout yeomen rushed in one doorway, led by Mason, an equal body penetrated the other, cheered on by Underhill. The Pequot braves seized their bows and arrows in a vain endeavor to stem the onslaught, while the women and children--in terror--endeavored to hide themselves beneath anything that would cover them, or to escape between the lines and gain the protection of the forest. Hoarse cries rose in the misty air. Muskets crashed, children screamed, and, with exultant war whoops, the followers of Uncas shot their arrows into the Pequots, who huddled together like sheep, in confusion and dismay. "We must burn them!" shouted Mason, now full of the heat of battle, and seizing a glowing brand from some smouldering ashes, he thrust it between the sticks of a wigwam. In a moment the mats, with which it was covered, were alight, and the tepee blazed upwards in smoke and fire. Many soldiers followed his example, so that soon the yelling mass of warriors were surrounded by black smoke and curling flames.

In an unyielding circle, the English pressed in upon the Pequot braves. The flames crackled, women shrieked, children cried, and above the rattling of the firearms sounded the vindictive yelping of the followers of Uncas. Seventy wigwams were soon black in smoke, while fully five hundred Pequots were struck down as they endeavored to get past the line of the Puritan troops. The broad swords of the soldiers thrust this way and that with terrible ferocity. Back, back, they pressed the cringing and desperate redskins, who again and again threw themselves upon the ranks of the Puritans in a vain endeavor to get through to the safety of the forest. Sassacus, himself, was not there, but his people were receiving an awful chastisement for attacking the peaceful settlers of Connecticut. They battled desperately for their lives. They strove manfully to penetrate the cordon of steel which pressed in upon them, but it was in vain. Within an hour's time fully six hundred of them lay dead or dying upon the sod, while only seven escaped and seven were taken captive.

News of the disaster was quickly brought to Sassacus, who, fortunately for himself, was in the next Pequot stronghold, some miles distant. Dispatching immediately three hundred warriors to the scene of carnage, they pursued the English very closely for six miles, on their march to their ships, which had sailed to the mouth of the Pequot (Thames) River. The Narragansett warriors who had come on with Mason's men had already deserted. Uncas and his Mohegans still remained faithful, and helped to carry the wounded back to the ships. Underhill protected the rear of the white army as it retreated, and, according to his own account, killed and wounded near a hundred of the ferocious Pequots, who burned to avenge the slaughter of the morning. A third of Mason's men were used up from wounds or exhaustion, but all arrived safely at the ocean side, where not only were the ships, but also a reinforcement of forty men from Boston. Before night closed in, all were on board and safe from the attacks of the Pequots, who shook their fists at them from the shore and yelled vindictively at them, as the white sails filled in the gentle breeze.

The war was not over by any means. All through the summer skirmishes were had with the Indians. Uncas and his Mohegans, with a few English, were scouring the shores near the sea for the purpose of cutting off stragglers, when they came upon a Pequot Sachem and a few of his men, not far from the harbor of Guilford, Connecticut. They pursued them, and, as the south side of the harbor is formed by a long neck of land, the Pequots went out upon it, hoping that their pursuers would pass by. But Uncas, who saw the stratagem, ordered some of his Mohegans to give chase, which the enemy observed and so jumped into the water and swam over to the mouth of the harbor. There they were captured by the English soldiers, who ran around to head them off. Uncas, himself, is said to have shot the chief sachem with an arrow, to have cut off his head, and set it in the crotch of a large oak tree near the water. The skull remained here for many years, and thus the name of Sachem's-Head has ever since been given to this beautiful harbor.

A large number of the Pequots now deserted Sassacus to his fate and took refuge among the Indians of New York. Some even threatened to destroy him for bringing down upon them the anger of the white settlers, and nothing but the entreaty of his chief counsellor prevented him from being killed by his own people. Realizing that he could no longer hold his own against the whites, he destroyed his fort, and, with several hundred of his best men, retreated towards the Hudson River. To kill or capture him was the main object of the Colonists, and, two captured Pequots having had their lives spared on condition that they would guide the English to him, a good-sized force now pushed on towards the retreating members of the once powerful Pequot tribe. At last the Indians were overtaken near Fairfield, Connecticut, and a fierce fight took place in a swamp. The red men fought with the courage of despair, and sixty or seventy succeeded in forcing their way through the ranks of their assailants; but about two hundred were captured. Sassacus, himself, escaped. Those Pequots who had not been slain were hunted like wild beasts by the other Indians of the Narragansett and Mohegan tribes, and weekly their heads were brought in to Windsor and Hartford. Finally, the entire tribe was obliterated, and the few remaining braves were permitted to live with those tribes which they had called "cowards" and "women."

Sassacus was driven from swamp to swamp, by night and by day. Even his own men hunted him and endeavored to take his life. One Pequot who was freed by the English, on condition that he would find and betray this great chief, finally succeeded in finding him. Creeping upon him in one of his solitary camps, he was about to fire his musket, when he was overcome by the majestic look of the great Sachem. "I could not pull the trigger," he told the English, "for my chief looked like all one God. I could not touch a hair of his head." Thus the once powerful redskin escaped and fled to the Mohawks in New York, where he arrived with five hundred pounds of wampum and several of his best captains and bravest men. But here there was to be no peace for the fugitive. He and his men were treacherously murdered by a party of warlike Mohawks, and his scalp sent to Connecticut as a present to the English. A lock of his hair was soon carried to Boston, where it was exhibited in a window upon the streets, as a sure proof of the death of this once powerful enemy to the whites.

Uncas--the Mohegan ally of the Connecticut settlers--continued to live at peace with the Colonists, although granting nearly all his land away for a very small consideration. Thus, in 1641, he gave away several thousand acres for the possession of four coats, two kettles, four fathoms of wampum, four hatchets and three hoes. In 1659 he gave all his lands, with all his corn, to his old comrade and friend, Major John Mason, with whom he had stormed the Pequot fort on the Mystic. He lived to be a very old man, and a remnant of his tribe still exists today near Norwich, Connecticut, and are the only natives still lingering upon the soil of the state.

Sassacus defied the English and was exterminated. Uncas befriended them and lived a peaceful existence. Of the two, he led the more quiet life, but one cannot but admire the fierce, fighting spirit of Sassacus and regret that he met such a miserable end. No direct descendants of either now exist, for, upon an old Indian gravestone at Mohegan, a genial carver has left the following inscription:

"Here lies the body of Sun-seeto
Own son to Uncas, grandson to Oneko,
Who were the famous Sachems of Mohegan:
But now they are all dead.
I think it is Werheegen" (which means "all is well"
or "good news" in the Mohegan language).

Certainly, the whites were glad to see the race exterminated. It left the country to their own civilization, and they developed it according to their own desires. Now brick and wooden houses, great factories, and roaring mills stand where the red men once had their thin wigwams; and where they once battled furiously with the stout Colonists, jangling trolley cars rush by in cheerful indifference to the dim records of history.

MASSASOIT: THE GREAT SACHEM OF THE WAMPANOAGS
AND FRIEND OF THE PURITANS

While the English were gradually settling their plantations on the James River in Virginia and were encroaching upon the land held by the Indians, other Englishmen, driven from home by religious persecution, and wishing to found a colony in the newly discovered country, had crossed the blue Atlantic to the rocky shore of Massachusetts, where they had landed, built their log houses, and had begun to wrest a living from a stern and unproductive soil. They were Pilgrims and were of a religious sect called Puritans, which was most unpopular in their native country. All were men of sturdy, vigorous natures.

These adventurers first went ashore upon the fifteenth day of November, and a few walked up and down until the sun began to draw low, when they hastened out of the woods in order that they might enter their boat which was drawn up upon the beach. By the time that they reached it, it was nearly dusk, so, after setting a watch, those who had landed lay down to rest.

About midnight they heard a great and hideous cry from out the woodland, and their sentinel called out, "Arm! Arm!" So they leaped to their feet, and, seizing some muskets which were beside them, shot them off. As they did so, again the terrible wail sounded from the forest.

"Woach! Woach! Ha-Ha-Ha-Hack--Woach!"

But this soon ceased, and all was quiet in the sombre woodland.

Nothing more occurred until about five in the morning, when one of the Puritans came running to the camp, shouting: "Men are coming to attack us! Indians! Indians!" And, as he spoke, a cloud of arrows came flying into the encampment. One savage was soon seen who fired at them from behind a tree, and an old Puritan took three shots at him with a musket.

The red man continued to shoot his arrows until suddenly he gave a terrific yell, showing that he had probably been hit. At any rate he retreated into the dense forest with the other braves, and nothing more was seen, or heard, either from him, or from them.

The Pilgrims breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the arrows--eighteen in all had fallen among them--and marveled at their make. Some were curiously headed with the horn of a buck deer, and others with the claw of an eagle. So they kept them, and, when the good ship Mayflower sailed for England, they sent these warlike tokens back with her to their friends upon the other side of the Atlantic. The Indians who had made this assault were Nansets, of whom Aspinet was the chief, but whether or not any of them were slain in the conflict does not appear in the ancient record of this combat.

After this affair the sober Puritans made their abode and sailed carelessly along the coast, looking for a good landing place, until December 11th, when they reached a spot which had a good harbor and some high ground beyond the beach which offered an excellent situation for a redoubt. So here they landed, built a long log house, and began their first settlement upon New England soil. They called their first home Plymouth.

With great toil and hard labor they erected other habitations for the settlers. Their first winter here was one of extreme hardship and suffering. Many died of starvation and exposure, and when spring came the survivors were so enfeebled that an attack by a strong band of Indians could easily have annihilated the entire settlement.

On March 16th, 1621, the chief men of Plymouth had assembled to discuss various matters of interest in connection with the welfare of the country, when an Indian was seen approaching. With long strides he walked down the village street, and, as the wary Puritans sprang to their guns, he held out his hands, and cried, "Welcome, Englishmen! Welcome!"

He was a tall, straight man, the hair on his head was black--short before and long behind--his countenance was open and friendly, while his carriage was graceful and imposing. He was thinly clad in deer skins, which must have afforded small warmth for the cold air of spring, and his moccasins gave scarcely any protection to his hardened feet. The Colonists laid aside their guns, when they realized that the savage was not armed, and grasped the outstretched hand of the friendly neighbor.

"We are glad to see you," spoke one of the hardy Englishmen, "and, as you have shown yourself to be friendly, we too shall be friendly."

"Come, seat yourself among us and partake of our humble fare!

"Ugh! Ugh!" grunted the savage, squatting down upon the ground, "I am Samoset, Pemaquid chief. My hunting ground on Island Monhegan, a day's sail toward the rising sun. Five days if go by land, near Penobscot River. Welcome, Englishmen, to country of Massasoit. I learn your tongue from white fishermen who come here not long ago."

This speech sounded as if it were true, so, feeling compassion for the poor, naked child of the woods, the settlers presented him with a hat, a pair of stockings, shoes, a shirt, and a piece of cloth to tie around his waist. They learned that the country around them was called Pawtuxet, and that, four years before their arrival, a terrible pestilence had swept off all the tribes which had inhabited this district, so that, as none were left to claim the soil, it would be perfectly possible for the English to do so. Samoset also told them that their nearest neighbor was a powerful Sachem called Massasoit, who was chief of the Wampanoag tribe, as well as head sachem of the Pokanoket Confederacy of thirty allied tribes. This mighty chieftain was disposed to be friendly, continued Samoset, but neighboring Indians, called Nansets, had been greatly angered by the English, because some years before, a certain Captain Hunt had kidnapped over twenty of their number and sold them into slavery. It would, therefore, be well for the settlers, said the obliging Samoset, if they had no dealings with this particular clan, but restricted their trade and intercourse with the followers of Massasoit. After a lengthy discussion of the climate, the country, and the people, the friendly savage departed with smiles and bows, which showed that he was apparently much pleased with the reception which the English had given him.

The unwarlike visitor soon returned with four others, who also professed to be friendly, and who sang and danced in an open space before the settlement to amuse the sturdy and determined Puritans. Among them was Squanto, an Indian who spoke excellent English, because he had been among those whom the English, under Captain Hunt, had kidnapped and sold into slavery in Malaga, for eighty pounds (four hundred dollars) each, but had been ransomed and liberated by kind-hearted monks and sent to England. Here, at Cornhill, he learned to make himself understood in very good English, and obtained the friendship and sympathy of a wealthy merchant, who housed him, fed him, and eventually shipped him back to his native shore in a sailing vessel, commanded by Captain Thomas Dermer. This stout old sea-dog found that all of Squanto's race had died of a pestilence (probably smallpox) and, therefore, delivered him to Massasoit, whose loyal subject he became, and with whom he was now living. The Indians disposed of a few skins and fish, and then departed, telling the settlers that the great chief Massasoit, with his brother and all his warriors, was near at hand.

The first appearance of the Chief of the Wampanoags was upon the 22d of March, 1621, when he arrived upon a hill opposite Plymouth, with sixty warriors gaudily arrayed in their best deerskin raiment. Massasoit is described by one of the settlers as being "a very lusty man, in his best years, with an able body, grave of countenance and spare of speech." In his attire he differed little from the rest of his followers, save that he wore a large chain of white bone beads about his neck which had suspended from it behind a little bag of tobacco. His face was painted a darkish red, and both his head and face were so oiled that he looked very greasy. The only weapon upon his person was a long knife swinging from his bosom by a string; although his attendants carried war clubs, knives, and bows and arrows. Some of his followers--all tall, strong men--were painted black, others red, yellow, and white. They were dressed in furs or skins of various kinds, and made a very good showing--such a good showing, indeed, that the English feared an attack and stood prepared for any sign of violence that the Wampanoags might offer.