Chapter VII: King Philip's War and the Witchcraft Delusion

Metacomet, or Philip, had succeeded his father, Massasoit, as
chief of the Wampanoags, and endeavored to maintain friendly
relations with the English, but in June, 1675, some of his
young men attacked the village of Swansea, and started the
desperate struggle known as King Philip's War. For months
the Indians ravaged the frontier, and on September 18 all
but annihilated a picked force of eighty men, the "Flower of
Essex," under Captain Thomas Lathrop, which had been sent to
Deerfield to save a quantity of grain which had been abandoned
there. Only nine of the eighty survived.

THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE BLOODY BROOK

[September 18, 1675]

Come listen to the Story of brave Lathrop and his Men,--
How they fought, how they died,
When they marched against the Red Skins in the Autumn Days, and then
How they fell, in their pride,
By Pocumtuck Side.

"Who will go to Deerfield Meadows and bring the ripened Grain?"
Said old Mosely to his men in Array.
"Take the Wagons and the Horses, and bring it back again;
But be sure that no Man stray
All the Day, on the Way."

Then the Flower of Essex started, with Lathrop at their head,
Wise and brave, bold and true.
He had fought the Pequots long ago, and now to Mosely said,
"Be there Many, be there Few,
I will bring the Grain to you."

They gathered all the Harvest, and marched back on their Way
Through the Woods which blazed like Fire.
No Soldier left the Line of march to wander or to stray,
Till the Wagons were stalled in the Mire,
And the Beasts began to tire.

The Wagons have all forded the Brook as it flows,
And then the Rear-Guard stays
To pick the Purple Grapes that are hanging from the Boughs,
When, crack!--to their Amaze,
A hundred Fire-locks blaze!

Brave Lathrop, he lay dying; but as he fell he cried,
"Each Man to his Tree," said he,
"Let no one yield an Inch;" and so the Soldier died;
And not a Man of all can see
Where the Foe can be.

And Philip and his Devils pour in their Shot so fast,
From behind and before,
That Man after Man is shot down and breathes his last.
Every Man lies dead in his Gore
To fight no more,--no more!

Oh, weep, ye Maids of Essex, for the Lads who have died,--
The Flower of Essex they!
The Bloody Brook still ripples by the black Mountain-side,
But never shall they come again to see the ocean-tide,
And never shall the Bridegroom return to his Bride,
From that dark and cruel Day,--cruel Day!

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

At the approach of winter, the Indians withdrew to the
Narragansett country, and the colonists decided to strike a
decisive blow. An army of a thousand men was raised and on the
morning of Sunday, December 19, approached the Narragansett
stronghold, a well-fortified position on an island in the midst
of a swamp. A murderous fire greeted the assailants, but they
forced an entrance into the fort, set fire to the wigwams, and
after a terrific struggle, in which they lost nearly three
hundred killed and wounded, drove the Indians out and destroyed
their store of winter provisions.

THE GREAT SWAMP FIGHT

[December 19, 1675]

I

Oh, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms,
And hear the tale I tell,
From Pettaquamscut town I come,
Now hear what there befell.

The houses stand upon the hill,
Not large, each house is full,
But largest of them all there stood
The house of Justice Bull.

'Twas there the court sat every year,
The governor came in state,
From there the couriers through the town
Served summons soon and late.

And there, 'tis but three years agone,
George Fox preached, you remember;
That was in May when he preached peace,
And now it is December.

Peace, peace, he cried, but righteous God,
How can there be true peace,
When war and tumult stalk at night,
And deeds of blood increase?

Revenge, revenge, good captains bold,
Revenge, my people cry;
Where stood the house of Justice Bull
But piled-up ashes lie.

How fared it then, who may dare tell?
The shutters barred the light,
As one by one the windows closed,
And all was black as night.

Strong was the house, and strong brave men
All armed lay down to sleep,
And women fair, and children, too,
They were to guard and keep.

And then a horror in the night,
And shouts, and fire, and knives,
And demons yelling in delight,
As men fought for their lives.

And where there stood that goodly house
And lived those goodly men,
Full seven goodly souls are gone.
Revenge, we cry again!

II

Up, up, ye men of English blood!
The gallant governor cried,
And we shall dare to find their lair,
Where'er it be they hide.

For never men of English blood
Could brook so foul a deed,
For all these sins the fierce redskins
Shall reap their lawful meed.

Up rose the little army then,
All armed as best they could,
With pike and sword and axes broad,
Flint-locks and staves of wood.

And motley was the company,
Recruits from wood and field,
But strong young men were with them then,
Who'd sooner die than yield.

Connecticut had sent her men
With Major Robert Treat;
Each colony in its degree
Sent in its quota meet.

And Massachusetts led the way,
And Plymouth had next post,
Winslow commands the gathered bands,
A thousand men they boast.

The winter sun hung in the sky
And frost bound all things fast;
As they set forth, from out the north,
There blew a bitter blast.

The meadow grass was stiff with rime,
The frozen brook lay dead;
Like stone did sound the frozen ground
Beneath the martial tread.

All day they marched in bitter cold,
And when, as fell the night,
They reached the hill and gazed their fill
Upon the piteous sight,

No need to urge the rapid chase,
The cinders did that well,
And in the air a woman's hair
Told more than words could tell.

In stern resolve they lay them down,
For rest they needed sore,
But long ere dawn the swords were drawn
And open stood the door.

Out to the gloom of morning passed
Full silently those men,
And what 'twixt light and fall of night
Should come, no soul might ken.

III

They turned their faces toward the west,
The morning air was cold,
And softly stepped, while still men slept,
With courage high and bold.

An Indian they met ere long,
'Twas Peter, whom they knew;
They asked their way, naught would he say,
To his own comrades true.

In anger cried the governor:
Then let the man be hung,
For he can tell, he knows full well,
So let him find his tongue.

To save his life that wretched man
Agreed to be their guide,
As they marched on, the Indian
Marched onward by their side.

And soon they reached a dreadful swamp,
With cedar trees o'ergrown,
And thick and dark with dead trees stark
And great trunks lying prone.

'Twas frozen hard, and Indians there!
They fired as they ran,
And with a bound that spurned the ground,
The fierce assault began.

And then a wonder in the wood,--
A little rising ground,
With palisade for shelter made
Of timber planted round.

And but one place of entrance there
Across a watery way,
A tall felled tree gave access free,
From shore to shore it lay.

Full many a gallant man that day
His life left at that tree,
The bravest men pressed forward then,
And there fell captains three.

A dreadful day, and of our men
Short work would have been made,
But that by grace they found a place
Weak in the palisade.

Then they poured in, within the fort
Soon filled with Indians dead,
And many a one great deeds had done
Within that place of dread.

Then with a torch the whole was fired,
The wigwams caught the blaze,
The fire roared and spread abroad
And fed on tubs of maize.

The night came on, the governor called,
The soldiers gathered round;
The fort was theirs, and dying prayers
Were rising from the ground.

With care they gathered up their dead,
The few who had been spared,
All through the cold, in pain untold,
To Warwick they repaired.

So was the Indians' power gone,
Avenged were Englishmen,
For from the night of that Swamp fight
They never rose again.

In Narragansett there was peace,
The soldiers went their way,
All that remains are some few grains
Of corn parched on that day.

Gone is the wrong, the toil, the pain,
The Indians, they are gone.
Please God we use, and not abuse
The land so hardly won!

CAROLINE HAZARD.

This assault by the colonists drove the Narragansetts, who had
hitherto taken no active part in the war, into alliance with
Philip, and two months later, on February 21, 1676, Medfield,
less than twenty miles from Boston, was attacked and partially
burned. Groton soon suffered a similar fate, and the leaders
of the savages boasted that they would march on Cambridge,
Concord, Roxbury, and Boston itself. It was at this juncture
that the "Amazonian Dames" mentioned in the poem became so
frightened at the prospect that they resolved to fortify Boston
neck.

ON A FORTIFICATION AT BOSTON BEGUN BY WOMEN

DUX FOEMINA FACTI

[March, 1676]

A grand attempt some Amazonian Dames
Contrive whereby to glorify their names,
A ruff for Boston Neck of mud and turfe,
Reaching from side to side, from surf to surf,
Their nimble hands spin up like Christmas pyes,
Their pastry by degrees on high doth rise.
The wheel at home counts it an holiday,
Since while the mistress worketh it may play.
A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts,
Forsake at home their pasty crust and tarts,
To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurl,
Their undulating silks they closely furl.
The pick-axe one as a commandress holds,
While t'other at her awk'ness gently scolds.
One puffs and sweats, the other mutters why
Can't you promove your work so fast as I?
Some dig, some delve, and others' hands do feel
The little waggon's weight with single wheel.
And least some fainting-fits the weak surprize,
They want no sack nor cakes, they are more wise.
These brave essays draw forth male, stronger hands,
More like to dawbers than to marshal bands;
These do the work, the sturdy bulwarks raise,
But the beginners well deserve the praise.

BENJAMIN TOMPSON.

On April 21 an attack was made on Sudbury; a portion of the
town was burned, and a relief party of over fifty which hurried
up was lured into an ambush and all but annihilated. The
Indians in this battle were bolder than they had ever been
before, and their strategy was unusually effective.

THE SUDBURY FIGHT

[April 21, 1676]

Ye sons of Massachusetts, all who love that honored name,
Ye children of New England, holding dear your fathers' fame,
Hear tell of Sudbury's battle through a day of death and flame!

The painted Wampanoags, Philip's hateful warriors, creep
Upon the town at springtide while the skies deny us rain;
We see their shadows lurking in the forest's whispering deep,
And speed the sorry tidings past dry field and rustling lane:
_Come hastily or never when the wild beast lusts for gore,
And send your best and bravest if you wish to see us more!_

The Commonwealth is quiet now, and peace her measure fills,
Content in homes and farmsteads, busy marts and buzzing mills
From the Atlantic's roaring to the tranquil Berkshire hills.

But through that day our fathers, speaking low their breathless words,
Their wives and babes in safety, toil to save their little all;
They fetch their slender food-stores, drive indoors their scanty herds,
They clean the bell-mouthed musket, melt the lead and mould the ball;
Please God they'll keep their battle till their countrymen shall haste
With succor from the eastward, iron-hearted, flinty-faced.

A hundred dragging twelvemonths ere the welcome joy-bells ring
The dawn of Independence did King Philip's devils spring
Through April on the little spot, like wolves a-ravening.

The morning lifts in fury as they come with torch in hand,
And howl about the houses in the shrunken frontier town;
Our garrisons hold steady while the flames by breezes fanned
Disclose the painted demons, fierce and cunning, lithe and brown;
At every loophole firing, women close at hand to load,
The children bringing bullets, thus the Sudbury men abode.

By night, through generations, have the eager children come
Beside their grandsire's settle, listening to the droning hum
Of this old tale, with backward glances, open-mouthed and dumb.

The burning hours stretch slowly--then a welcome sight appears!
Along the tawny upland where stout Haynes keeps faithful guard
From Watertown speeds Mason, young in everything but years;
Our men rush down to meet him; then, together, swift and hard,
They force the Indians backward to the Musketaquid's side,
And slaying, ever slaying, drive them o'er the reddened tide.

There stand stout Haynes and Mason by the bridge upon the flood;
In vain the braves attack them, thick as saplings in the wood:
Praise God for men so valiant, who have such a foe withstood!

But Green Hill looks with anguish down upon the painted horde
Their stealthy ambush keeping as the Concord men draw near,
To dart with hideous noises as they reach the lower ford,
A thousand 'gainst a dozen; but their every life costs dear
As, sinking 'neath such numbers, one by one our neighbors fail:
One sole survivor in his blood brings on the dreadful tale.

Through sun and evening shadow, through the night till weary morn,
Speeds Wadsworth with his soldiers, forth from Boston, spent and worn,
And Brocklebank at Marlboro' joins that little hope forlorn.

They hear the muskets snap afar, they hear the savage whoop--
All weariness forgotten, on they hasten in relief;
They see the braves before them--with a cheer the little group
Bends down and charges forward; from above the cunning Chief,
His wild-cat eyes dilating, sees his bushes bloom with fire,
The tree-trunks at his bidding blaze with fiendish lust and ire.

A thousand warriors lurk there, and a thousand warriors shout,
Exulting, aiming, flaming, happy in our coming rout;
But Wadsworth never pauses, every musket ringing out.

He gains the lifting hillside, and his sixscore win their way
Defiant through the coppice till upon the summit placed;
With every bullet counting, there they load and aim and slay,
Against all comers warring, iron-hearted, flinty-faced;
Hold Philip as for scorning, drive him down the bloodstained slope,
And stand there, firm and dauntless, steadfast in their faith and hope.

With Mason at the river, Wadsworth staunch upon the hill,
The certain reinforcements, and black night the foe to chill,
An hour or less and hideous Death might have been baffled still.

But in that droughty woodland Philip fires the leaves and grass:
The flames dance up the hillside, in their rear less savage foes.
No courage can avail us, down the slope the English pass--
A day in flame beginning lights with hell its awful close,
As swifter, louder, fiercer, o'er the crest the reek runs past
And headlong hurls bold Wadsworth, conquered by the cruel blast.

Ye men of Massachusetts, weep the awful slaughter there!
The panther heart of Philip drives the English to despair,
As scalping-knife and tomahawk gleam in th' affrighted glare.

There Wadsworth yields his spirit, Brocklebank must meet his doom;
Within the stone mill's shelter fights the remnant of their force;
When swift upon the foemen, rushing through the gathering gloom,
Cheer Cowell's men from Brookfield, gallant Prentice with his horse!
And Mason from the river, and Haynes join in the fight,
Till Philip's host is routed, hurled on shrieking through the night.

Defeated, cursing, weeping, flees King Philip to his den,
Our speedy vengeance glutted on the flower of his men;
In pomp and pride the Wampanoags ne'er shall march again.

We mourn our stricken Captains, but not vainly did they fall:
The King of Pocanoket has received their stern command;
Their lives were laid down gladly at their country's trumpet-call,
And on their savage foemen have they set the heavier hand;
Against our day-long valor was the red man's fortune spent
And that one day at Sudbury has saved a continent.

In graves adown the hemisphere, in graves across the seas,
The sons of Massachusetts sleep, as here beneath her trees,
Nor Brocklebank nor Wadsworth is the first or last of these.

Oh, blue hills of New England, slanting to the morning beams
Where suns and clouds of April have their balmy power sped;
Oh, greening woods and meadows, pleasant ponds and babbling streams,
And clematis soft-blooming where War once his banners led;
How hungers many an exile for that homeland far away,
And all the happy dreaming of a bygone April day!

Wherever speaks New England, wheresoever spreads her shade,
We praise our fathers' valor, and our fathers' prayer is said,
That, fearing God's Wrath only, firm may stand the State they made.

WALLACE RICE.

The victory at Sudbury was the last considerable success the
Indians gained in the war. Jealousies broke out among them,
many deserted to the whites, and the final blow was struck
when, at daybreak of August 12, 1676, Captain Church surprised
Philip's camp at Mt. Hope, and Philip himself was shot by an
Indian while trying to escape. His head was cut off, sent to
Plymouth, and fixed upon a pole, where it remained for twenty
years. His wife and son, a boy of nine, were taken prisoners
and sold into slavery. With them, the race of Massasoit, that
true and tried friend of the early settlers, vanishes from the
pages of history.

KING PHILIP'S LAST STAND

[August 12, 1676]

'Twas Captain Church, bescarred and brown,
And armèd cap-a-pie.
Came ambling into Plymouth-town;
And from far riding up and down
A weary man was he.

_Now, where is my good wife?_ he quoth
Before the goodmen all;
And they replied, _What of thine oath?_
And he looked on them lorn and loath,
As he were like to fall.

_What of thine oath?_ to him they cried,
_And wilt thou let him slip
Who harrieth fair New England-side
Till every path is slaughter-dyed,--
The murderous King Philip!_

His cheek went flush and swelled his girth;
_Upon him be God's ban!_
His voice ran loud in grisly mirth:
_Now, who with me will run to earth
This bloody Indiàn?_

Then _I!_ and _I!_ the lusty peal
Made thrill the Plymouth air;
And forth with him for woe or weal,
Their hands agrip on musket-steel,
Hied many a godly pair.

They sped them through the summer-land
By ferry and by ford,
Until they saw before them stand
A redman of that cursèd band,
His features ochre-scored.

_Would the pale-faces find_, he said,
_Where lurks their fiercest foe?
Now, by the spirit of the dead,--
My brother, whose heart's blood he shed,--
Follow, and they shall know!_

This Indian brave, they followed him;
In caution crawled and crept;
Till in a marish deep and dim
They came to where the Sachem grim
In leafy hiding slept.

(The quiet August morn's at bud,
King Philip, woe's the day!
And woe that one of thine own blood,
Now that ill-fortune roars to flood,
Should be the man to slay!)

Around him spread a girdling line;
The fatal snare was laid;
And when down aisles of birch and pine
They saw the first slant sun-rays shine,
They sprang their ambuscade.

And did he slink, or did he shrink
From that relentless ring?
Nay, not a coward did he sink,
But leaped across Death's darkling brink
A savage, yet a king!

Then unto him whose bolt of lead
Had struck King Philip down,
They gave the Sachem's hand and head;
Then back they marched, with triumph tread,
To joyful Plymouth-town.

On Philip's name a bloody blot
The white man's writ has thrown,--
The ruthless raid, the inhuman plot;
_And yet what one of us would not
Do battle for his own!_

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

The Indians conquered, the people of Massachusetts set
themselves resolutely to fight the devil. They were firm
believers in the actual presence of the powers of darkness,
and almost from the beginning of the colony there had been
prosecutions for witchcraft. But it was not until 1692 that
the great outbreak of superstition, vindictiveness, and fear
occurred, which forms the darkest blot on New England's history.