Chapter II: Part 2

The chief, a few weeks after his recovery, made another remove, journeying two days upon the ice, while the snow was falling. Mrs. Hanson soon perceived the object of his journey. The chief, with the hope of obtaining a ransom for his captives, wished to get nearer to the French. He visited the latter, but returned in a very bad humor. Mrs. Hanson was compelled to lodge in a sort of hole made in the snow, and covered with boughs, in order to keep from his presence.

At length the captives were taken to the French, and after some trouble and delay, ransomed for six hundred livres. They were treated very kindly and furnished with all those things of which they had been so long destitute. One month after they fell into the hands of the French, Mr. Hanson came to them with the hope of ransoming the other children and servant. With much difficulty he recovered his younger daughter, but the eldest was retained by the squaw to whom she had been given, as she intended to marry her to her son. No means could induce the squaw to surrender the daughter, and the party were forced to return without her. The servant was ransomed. On the 1st of July, 1725, the party arrived home, having been among the Indians and French more than twelve months, and, having suffered every hardship which the captive of the Indian generally endures.

Mr. Hanson could not rest while his daughter remained in the hands of the Indians, and he resolved to make another attempt to ransom her. On the 19th of February, 1727, he set out on his journey, but died on the way, between Albany and Canada. In the meantime, a young Frenchman interposed, and by marrying the daughter himself, secured her freedom; the Indians acknowledging the freedom of their captives as soon as married by the French. The daughter returned to her anxious and suffering mother and sisters, and thus gave them some consolation for the loss of Mr. Hanson.

THE STORY OF SHON-KA.

R. CATLIN met with many interesting adventures, while visiting the numerous and savage tribes of the great west, for the purpose of seeing and judging for himself, of their habits and modes of life. One of these he details in his valuable work, as “The Story of the Dog,” and as it is a fine illustration of the dangers encountered by adventurers among the Indians, and of the certainty of revenge which follows an injury, we here insert it:

I had passed up the Missouri river, on the steamboat Yellow Stone, on which I ascended the Missouri to the mouth of Yellow Stone river. While going up, this boat, having on board the United States Indian agent, Major Sanford--Messrs. Pierre, Chouteau, McKenzie of the American Fur Company, and myself, as passengers, stopped at this trading-post, and remained several weeks; where were assembled six hundred families of Sioux Indians, their tents being pitched in close order on an extensive prairie on the bank of the river.

This trading-post, in charge of Mr. Laidlaw, is the concentrating place, and principal depot, for this powerful tribe, who number, when all taken together, something like forty or fifty thousand. On this occasion, five or six thousand had assembled to see the steamboat, and meet the Indian agent, which, and whom they knew were to arrive about this time. During the few weeks that we remained there, I was busily engaged painting my portraits, for here were assembled the principal chiefs and medicine-men of the nation. To these people, the operations of my brush were entirely new and unaccountable, and excited amongst them the greatest curiosity imaginable. Every thing else, even the steamboat, was abandoned for the pleasure of crowding into my painting-room, and witnessing the result of each fellow’s success, as he came out from under the operation of my brush.

They had been at first much afraid of the consequences that might flow from so strange and unaccountable an operation; but having been made to understand my views, they began to look upon it as a great honor, and afforded me the opportunities that I desired; exhibiting the utmost degree of vanity for their appearance, both as to features and dress. The consequence was, that my room was filled with the chiefs who sat around, arranged according to the rank or grade which they held in the estimation of their tribe; and in this order it became necessary for me to paint them, to the exclusion of those who never signalized themselves, and were without any distinguishing character in society.

The first man on the list, was Ha-wan-ghee-ta, (one horn,) head chief of the nation, and after him the subordinate chief, or chiefs of bands, according to the estimation in which they were held by the chief or tribe. My models were thus placed before me, whether ugly or beautiful, all the same, and I saw at once there was to be trouble somewhere, as I could not paint them all. The medicine-men or high priests, who are esteemed by many the oracles of the nation, and the most important men in it--becoming jealous, commenced their harangues, outside of the lodge, telling them that they were all fools--that those who were painted would soon die in consequence; and that these pictures, which had life to a considerable degree in them, would live in the hands of white men after they were dead, and make them sleepless and endless trouble.

Those whom I had painted, though evidently somewhat alarmed, were unwilling to acknowledge it, and those whom I had not painted, unwilling to be outdone in courage, allowed me the privilege; braving and defying the danger that they were evidently more or less in dread of. Feuds began to arise too, among some of the chiefs of the different bands, who, (not unlike some instances among the chiefs and warriors of our own country,) had looked upon their rival chiefs with unsleeping jealousy, until it had grown into disrespect and enmity. An instance of this kind presented itself at this critical juncture, in this assembly of inflammable spirits, which changed in a moment, its features, from the free and jocular garrulity of an Indian levee, to the frightful yells and agitated treads and starts of an Indian battle. I had in progress at this time, a portrait of Mah-to-tchee-ga, (little bear;) of the Onc-pa-pa band, a noble fine fellow, who was sitting before me as I was painting. I was painting almost a profile view of his face, throwing a part of it into shadow, and had it nearly finished, when an Indian by the name of Shon-ka, (the dog,) chief of the Caz-a-zshee-ta band, an ill-natured and surly man--despised by the chiefs of every other band, entered the wigwam in a sullen mood, and seated himself on the floor in front of my sitter, where he could have a full view of the picture in its operation. After sitting a while with his arms folded, and his lips stiffly arched with contempt, he sneeringly spoke thus:

“Mah-to-tchee-ga is but half a man.”

Dead silence ensued for a moment, and nought was in motion save the eyes of the chiefs, who were seated around the room, and darting their glances about upon each other in listless anxiety to hear the sequel that was to follow! During this interval, the eyes of Mah-to-tchee-ga had not moved--his lips became slightly curved, and he pleasantly asked in low and steady accent, “Who says that?”

“Shon-ka says it,” was the reply, “and Shonka can prove it.” At this the eyes of Mah-to-tchee-ga, which had not yet moved, began steadily to turn, and slow, as if upon pivots, and when they were rolled out of their sockets till they had fixed upon the object of their contempt; his dark and jutting brows were shoving down in trembling contention, with the blazing rays that were actually burning with contempt, the object that was before them. “Why does Shon-ka say it?”

“Ask We-chash-a-wa-kon, (the painter,) he can tell you; he knows you are but half a man--he has painted but one half of your face, and knows the other half is good for nothing!”

“Let the painter say it, and I will believe it; but when the Dog says it let him prove it.”

“Shon-ka has said it, and Shon-ka can prove it; if Mah-to-tchee-ga be a man, and wants to be honored by the white men, let him not be ashamed; but let him do as Shon-ka has done, give the white man a horse, and then let him see the whole of your face without being ashamed.”

“When Mah-to-tchee-ga kills a white man and steals his horses, he may be ashamed to look at a white man until he brings him a horse! When Mah-to-tchee-ga waylays and murders an honorable and brave Sioux, because he is a coward and not brave enough to meet him in fair combat, then he may be ashamed to look at a white man till he has given him a horse! Mah-to-tchee-ga can look at any one; and he is now looking at an old woman and a coward!”

This repartee, which had lasted for a few minutes, to the amusement and excitement of the chiefs, being thus ended: The Dog suddenly rose from the ground, and wrapping himself in his robe, left the wigwam, considerably agitated, having the laugh of all the chiefs upon him.

The Little Bear had followed him with his piercing eyes until he left the door, and then pleasantly and unmoved, resumed his position, where he sat a few minutes longer, until the portrait was completed. He then rose, and in a most graceful and gentlemanly manner, presented to me a very beautiful shirt of buckskin, richly garnished with quills of porcupine, wringed with scalp-locks (honorable memorials) from his enemies’ heads, and painted, with all his battles emblazoned on it. He then left my wigwam, and a few steps brought him to the door of his own, where the Dog intercepted him, and asked, “What meant Mah-to-tchee-ga, by the last words that he spoke to Shon-ka?”

“Mah-to-tchee-ga said it, and Shon-ka is not a fool--that is enough.” At this the Dog walked violently to his own lodge; and the Little Bear retreated into his, both knowing from looks and gestures what was about to be the consequence of their altercation.

The Little Bear instantly charged his gun, and then, as their custom is, threw himself upon his face, in humble supplication to the Great Spirit for his aid and protection. His wife, in the meantime, seeing him agitated, and fearing some evil consequences, without knowing any thing of the preliminaries, secretly withdrew the bullet from the gun, and told him not of it.

The Dog’s voice, at this moment, was heard, and recognized at the door of Mah-to-Shee-ga’s lodge, “If Mah-to-tchee-ga be a whole man, let him come out and prove it; it is Shon-ka that calls him!”

His wife screamed; but it was too late. The gun was in his hand, and he sprang out of the door--both drew and simultaneously fired. The Dog fled uninjured; but the Little Bear lay weltering in his blood (strange to say!) with all that side of his face shot away, which had been left out of the picture; and, according to the prediction of the Dog, “good for nothing;” carrying away one half of the jaws, and the flesh from the nostrils and corner of the mouth, to the ear, including one eye, and leaving the jugular vein entirely exposed. Here was a “coup;” and any one accustomed to the thrilling excitement that such things produce in an Indian village, can form some idea of the frightful agitation amidst several thousand Indians, who were divided into jealous bands or clans, under ambitious and rival chiefs! In one minute a thousand guns and bows were seized! A thousand thrilling yells were raised; and many were the fierce and darting warriors who sallied round the Dog for his protection--he fled amidst a shower of bullets and arrows; but his braves were about him! The blood of the Onc-pa-pas was roused, and the indignant braves of that gallant band rushed forth from all quarters, and, swift upon their heels, were hot for vengeance! On the plain, and in full view of us, for some time, the whizzing arrows flew, and so did bullets, until the Dog and his brave followers were lost in distance on the prairie! In this rencontre, the Dog had his arm broken; but succeeded, at length, in making his escape.

On the next day after this affair took place, Little Bear died of his wound, and was buried amidst the most pitiful and heart-rending cries of his distracted wife, whose grief was inconsolable at the thought of having been herself the immediate and innocent cause of his death, by depriving him of his supposed protection.

This marvellous and fatal transaction was soon talked through the village, and the eyes of all this superstitious multitude were fixed on me as the cause of the calamity--my paintings and brushes were instantly packed, and all hands, Traders and Travellers, assumed at once a posture of defence.

I evaded, no doubt, in a great measure, the concentration of their immediate censure upon me, by expressions of great condolence, and by distributing liberal presents to the wife and relations of the deceased; and by uniting also with Mr. Laidlaw and the other gentlemen, in giving him honorable burial, where we placed over his grave a handsome Sioux lodge, and hung a white flag to wave over it.

On this occasion many were the tears that were shed for the brave and honorable Mah-to-tchee-ga, and all the warriors of his band swore sleepless vengeance on the Dog, until his life should answer for the loss of their chief.

On the day that he was buried, I started for the mouth of the Yellow Stone, and while I was gone, the spirit of vengeance had pervaded nearly all the Sioux country in search of the Dog, who had evaded pursuit. His brother, however, a noble and honorable fellow, esteemed by all who knew him, fell in their way in an unlucky hour, when their thirst for vengeance was irresistible, and they slew him. Repentance deep, and grief were the result of this rash act, when they beheld a brave and worthy man fall for so worthless a character; and as they became exasperated, the spirit of revenge grew more desperate than ever, and they swore they never would lay down their arms or embrace their wives and children until vengeance, full and complete, should light upon the head that deserved it. This brings us again to the first part of my story, and in this state were things in that part of the country, when I was descending the river, four months afterwards, and landed my canoe, as I before stated, at Laidlaw’s trading-post.

The excitement had been kept up all summer among these people, and their superstitions bloated to the full brim, from circumstances so well calculated to feed and increase them. Many of them looked at me at once as the author of all these disasters, considering I knew that one half of the man’s face was good for nothing, or that I would not have left it out of the picture, and that I must have foreknown the evils that were to flow from the omission; they consequently resolved that I was a dangerous man, and should suffer for my temerity in case the Dog could not be found. Councils had been held, and in all the solemnity of Indian medicine and mystery, I had been doomed to die! At one of these, a young warrior of the Onc-pa-pa band, arose and said, “The blood of two chiefs has been sunk into the ground, and a hundred bows are bent which are ready to shed more! on whom shall we bend them? I am a friend to the white man, but here is one whose medicine is too great--he is a great medicineman! his medicine is too great! he was the death of Mah-to-tchee-ga! he made only one side of his face! he would not make the other--the side that he made was alive; the other was dead, and Shon-ka shot it off! How is this? Who is to die?”

After him, Tah-zee-kee-da-cha (torn belly,) of the Yankton band, arose, and said, “Father, this medicine-man has done much harm! You told our chiefs and warriors, that they must be painted--you said he was a good man, and we believed you! you thought so, my father, but you see what he has done!--he looks at our chiefs and our women and then makes them alive!! In this way he has taken our chiefs away, and he can trouble their spirits when they are dead!--they will be unhappy. If he can make them alive by looking at them, he can do us much harm!--you tell us that they are not alive--we see their eyes move!--their eyes follow us wherever we go, that is enough! I have no more to say!” After him arose a young man of the Onc-pa-pa band. “Father! you know that I am the brother of Mah-to-tchee-ga!--you know that I loved him--both sides of his face were good, and the medicine-man knew it also! Why was half of his face left out? He never was ashamed, but always looked white man in the face! Why was that side of his face shot off? Your friend is not our friend, and has forfeited his life--we want you to tell us where he is--we want to see him!”

Then rose Toh-ki-e-to (a medicine-man,) of the Yankton band, and principal orator of the nation. “My friend, these are young men that speak--I am not afraid! your white medicine-man painted my picture, and it was good--I am glad of it--I am very glad to see that I shall live after I am dead!--I am old and not afraid!--some of our young men are foolish. I know that this man put many of our buffaloes in his book! for I was with him, and we have had no buffaloes since to eat, it is true--but I am not afraid!! his medicine is great and I wish him well--we are friends.” Thus rested the affair of the Dog and its consequences, until I conversed with Major Bean, the agent for these people, who arrived in St.

Louis some weeks after I did, bringing later intelligence from them, assuring me that the Dog had at length been overtaken and killed, near the Black-hills, and that the affair might now for ever be considered as settled.

THE DEATH OF CANONCHET.

ANONCHET was the sachem of the powerful tribe of Narragansetts, who inhabited a part of New England claimed by the government of Connecticut. In the war between the Indians and the colonists, which began in 1675, and is commonly called “King Philip’s war,” the Narragansetts were led by their own wrongs and the arts of Philip to join in the Indian confederacy. But they suffered severely for their hostility. Their fort was attacked by a large force of colonists, under Governor Winslow, and the greater part of them perished by the guns of the English, or in the flames of the burning fort.

The remnant of the Narragansetts fled, under the command of Canonchet and Punno-quin, both of whom were filled with inveterate hatred of the colonists. Canonchet was the son of the celebrated Miantonomoh, and the remembrance of his father’s fate rankled in his breast, and rendered him fierce and cruel beyond his nature. The Narragansetts reached the Wachusetts hills in safety, where they united with the Nipmucks and other friendly tribes. But they were in a destitute condition, and Canonchet was obliged to make great exertions to supply them with food, in order to keep them faithful to him.

Early in April, 1676, he proposed the daring design of an expedition to Seekonk, to procure seed corn to plant along the Connecticut river, where he had taken refuge. At the head of about fifty men, he marched towards Seekonk, and soon reached Black Stone river. There he encamped, and imagining that no colonial force was nearer than Plymouth, dismissed twenty of his men.

On the 27th of March, Captain Dennison had left Stonington, with a body of troops, on an exploring expedition, in search of Indians. When near Seekonk, he captured two squaws, who informed him of Canonchet’s encampment. The captain quickened his march, and as Canonchet’s men, instead of giving the alarm, fled in different directions, the colonists were in his camp before he knew of their approach. The chief, seeing his men run, sent out two or three to ascertain the cause. One of these returned to the wigwam, crying out that the English were upon them.

Canochet fled. While running around the hill near his camp, he was recognized by the Nanticks, who commenced a vigorous pursuit. The chase was long and exciting. One by one, the chief threw off’ his blanket, his silver-laced coat, and his belt of peag. His pursuers gained upon him; and giving up all hope of reaching the woods, he hurried towards the river. Monopoide, a Pequot, noted for his swiftness, pursued in such a way as to force the chief to cross or be caught. Canonchet plunged into the stream, and swam for the opposite shore. The English, filled with rage and fearful of being baffled, hurried to the river’s bank, in order to shoot him if an opportunity offered; but Canonchet would have escaped, had not an accident occurred, which, to use his own words, “made his heart and bowels turn within, so that he became like a rotten stick, and void of strength.” As he reached a shallow part of the stream, he began to wade, when his foot struck against a stone, and he fell into the water. His gun became useless.

Monopoide, seeing the accident, leaped into the water, and daringly swam towards the chief, who was probably intimidated by superstition. When seized, Canonchet did not resist, although he was a man of great size, strength, and courage. A young man, named Staunton, now approached and asked the chief some questions in regard to his conduct during the war. For a while Canonchet treated him with silent contempt. But when the other had ceased, he replied, “You much child--no understand matters of war. Let your brother or chief come, him I will answer.”

Canonchet was then brought before Dennison. The latter offered the chief his life on condition that he would induce his nation to submit. But he rejected the offer with contempt. He was commanded to comply. He answered that killing him would not end the war. Some of the soldiers reminded him that he had threatened to burn the English in their houses; and that in spite of a late treaty, he had boasted that he would not give up a Wampanoag, or the paring of the nail of a Wampanoag. He replied that others were as forward for the war as himself, and that he wished to hear no more about it.

Dennison, filled with joy at his good fortune, soon after returned to Stonington. Canonchet was not kept long in suspense, in regard to his fate. The officers decided that he should be shot. The sentence was announced to him, and his reply was, “I like it well. I shall die before my heart is soft, or I shall say any thing unworthy of myself.” When charged with cruelty and treachery, he reminded his foes that they had killed his father, and burned his people at Narragansett. Through all his captivity, Canonchet evinced a pride of soul that danger could not fright nor suffering bend.

The “last of the Narragansetts,” as Canonchet has been termed, was led out to die, “and that all might share in the glory of destroying so great a prince, and come under the obligation of fidelity, each to the other, the Pequots shot him, the Mohegans cut off his head, and quartered his body, and the Nan-ticks made the fire and burned his quarters; and as a token of fidelity to the English, presented his head to the council at Hartford.”

The modern reader views the detail of this execution with disgust. But the colonists then thought them wise and just.

The death of Canonchet was a severe loss to the Indians. Endowed with a high and generous spirit, he had obtained a great and rare influence-among his own and other tribes, and could at any time summon to the aid of Philip, many faithful and efficient men. He bound men to his interest by appealing to their love of what is great and heroic, rather than their fears, and of all Philip’s captains, he was the most skilful leader, and the bravest warrior. Notwithstanding his treaty with the English, he refused to give up the fugitive Wampanoags to them; but this refusal was owing as much to humanity of feeling as to a violation of his word. The records of his conduct while free and among his tribe, and while a captive with the whites, lead us to lament the fate of so able, so noble, and generous a man.

CHURCH AND THE NARRAGANSETT.

FTER the great destruction of the Narragansett Indians, in King Philip’s War, by the Connecticut forces, the remnant of the tribe were pursued in all directions. Winslow, with the main body of the troops, advanced rapidly towards the Nipmuck country. During the pursuit, the celebrated Captain Benjamin Church met with a singular and almost fatal adventure.

Church had been removed with the other wounded to the Narragansett’s fort. But partially recovered, and being very restless, he had again joined the army, and was persuaded by Winslow to aid him in the pursuit of the Narragansetts. On the route they reached an Indian town, situated on a small island, which was surrounded by a swamp. The water in the swamp was frozen, which prevented the soldiers from charging the wigwam. A spirited fire of musketry commenced, under cover of which the troops began to cross the ice. The Indians defended themselves until the assailants reached the island, when they broke and fled. A Mohegan, friendly to the English joined in the pursuit, and capturing one of the enemy, who had been wounded in the leg, brought him to Winslow.

Winslow examined him, but could not draw from him the wished for knowledge concerning the designs of his countrymen. The captive was threatened; he said he had revealed all he knew. Many standing, around demanded that he should be tortured; but by the advice of Church, the demand was refused. The army commenced its march. But as the Narragansett’s wound prevented him from keeping pace with the troops, it was resolved to “knock him in the head.” The Mohegan who captured him was appointed his executioner. Church, taking no delight in such things, withdrew.

The Mohegan, elated with the honor conferred upon him, advanced towards his victim, flourishing his tomahawk, and evincing, by distortions of limb and feature, the extremity of his satisfaction. Suddenly, he aimed a tremendous blow at the prisoner’s head, but the latter skilfully dodged it, and the hatchet flying from the Mohegan’s hand, “had like to have done execution, where it was not designed.” Seizing the favorable moment, the Narragansett broke from those who held him, and ran for his life. Taking the same direction that Church had done, he unexpectedly ran directly upon him. Church grappled with him; a short but furious scuffle ensued, but the Narragansett, being destitute of clothing, slipped from his adversary’s grasp, and again ran. Church followed, the Indian stumbled and fell, and the bold volunteer again seized him. They fought and wrestled until the Indian slipped through Church’s hands, and set out upon his third race. Church was close behind him, “grasping occasionally at his hair,” which was all the hold could be taken of him.

They soon reached a wide surface of ice, which being in some places hollow, caused a rumbling noise, which induced Church to hope that some of his friends might hear it and come to his relief. Unfortunately for the Indian, it began to grow dark, and while running at full speed, he came abreast of a fallen tree of great thickness. Why he did not overleap it is not known; but having probably became intimidated, he suddenly stopped and cried aloud for aid. Church was soon upon him. The Indian seized him by the hair, and tried to break his neck. Church also laid hold of his adversary’s hair with both hands, repaying twist for twist. While in this attitude, hanging by each other’s hair, the volunteer contrived to butt the Indian vigorously with his head in the face.

While this sharp scuffle was in progress, the ice was heard crackling at a distance, and soon after some person ran towards them. The combatants were kept in suspense, as the darkness prevented the new comer from being seen. The stranger reached them, and without speaking a word began to feel first Church and then the Indian. Amid the same ominous silence, he raised his hatchet, and sunk it in the head of the savage. It was the Mohegan who had acted as executioner. Overjoyed at having gratified his cruelty, he hugged Church again and again, thanked him for having caught his prisoner, and conducted him in triumph to the camp. Throughout this struggle for life, Church acted with his usual dauntless spirit, and the capture of the Narragansett was owing entirely to his persevering courage. The Indian was unjustly put to death, he being fully entitled to be considered as a prisoner of war. But the colonists thought by appointing a Mohegan to be his executioner, to heighten the friendly feeling existing between that tribe and the English.

THE DEATH OF KING PHILIP.

HEN the famous King Philip had lost the greater part of his warriors in the struggle for life and death between them and the English, and he himself was hunted like a wild beast from place to place, he formed the strange resolve of visiting the ancient haunt of his ancestors at Mount Hope, With a few of his best friends he retired into that swamp which was destined to be a prison for him. His retreat was betrayed to Captain Church, by an Indian deserter, whose brother Philip had killed in a fit of passion.

Church, accompanied by Major Sandford, and Captain Golding, and about twenty men, prepared to follow the great chief to the swamp. He crossed Trip’s ferry in the evening, and about midnight, a consultation was held as to the best mode of attack. Church offered Golding a small force that he might go in advance and discover the real situation of Philip. Golding promptly accepted it. Church then instructed him to be careful in his approach to the enemy, and be sure not to show himself until by daylight, that they might know their own men from the enemy; to creep as close to the ground as possible, until they came quite near to the swamp, in order to fire upon the Indians as soon as they arose; and that when the enemy should start for the swamp, he should pursue them with speed. He was to shout as loud as he could, for the ambuscade would receive orders to fire upon any one who should approach in silence. A colonist and an Indian were placed behind each shelter. The arrangements made it impossible for any one to pass from the swamp without being seen.

The swamp in which Philip was concealed is thus described by Carne.--“It was a fit retreat for a despairing man, being one of those waste and dismal places to which few ever wandered, covered with rank and dense vegetation. The moist soil was almost hidden by the cypress and other trees, that spread their gloomy shades over the treacherous shallows and pools’ beneath. In the few drier parts, oaks and pines grew, and, between them, a brushwood so thick that the savage could hardly penetrate: on the long, rich grass of these parts, wild cattle fed, unassailed by the hand of man, save when they ventured beyond the confines of the swamp. There were wolves, deer, and other animals; and wilder men, it was said, were seen here; it was supposed that the children of some of the Indians had either been lost or left there, and had thus grown up like denizens of this wild. Here the baffled chieftain gathered his little band around him, like a lion baited by the hunters, sullenly seeking his gloomy thickets only to spring forth more fatally. His love was turned to agony; his wife was in the land of his enemies; and would they spare her beauty? His only son, the heir of a long line, must bow his head to their yoke; his chief warriors had all fallen, and he could not trust the few who were still with him.”

Early on the moaning of the 12th of August, Church approached Major Sandford, and taking him by the hand, said that he had placed his men so that it was scarcely possible for Philip to escape. At this moment, a single shot was heard in the distance, and a ball whistled through the air over their heads. Church imagined that it had been fired by accident; but before he could speak, an entire volley was discharged.

The battle had been hastened by the indiscretion of Golding. An Indian, having retired at some distance from his companions, stood for a while looking around him, and as Golding supposed, directly at him. The captain immediately fired; and his men poured a volley into the Indian camp, which, as the savages were asleep, passed clear over them. Philip’s men, thus unexpectedly aroused, ran into the swamp, and the chief, throwing his belt and powder horn over his head, seized his gun and fled. Unaware of the ambush, he ran directly towards one of Church’s men. When he was quite near, the colonist levelled his gun, but missed fire. He bade the Indian fire, which he did with effect, one of the balls passing through the sachem’s heart, and another through his lungs. He bounded into the air and fell upon his face in the mud.

The battle continued, though the Indians fought against great odds. They were rallied and encouraged to stand, by an old chief, who frequently repeated in a loud voice, the exclamation, “Iootash,” a sort of war-cry in time of danger. Church, surprised by the boldness of this chief, and the loudness of his voice, asked his Indian servant, Peter, who it was. He answered that it was Philip’s great captain, Annawon, “calling on his soldiers to stand to it, and fight stoutly.” But the efforts of the chief failed; the greater part of the men, discovering that a part of the swamp was not surrounded, made their escape.

Alderman, the Indian who had shot Philip, immediately informed Church of his exploit; but the captain told him to keep silence until they had driven all the Indians from the swamp. The skirmishing continued until sun rise, when Annawon and the few who remained with him, escaped. In this encounter five Indians were killed, among whom was a son of the great Philip.

Church, glad of having accomplished the main object of the expedition, thought it useless to pursue the fugitives, and hence collected his men in the place where the Indians had passed the night. Here he informed them of Philip’s death, which was greeted with three loud cheers; after which the sachem’s body was dragged from the mud to the upland. In the moment of victory, Church forgot the magnanimity which had hitherto distinguished him, and joined in the jests, with which his men insulted the corpse of the man, at whose name they had formerly trembled. The captain ordered him to be beheaded and quartered, which was accomplished by an old Indian executioner, the pieces being hung on trees. One of the hands which had been scarred by the splitting of a pistol, was given to Alderman “to show to such gentlemen as would bestow gratuitous alms upon him, and accordingly, he got many a penny by it,” The head was placed in a conspicuous part of the town of Plymouth, where it remained many years.

The war was considered as ended with the death of the leading spirit on the part of the Indians. It had been one of extermination upon both sides, but the red men had suffered far more than the English. The character of Philip has been frequently drawn by able pens, and full justice has been rendered to his memory. Activity, courage, skill in war and diplomacy, were the remarkable features of his well-known character. His ends were lofty and startling, and he was wise in the choice of means. To great qualities of mind, he added the strongest feelings, and no part of his life excites our sympathies more than his latter days, when, bereft of friends and relations, he returned, broken-hearted, to the haunts of his youth. His hatred of the English, was early and lasting--founded upon just cause, and followed up with unrelenting cruelty. He was a savage, untaught in the arts and refinements of civilization, and in estimating his character this should be considered. Then will it be clear, that Philip was one of the greatest of Indians and the noblest of the unlearned children of the forest.

THE RAIN MAKERS.

HE Mandans, have dignitaries whom they call “rain makers,” and “rain stoppers,” because they believe in their powers to bring rain in case of drought, or to stop the rain when too strong and violent. Catlin gives a very interesting account of an instance in which the powers of these men were tested.

The Mandans, says Catlin, raise a great deal of corn; but sometimes a most disastrous drought visits the land, destructive to their promised harvest. Such was the case when I arrived at the Mandan village, on the steamboat Yellow Stone. Rain had not fallen for many a day, and the dear little girls and ugly old squaws, altogether, (all of whom had fields of corn,) were groaning and crying to their lords, and imploring them to intercede for rain, that their little patches, which were now turning pale and yellow, might not be withered, and they be deprived of the customary annual festivity, and the joyful occasion of the “roasting ears,” and the “green corn dance.”

The chiefs and doctors sympathized with the distress of the women, and recommended patience. Great deliberation, they said, was necessary in these cases; and though they resolved on making the attempt to produce rain for the benefit of the corn; yet they very wisely resolved that to begin too soon might ensure their entire defeat in the endeavor: and that the longer they put it off, the more certain they would be of ultimate success. So, after a few days of further delay, when the importunities of the women had become clamorous, and even mournful, and almost insupportable, the medicine-men assembled in the council-house, with all their mystery apparatus about them--with an abundance of wild sage, and other aromatic herbs, with a fire prepared to burn them, that their savory odors might be sent forth to the Great Spirit. The lodge was closed to all the villagers, except some ten or fifteen young men, who were willing to hazard the dreadful alternative of making it rain, or suffer the everlasting disgrace of having made a fruitless essay.

They, only, were allowed as witnesses to the _hocus focus_ and _conjurations_ devised by the doctors inside of the medicine lodge; and they were called up by lot, each one in his turn, to spend a day upon the top of the lodge, to test the potency of his medicine; or, in other words, to see how far his voice might be heard and obeyed amongst the clouds of the heavens; whilst the doctors were burning incense in the wigwam below, and with their songs and prayers to the Great Spirit for success, were sending forth grateful fumes and odors to Him “who lives in the sun and commands the thunders of Heaven.” Wah-kee, (the shield,) was the first who ascended the wigwam at sun rise; and he stood all day, and looked foolish, as he was counting over and over his string of mystery-beads--the whole village were assembled around him, and praying for his success. Not a cloud appeared--the day was calm and hot; and at the setting of the sun, he descended from the lodge and went home--“his medicine was not good,” nor can he ever be a medicineman.

Om-pah, (the elk,) was the next; he ascended the lodge at sunrise the next morning. His body was entirely naked, being covered with yellow clay. On his left arm he carried a beautiful shield, and a long lance in his right; and on his head the skin of a raven, the bird that soars amidst the clouds, and above the lightning’s glare--he flourished his shield and brandished his lance, and raised his voice, but in vain; for at sun set the ground was dry, and the sky was clear; the squaws were crying, and their corn was withering at its roots.

War-rah-pa, (the beaver,) was the next; he also spent his breath in vain upon the empty air, and came down at night--and Wak-a-dah-ha-hee, (the white buffalo’s hair,) took the stand the next morning. He was a small, but beautifully proportioned young man. He was dressed in a tunic, and leggings of the skins of the mountain-sheep, splendidly garnished with the quills of the porcupine, and fringed with locks of hair taken by his own hand from the heads of his enemies. On his arm he carried his shield, made of the buffalo’s hide--its boss was the head of the war-eagle--and its front was ornamented with “red chains of lightning.” In his left hand he clinched his sinewy bow and one single arrow. The villagers were all gathered about him; when he threw up a feather to decide on the course of the wind, and he commenced thus: “My friends! people of the pheasants! you see me here a sacrifice--I shall this day relieve you from great distress, and bring joy amongst you; or I shall descend from this lodge when the sun goes down, and live amongst the dogs and old women all my days. My friends! you saw which way the feather flew, and I hold my shield this day in the direction where the wind comes--the lightning on my shield will draw a great cloud, and the arrow, which is selected from my quiver, and which is feathered with the quill of the white swan, will make a hole in it. My friends! this hole in the lodge at my feet, shows me the medicine-men, who are seated in the lodge below me and crying to the Great Spirit and through it comes and passes into my nose delightful odors, which you see rising in the smoke to the Great Spirit above, who rides in the clouds and commands the winds! Three days they have sat here, my friends, and nothing has been done to relieve your distress. On the first day was Wah-kee, (the shield,) he could do nothing; he counted his beads and came down--his medicine was not good--his name was bad, and it kept off the rain. The next was Om-pah, (the elk;) on his head the raven was seen, who flies above the storm, and he failed. War-rah-pa, (the beaver,) was the next, my friends; the beaver lives under the water, and he never wants it to rain. My friends! I see you are in great distress, and nothing has yet been done; this shield belonged to my father the White Buffalo; and the lightning you see on it is red; it was taken from a black cloud, and that cloud will come over us to-day. I am the White Buffalo’s Hair--and am the son of my father.”

It happened on this memorable day about noon, that the steamboat Yellow Stone, on her first trip up the Missouri river, approached and landed at the Mandan village. I was lucky enough to be a passenger on this boat, and helped to fire a salute of twenty guns of twelve pounds calibre, when we first came in sight of the village, some three or four miles below. These guns introduced a new sound into this strange country, which the Mandans first supposed to be thunder; and the young man upon the lodge, who turned it to good account, was gathering fame in rounds of applause, which were repeated and echoed through the whole village; all eyes were centred upon him--chiefs envied him--mother’s hearts were beating high whilst they were decorating and leading up their fair daughters to offer him in marriage, on his signal success. The medicine-men had left the lodge, and came out to bestow upon him the envied title of “medicine-man, or doctor,” which he had so deservedly won--wreaths were prepared to decorate his brows, and eagles’ plumes and calumets were in readiness for him; his friends were all rejoiced--his enemies wore on their faces a silent gloom and hatred; and his old sweethearts, who had formerly cast him off, gazed intently upon him, as they glowed with the burning fever of repentance.

During all this excitement, Wak-a-dah-hahee kept his position, assuming the most commanding and threatening attitudes; brandishing his shield in-= the direction of the thunder, although there was not a cloud to be seen, until he, poor fellow, being elevated above the rest of the village, espied, to his inexpressible amazement, the steamboat ploughing its way up the windings of the river below; puffing her steam from her pipes, and sending forth the thunder from a twelve-pounder on her deck!

The White Buffalo’s Hair stood motionless and turned pale, he looked awhile, and turned to the chief and to the multitude, and addressed them with a trembling lip--“My friends, we will get no rain! there are, you see, no clouds; but my medicine is great--I have brought a thunder boat! look and see it! the thunder you hear is out of her mouth, and the lightning which you see is on the waters!”

At this intelligence, the whole village flew to the tops of their wigwams, or to the bank of the river, from whence the steamer was in full view, and ploughing along, to their utter dismay and confusion.

In this promiscuous throng of chiefs, doctors, women, children, and dogs, was mingled Wak-a-dah-ha-hee, (the white buffalo’s hair,) having descended from his high place to mingle with the frightened throng.

Dismayed at the approach of so strange and unaccountable an object, the Mandans stood their ground but a few moments; when, by an order of the chiefs, all hands were ensconced within the piquets of the village, and all the warriors armed for desperate defence. A few moments brought the boat in front of the village, and all was still and quiet as death; not a Mandan was to be seen upon the banks. The steamer was moored, and three or four of the chiefs soon after, walked boldly down the bank and on to her deck, with a spear in one hand and the calumet or pipe of peace in the other. The moment they stepped on board, they met (to their great surprise and joy) their old friend, Major Sanford, their agent, which circumstance put an end to all their fears. The villagers were soon apprized of the fact, and the whole race of the beautiful and friendly Mandans was paraded on the bank of the river, in front of the boat.

The “rain maker,” whose apprehensions of a public calamity brought upon the nation by his extraordinary medicine, had, for the better security of his person from apprehended vengeance, secreted himself in some secure place, and was the last to come forward, and the last to be convinced that the visitation was a friendly one from the white people; and that his medicine had not in the least been instrumental in bringing it about. This information, though received by him with much caution and suspicion, at length gave him much relief, and quieted his mind as to his danger. Yet still in his breast there was a rankling thorn, though he escaped the dreaded vengeance which he had a few moments before apprehended as at hand; as he had the mortification and disgrace of having failed in his mysterious operations. He set up, however, (during the day, in his conversation about the strange arrival,) his medicines, as the cause of its approach; asserting every where and to every body, that he knew of its coming, and that he had by his magic brought the occurrence about. This plea, however, did not get him much audience; and in fact, every thing else was pretty much swallowed up in the guttural talk, and bustle, and gossip about the mysteries of the thunder boat; and so passed the day, until just at the approach of evening, when the “White Buffalo’s Hair,” more watchful of such matters on this occasion than most others, observed that a black cloud had been jutting up in the horizon, and was almost directly over the village! In an instant his shield was on his arm, and his bow in his hand, and he again upon the lodge! stiffened and braced to the last sinew, he stood, with his face and shield presented to the cloud, and his bow drawn. He drew the eyes of the whole village upon him as he vaunted forth his super-human powers, and at the same time commanding the cloud to come nearer, that he might draw down its contents upon the heads and the cornfields of the Mandans! In this wise he stood, waving his shield over his head, stamping his foot and frowning as he drew his bow and threatening the heavens, commanding it to rain--his bow was bent, and the arrow drawn to its head, was sent to the clond, and he exclaimed, “My friends, it is done! Wak-a-dah-ha-hee’s arrow has entered the black clond, and the Mandans will be wet with the waters of the skies!” His predictions were true; in a few moments the clouds were over the village, and the rain fell in torrents. He stood for some time wielding his weapons and presenting his shield to the sky, while he boasted of his power and the efficacy of his medicine, to those who had been about him, and were now driven to the shelter of their wigwams. He, at length, finished his vaunts and threats, and descended from his high place, (in which he had been perfectly drenched,) prepared to receive the honors and the homage that were due to one so potent in his mysteries; and to receive the style and title of “medicine-man.” This is one of a hundred different modes in which a man in Indian countries acquires the honorable appellation.

This man had “made it rain,” and of course was to receive more than usual honors, as he had done much more than ordinary men could do. All eyes were upon him, and all were ready to admit that he was skilled in the magic art; and must be so nearly allied to the Great or Evil Spirit, that he must needs be a man of great and powerful influence in the nation, and was entitled to the style of doctor or medicine-man.

During the memorable night of which I have just spoken, the steamboat remained by the side of the Mandan village, and the rain that had commenced falling continued to pour down its torrents until midnight; black thunder roared, and vivid lightning flashed until the heavens appeared to be lit up with one unceasing and appalling glare. In this frightful moment of consternation, a flash of lightning buried itself in one of the earth-covered lodges of the Mandans, and killed a beautiful girl. Here was food and fuel fresh for their superstitions; and a night of vast tumult and excitement ensued. The dreams of the new-made medicine-man were troubled, and he had dreadful apprehensions for the coming day; for he knew that he was subject to the irrevocable decree of the chiefs and doctors, who canvass every strange and unaccountable event, with close and superstitious scrutiny, and let their vengeance fall without mercy upon its immediate cause.