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ОглавлениеCome 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.
PROLOGUE
From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms"
Delusions of the days that once have been,
Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen,
Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts
That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,—
These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here,
Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere,
We draw the outlines of weird figures cast In shadow on the background of the Past.
Who would believe that in the quiet town
Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown
The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms
That fold it safe in their paternal arms,—
Who would believe that in those peaceful streets,
Where the great elms shut out the summer heats,
Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast
The benediction of unbroken rest,—
Who would believe such deeds could find a place
As these whose tragic history we retrace?
'Twas but a village then: the goodman ploughed
His ample acres under sun or cloud;
The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun,
And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun;
The only men of dignity and state
Were then the Minister and the Magistrate,
Who ruled their little realm with iron rod,
Less in the love than in the fear of God;
And who believed devoutly in the Powers
Of Darkness, working in this world of ours,
In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread,
And shrouded apparitions of the dead.
Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame,"
Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil came;
Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts,
To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts!
And 'tis no wonder; for, with all his host,
There most he rages where he hateth most,
And is most hated; so on us he brings
All these stupendous and portentous things!"
Something of this our scene to-night will show;
And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe,
Be not too swift in casting the first stone,
Nor think New England bears the guilt alone.
This sudden burst of wickedness and crime
Was but the common madness of the time,
When in all lands, that lie within the sound
Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
The outbreak occurred in that part of Salem then called Salem Village, now the separate town of Danvers, and was brought about by three or four children who pretended to be bewitched and who "cried out" against various persons. They were countenanced, not to say encouraged, by Samuel Parris, the minister of the place, and there is evidence to show that he used them to gratify his private enmities.
SALEM
[A.D. 1692]
Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighboure myne,
How rides a witch when night-winds blowe?
Folk say that you are none too goode
To joyne the crewe in Salem woode,
When one you wot of gives the signe:
Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe.
In meetinge-time I watched you well,
Whiles godly Master Parris prayed:
Your folded hands laye on your booke;
But Richard answered to a looke
That fain would tempt him unto hell,
Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made.
You looke into my Richard's eyes
With evill glances shamelesse growne;
I found about his wriste a hair,
And guesse what fingers tyed it there!
He shall not lightly be your prize—
Your Master first shall take his owne.
'Tis not in nature he should be
(Who loved me soe when Springe was greene)
A childe, to hange upon your gowne!
He loved me well in Salem towne
Until this wanton witcherie
His heart and myne crept dark betweene.
Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye,
Your goodman missed you from his side.
He had no strength to move, until
Agen, as if in slumber still,
Beside him at the dawne you laye.
Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide.
Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete
As drifts the Bay fogg overhead—
Or over yonder hill-topp, where
There is a tree ripe fruit shall bear
When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet
The stones of Gallows Hill shall tread.
Edmund Clarence Stedman.
A special jury, instituted to try the suspects, went to work without delay. On June 2, 1692, Bridget Bishop was tried and condemned and was hanged a week later. On June 30 the court sentenced five persons to death, and all of them were executed soon afterwards. Among those condemned was Rebecca Nourse, seventy-one years of age, universally beloved and of excellent character. The jury was with great difficulty persuaded to convict her; the governor granted a reprieve, but Parris, who had an ancient grudge against her, finally got it repealed, and on July 19, 1692, she was carted to the summit of Gallows Hill and hanged.
THE DEATH OF GOODY NURSE
[July 19, 1692]
The chill New England sunshine
Lay on the kitchen floor;
The wild New England north wind
Came rattling at the door.
And by the wide old fire-place,
Deep in her cushioned chair,
Lay back an ancient woman,
With shining snow-white hair.
The peace of God was on her face,
Her eyes were sweet and calm,
And when you heard her earnest voice
It sounded like a psalm.
In all the land they loved her well;
From country and from town
Came many a heart for counsel,
And many a soul cast down.
Her hands had fed the hungry poor
With blessing and with bread;
Her face was like a comforting
From out the Gospel read.
So weak and silent as she lay,
Her warm hands clasped in prayer,
A sudden knocking at the door
Came on her unaware.
And as she turned her hoary head,
Beside her chair there stood
Four grim and grisly Puritans—
No visitants for good.
They came upon her like a host,
And bade her speak and tell
Why she had sworn a wicked oath
To serve the powers of hell;
To work the works of darkness
On children of the light,
A witch they might not suffer here
Who read the Word aright.
Like one who sees her fireside yawn,
A pit of black despair,
Or one who wakes from quiet dreams
Within a lion's lair,
She glared at them with starting eyes,
Her voice essayed no sound;
She gasped like any hunted deer
The eager dogs surround.
"Answer us!" hoarse and loud they cry;
She looked from side to side—
No human help—"Oh, gracious God!"
In agony she cried.
Then, calling back her feeble life,
The white lips uttered slow,
"I am as pure as babe unborn
From this foul thing, ye know.
"If God doth visit me for sin,
Beneath His rod I bend,"
But pitiless and wroth were they,
And bent upon their end.
They tortured her with taunt and jeer,
They vexed her night and day—
No husband's arm nor sister's tears
Availed their rage to stay.
Before the church they haled her then;
The minister arose
And poured upon her patient head
The worst of all its woes:
He bade her be accursed of God
Forever here and there;
He cursed her with a heavy curse
No mortal man may bear.
She stood among the cowering crowd
As calm as saints in heaven,
Her eyes as sweet as summer skies,
Her face like summer's even.
The devils wrought their wicked will
On matron and on maid.
"Thou hast bewitched us!" cried they all,
But not a word she said.
They fastened chains about her feet,
And carried her away;
For many days in Salem jail
Alone and ill she lay
She heard the scythe along the field
Ring through the fragrant air,
She smelt the wild-rose on the wind
That bloweth everywhere.
Reviled and hated and bereft,
The soul had plenteous rest,
Though sorrow like a frantic flood
Beat sore upon her breast.
At last the prison door stood wide,
They led the saint abroad;
By many an old familiar place
Her trembling footsteps trod.
Till faint with weakness and distress,
She climbed a hillside bleak,
And faced the gallows built thereon,
Still undisturbed and meek.
They hanged this weary woman there,
Like any felon stout;
Her white hairs on the cruel rope
Were scattered all about.
The body swung upon the tree
In every flitting wind,
Reviled and mocked by passengers
And folk of evil mind.
A woman old and innocent,
To die a death of shame,
With kindred, neighbors, friends thereby,
And none to utter blame.
Oh, God, that such a thing should be
On earth which Thou hast made!
A voice from heaven answered me,
"Father forgive," He said.
Rose Terry Cooke.
At the August session, six persons were tried and, of course, condemned, among them Elizabeth and John Proctor. The former had been arrested April 11, and when her husband came to her defence, he was also arrested. They were tried together August 5, and both were convicted and sentenced to be hanged. Proctor was executed August 19. His wife escaped by pleading pregnancy. Some months later she gave birth to a child, and her execution was again ordered early in 1693, but Governor Phips granted a reprieve, and she ultimately escaped.
A SALEM WITCH
[August 19, 1692]
