A ROMANCE OF KING PHILIP’S WAR.
BY FANNY BULLOCK WORKMAN.
CHAPTER I.
One bright afternoon early in the month of June, 1676, a young girl stood leaning against the trunk of a tree, gazing into the waters of the beautiful Lake Quinsigamond. Her head rested heavily on her hand, as if weighed down by the burden of despair. Suddenly she started, uttering a slight cry, then sank back against the tree with a sigh of relief as she recognized a tall young Indian who approached her.
“Ah! is it you, Ninigret?”
“Yes, Millicent; fear not, there is no foe near; and if there were I would protect you. Why do you tremble so?”
“Is it strange I tremble at the least noise, when the sound of a footstep or the rustling of a leaf may mean instant death to me? The forest is full of enemies. They lurk in every by-path. Behind every bush or fair spreading tree may be seen their leering faces. What, then, has a poor captive girl to expect of their mercy?”
“Do not I and those of my tribe here protect you? Have I not already saved you from death at the hands of a roving Indian?”
“You have; perhaps only for a worse fate. Death, indeed, would be no worse than a future of such captivity; for though you will save me from the violence of the red men, neither you nor your associates will liberate me. Ah, Ninigret! why are you so in the power of that tyrant, Philip? Why will you not brave him, he is so far from here now, and take me to a white settlement? I promise you no harm shall come to you. You shall return unhurt to your people.”
“Do you not remember that Wattasacompanum has promised to keep you in safety until Philip is ready to have you ransomed? Have you forgotten the solemn rites by which he bound himself the day they brought you to us? Wattasacompanum is a good chief, a true Indian, who will not break his promise.”
“Then, Ninigret, I appeal to you, who have made no promise for me, to help me to escape to my countrymen.”
“I cannot do that; but I will take you to a place of safety, though it may be a long, long journey from here. Say, Millicent, will you come with me?”
“Go with you, Ninigret, in any direction other than to a white settlement?” replied Millicent, turning her wondering blue eyes full upon him. “Even if such a thing were possible, where would you take me? Where and how in this time of war?”
“Beyond the reach of the present strife, until Philip has driven the white men from our country. I cannot take you to the whites, for they will soon be swept from the land. They are much broken up already. Philip is a mighty chief, and has powerful friends among the Indians.”
“Can it be so? No, no; the Indian may do harm and cause suffering, but surely the white race cannot be exterminated.”
“Yes, it can, Millicent; as when, in the spring, the warm sun melts the snow, causing it to disappear from the dark earth, so will the white men vanish from this country, leaving the red men in possession.”
“I cannot believe it. Yet how can a poor creature like me, a captive in the forest, cut off from all communication with her friends, know what is the real state of affairs outside? In the long months since I was taken captive rumors have come to me of one town after another being destroyed or abandoned. Alas! what else may not have happened? Yes, it is doubtless true. O my God! is it then to be my fate to be held in life-long bondage, without a friend to whom I can turn?”
“I will be your friend; come with me. I will take you away from here, where you are so unhappy, I will make a home for you. We will live together. You shall be my wife.”
“Your wife!” and Millicent, deadly pale, clung closer to the tree.
“Yes, why not? I am brave and strong; I would guard you from all evil, and would make you happy. What better have you to hope? Why await Philip’s pleasure? You say you have no rich friends to ransom you. If not, he will marry you himself, and he would not be as kind as I. He is a hard master.”
“I marry you, or Philip?” the young girl murmured, with a look of dreary terror on her face; then, as if to herself, “In fairy tales, as a child, I read of maidens marrying kings, and wished I were the heroine of such a tale; but little did I dream that such a king might some time be offered me for a husband.” And she dropped her head upon her arm.
“Do not look so unhappy. Philip is, in truth, no husband for you; but I am different, and do not hate the white race as he does. He is a fierce warrior, while I wish but to live in peace, to have you for my wife.” The Indian drew nearer to Millicent. His dark hand stretched forth to grasp her slender white wrist, his black eyes flashing with entreaty. “I am not like the others of my tribe you see about here; I am more civilized; I speak your language; I have the last year embraced your religion. I vowed to you I would not lay hands upon one of your race to hurt them while you were amongst us. That I have sacredly kept this vow you well know; but you do not know what it has cost me at times, when I have seen the bitter cruelty shown by your race toward mine. All this I would do willingly for you; will you not then be my wife and love me a little?”
The young Indian spoke with a modesty and manliness so remarkable in a son of the forest that Millicent was impressed with his manner, and in her reply tried to show consideration.
“You are an exception to your race, Ninigret, and have always acted honorably toward me. I thank you for all you have done; and, if God ever restore me to my countrymen, I will show my gratitude in more substantial form than mere words. Marry you I never can; think of it calmly, and you will see that it is impossible; such a marriage would only bring misery to us both.”
“You scorn me I see,” Ninigret said, quickly, growing angry. “I tell you we should be happy.”
“Indeed, we should not; from this on you must never mention this subject to me.”
“You cannot put me off so easily. What do I care for the kindness you may show me after you leave here? But you will not leave here very soon, let me tell you, unless you marry me. In that case you shall escape in a few days.”
“Then I shall never escape,” replied Millicent, a bright flash of determination suffusing her fair face.
“Your only answer then is No?”
“No; I will never be your wife.”
“And I say you shall. Farewell! We will meet again.” And all the latent savage nature gleamed forth from his face as he swiftly and noiselessly disappeared into the forest.
Millicent, overcome with emotion, sank listlessly on the ground, where she remained for some time with her head bowed upon her knees, regardless of the beauty of the scene about her. Above, the sky was cloudless, a deep impenetrable blue, as seen through the heavy foliage of the grand primeval forest. At her feet stretched the calm, smooth lake, dotted here and there with tiny islands, so thickly wooded that they looked like escaped bits of the forest floating on the glassy surface of the water. For miles stretched the line of the shore, here straight, there gracefully curving, and everywhere heavily overhung by majestic trees. After a time she raised her eyes, and, stretching her hand with a hopeless gesture toward the lake, said, “Better to drown in that quiet water than to remain longer with these savages, now that Ninigret has turned foe also, and I have no friend to help me.”
“Let me be a friend to help you,” replied a manly voice close by.
Surprised and astonished Millicent sprang to her feet, and saw standing before her a tall, handsome man of perhaps five and thirty years, dressed in uniform.
“O sir! can I really hope that you will help a poor, distressed captive girl?”
“Of course I will,” he answered, moving near to her. “First tell me the circumstances of your captivity and”—
“Hush! do not speak so loud, or they will hear us and take you prisoner also. Come this way,” said Millicent, as she led him to a thick clump of trees near at hand. “A short distance from here, on yonder hill, is an Indian camp, which has been my home for many months.”
“How large is the encampment?” asked the young man, looking with interest and admiration at the poorly clad but refined and beautiful girl by his side.
“When all are there they number about one hundred; but at present most of the warriors are away.”
“Where is your home?”
“I have no home. I am an orphan, and with my sister was visiting friends in Taunton, at the time the Indians attacked that place.”
“Ah! Tell me the story of your capture.”
“I will if you care to hear it. Upon the breaking out of the war, my friends, like others, became alarmed, and adopted such means of defence as they could command; still, when Philip really appeared with his Indians, they were surprised. Ah, sir, even you, who I see are an officer, and probably used to such sights, would have been touched by the misery and desolation those wretches caused on that day. They fired the house we were in, and when we were driven by the flames to the open air, they assailed us; and then I saw my friends struck down about me. An old woman, a mother, three daughters and a son, all brutally killed. Then they seized me, more dead than alive. A fierce Indian, with a yell, raised some weapon in the air, while holding me fast with the other hand; but his uplifted arm was suddenly grasped by a stalwart and gayly dressed chief, whom I soon learned was King Philip. Although nearly overcome with terror, I heard him say, ‘She is too’”—
“Beautiful to be killed,” added the officer.
“Well, yes, I suppose that was the idea. ‘Take her captive.’ They bound my arms to my sides and carried me away. I fainted at that point, and when I came to myself was on horseback, supported by a horrible old squaw.”
“Poor girl! how did you survive such a shock?”
“I do not know, for I was ill with fever throughout the journey; but am I not wearying you with the history of a girl who has surely no claim upon you?”
“You have a claim, dear lady; the unfortunate have always a claim upon any honorable man; besides, I am deeply interested in your story. Please proceed.”
“We travelled slowly on for several days, resting at night. The shock, the mode of life, and, above all, the anxiety about my sister, of whose fate I knew nothing, made me ill and unfit for the rough journey. When I failed and fainted, as I did several times, they beat me and knocked me about, making me walk when utterly unable, as a punishment for my laziness, they said. At last, when they saw I could go no farther on my feet, they strapped me on a horse’s back, where I lay, half delirious and without food, until we reached this place.”
“What an experience for one so delicate!” remarked the officer, looking at Millicent with increasing interest.
“We arrived here late one night, and then an old squaw, who has ever since been kind to me, took me to her wigwam and made me as comfortable as she could. I shall never forget the relief it was to lie quiet, if only on a bed of pine-boughs.”
“You must have had fortitude to have lived through such a mental and physical strain. How did they happen to bring you here?”
“That night, when they thought I slept, I overheard the leader of the band that brought me talking with Wattasacompanum, the chief of the Nipmucks. He said Philip had ordered them to bring me here, and sent a message that I should be kept and well treated until he should see fit to have me ransomed. Wattasacompanum, who is a good chief and a praying Indian, promised that I should be faithfully guarded. The next day, before Philip’s messengers departed, I was carried outside the wigwam, where the Indians danced a wild, fantastic war-dance about me, to the music of their own strange screaming. I lay trembling with fright, until the old squaw came out and sat by me, somewhat quieting my fears by repeating, ‘They no kill you; they no kill.’ They wished to paint my face and decorate my head with branches, but Wattasacompanum said no, that being ill I should not be disturbed. He laid his hand on my head, and solemnly promised to safely keep me; and after that the strange Indians departed.”
“What did they do for you to bring back your health?”
“Very little. I was allowed to rest for a time, was not treated very harshly, and nature did the rest.”
“What food did you have?”
“Ah, that was the worst trial; for days I ate almost nothing. I could not touch the meat they kept constantly boiling in a great common kettle, which all could go to, but I soon learned to eat a sort of cake they make of Indian corn, and when stronger I wandered about and found berries and dried nuts for myself; but I have never been strong since I came here.”
“That does not surprise me. Such a life for one like you! Have they always treated you well?”
“No, they are often very rough; but the women are kinder than the men, who, fortunately for me, are away upon the war-path the greater part of the time, returning only occasionally for a night.”
“What work do they require of you?”
“I first bring up water from the lake in the morning,—that tires me most,—then I help cook their food, and do whatever is necessary in an Indian household,”—and Millicent smiled,—“and I sew for the women and children.”
“The wretches! why don’t they bring their own water from the lake, and make their own clothes?”
“I would willingly do all they ask could I but know that I may soon be free to look for my sister, and be among my own race again.”
“We will see about that. You must not do drudgery for these savages much longer. Have you no relatives with whom it may be possible your sister is now?”
“None; the family whom we were visiting when I was captured were our only relatives. My sister was out at the time on an errand in the town; so you see I do not know whether she was killed or captured, undoubtedly one or the other. My name is Millicent Gordon; hers, Martha. Now, sir, you have my history, and I wish to thank you for your kind attention. It has done me good to relate it to you, for you are the first white man whom I have seen for many months.”
“My dear lady, your story has interested me deeply and aroused in me both sincere admiration and sympathy for one who has suffered so much and so bravely. My one thought is to liberate you.”
“Can you really do so? Is the country, then, not all given over to the Indians? Oh, tell me it is not!”
“No, indeed; they are being steadily and surely conquered; though, God knows, they do enough damage even now. I am Captain Merwin, sent here from Boston on a scouting expedition. I have two men with me, who are awaiting my return less than a mile off. I wandered in this direction while they were resting. I knew there were many Indians roving about; but that there was a camp in this vicinity I was not aware.”
“They suppose their existence here to be unknown to the whites.”
“I wonder they trust you as far as this.”
“They do; I always return. They know I am unable to escape, and would be found and brought back if I tried; so they grant me my only solace, that of wandering in the woods.”
“This time they have trusted you once too often. Will you go with me, and let me take you back to your friends?” asked the captain, impulsively.
“I would go with you most willingly; but would the venture not be too rash? Would it not endanger your own safety and that of your men, who might escape harm alone, but, impeded with a woman, you might lose your lives while saving hers. No, I had better stay where I am. You can be of more service without me,” answered Millicent, with quiet forethought.
“Not for a moment would I consider myself in the matter, Miss Gordon,” replied the captain, with prompt assurance; “but perhaps it is not best to attempt to rescue you until I have secured more men.” He remained silent a few minutes, apparently in deep thought, and said, at last, very decidedly, “No; in case we met even a small band of Indians we should be unable to resist, and they would surely recapture you or kill us all at once. If you will have a little patience, and still trust me, I promise to return and liberate you as soon as I can get men.”
“Yes, I trust you wholly; and, as for patience, the hope of rescue will make it infinite until you come,” said Millicent, smiling.
“Thank you for your trust; it shall not be misplaced. Be prepared at any time after a week for an attack upon the camp, and this time the war-cry will come from friends instead of enemies. May I do homage to the fair hand that has carried water to quench the thirst of an Indian squaw?” Before the blushing Millicent could deny the favor he had pressed her fingers to his lips.
“I must return now, or they will look for me. See, the sun sets already.”
“I will go part way with you, as I wish to observe the situation of your present home.”
“Abode, not home,” Millicent said, half-jestingly. “Yes, come with me, but tread softly or you may be heard,” and she led the way through the wood. Upon reaching the brow of the hill she halted, and, placing her hand on the captain’s arm, said, “Look through these trees into the clearing yonder.” He did so, and saw a number of wigwams, with smoke curling out from their tops, and, sitting about on the ground outside, several women, and one or two old men.
“And there you have lived for nearly a year; but it is late; I must leave you. Be of good courage, and believe that never a crusader felt his pledge to visit the Holy Land more sacred than I do mine to liberate you;” and, lifting his hat with deference, he withdrew into the forest.
The scene above described carries the reader back to the time of the fierce and devastating war waged by King Philip against the settlers of New England, in which all the worst elements of the Indian nature came to the surface. The firebrand and the tomahawk were the weapons employed by the Indians to accomplish their purpose of destroying the advancing power of the white man; and so mercilessly did they use these that the outposts of civilization were swept away as by a whirlwind. The savages, avoiding direct conflict with organized forces of the English, made sudden and unsuspected attacks, under cover of darkness, upon exposed houses or towns, applying the torch to the buildings, and massacring the inhabitants or carrying them into captivity. Neither the life nor property of a white man was safe for an instant. While sitting quietly by his fireside or working in his cornfield, he was liable to instant death at the hands of an unseen foe. In such a condition of affairs it is not surprising that spots, where of late the influence of civilization had begun to make itself felt, were abandoned by their terror-stricken inhabitants. Thus, for a while, the rude savages again appeared as rulers of the land, and the forest often resounded with their war-cry as they fell on one partly-deserted town after another, and their yells of triumph rang on the hushes of midnight as they returned from their fiendish expeditions of plunder waving aloft the scalps of their victims. For a year or more this bloody war lasted, bringing death and desolation to many homes, until its guiding hand and vital breath, King Philip, was struck down, killed by one of his race.
[TO BE CONCLUDED IN NEXT ISSUE.]