And not alone was the public mind agitated by fears of the Indians; other causes of terror prevailed. The aurora borealis lit up the midnight sky; the moon was eclipsed; strange and awful sights were seen in the heavens; Indian bows, and scalps and armies careering with lightning speed; the moaning of the wind and the howling of the wolves became also prophetic of dire calamity. The awe-stricken people thought of the “signs in the sun, and the moon, and the stars; and upon earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; men’s hearts failing them for fear and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth.”
The approaching war, of which these signs were supposed to be the prognostics, caused the austere Puritans to consult through their elders as to the sins for which these calamities were the judgment; and a long list was drawn up, among others, “neglect in the religious training of their children; pride in dress; long and curled hair worn by the men; the uncovered bosoms of the women and the wearing of superfluous ribbons; toleration of the Quakers; hurry in leaving the meeting-houses; cursing, swearing and drinking; and the riding from town to town of unmarried men and women, on pretence of attending lectures”—these, and other such things, were considered to be the cause of God’s anger, and still greater austerity of life was required. Meantime, the Pocanokets driven from Mount Hope, Philip and his warriors were fugitives among the Nipmucks, a tribe in the interior of Massachusetts; the tribes in Connecticut remained faithful, and the Narragansetts were quiet; nevertheless, the colonists were on the alert, and in November a combined force of 1,500 men was raised to carry on the war against the Indians, which was now pronounced to be “just and necessary.”
“The war on the part of the Indians,” says Bancroft, “was one of ambushes and surprises. They never once met the English in open field. They were secret as beasts of prey, skilful marksmen and in part provided with fire-arms, fleet of foot, conversant with all the paths of the forest, patient of fatigue and burning for vengeance on an enemy whom at the same time they feared and hated. By the rapidity of their descent, they seemed omnipresent among the scattered villages, which they ravaged like a passing storm. The forest that protected their ambush secured their retreat; they hung upon the skirts of the English villages ‘like the lightning on the edge of the cloud.’”
The English, unwilling that Philip should be sheltered among the Nipmucks, whom they regarded as their allies, sent a force into their territory to remonstrate with them; but the Indians, lying in ambush, fell upon them near the appointed place, and killed most of them. The remainder fled to the village of Brookfield, where a house was hastily fortified, and they stood a siege for two days, when the Indians set fire to the house; but the flames were extinguished by violent and sudden rain, and soon after a party coming to the relief of the besieged the Indians fled. A few days later the village of Deerfield was burned; and on the same day, “it being Sunday, the town of Hadley was attacked at the time of public worship, and the people thrown into the utmost confusion, when on a sudden there appeared in the midst of the affrighted inhabitants a man of venerable aspect, who put himself at their head, and led them to the onset.” The army was completely routed, but the stranger, who was almost supposed to be an angel from heaven, had disappeared. It was the regicide General Goffe, who was at that time concealed in the town. About the same time, Captain Beers and his company were cut off at Deerfield by a brook, which, running red with their blood, is called to this day “the Bloody Brook.” Deerfield was a devoted place; the harvests were gathered in under force of arms, and, says the old narrative, “on September 18th, that most fatal day, the saddest that ever befell New England, as the company under Captain Lathrop were marching along with the carts, they were suddenly set upon, and ninety of them killed, not above seven or eight escaping;” and thus fell “that choice company of young men, the very flower of the county of Essex; all culled out of the towns belonging to that county; their dear relations at home mourning for them, like Rachel for her children.” The village of Springfield was burned; the more distant settlements were deserted, and all “the pleasant residences which had been won by hard toil in the desert, the stations of civilisation in the wilderness, were laid waste.”
A quick alarm ran through those sylvan bowers,
All the wild tumult of approaching war:
And in the deep hush of the midnight hours
The dismal war-whoop sounded from afar,
Rousing the slumberers up with its unearthly jar.
And with the morning’s light was sadly traced,