How calmly and soundly slept the inhabitants of that village, even whilst the chafed savage was prowling for his prey. All, unsuspecting, their slumbers were deep and unbroken, while the hungry lions about them were awaiting, impatiently, the moment of attack. How often while we sleep are our destinies decided for us! Wealth—fame—happiness—the rewards of toil—the requiters of virtue—good and evil—little circumstances and great—are all hovering above and about us, while we are unconscious of their presence. Life and death may hang upon a single hair, while we cannot raise a hand or bend a thought to avert or secure either.
The eastern sky had just begun to be tinged with red, and a few straggling rays of the sun, still far below the horizon, were dancing in fairy shapes towards the zenith, when the work of death and of cruelty began. Stealthily and silently the savages crept on. Yet let us not call them savages: they were but redressing their wrongs—but avenging the life blood of their race; and though blood was that morning poured out like water; and though the tomahawk and scalping knife were the instruments of death, and the sleeping and the helpless were the victims;—yet their destroyers were but doing with their enemies as they did with each other: they were not doing violence to their own natures: they were even exercising far more humanity than those who, with the Gospel of Peace in their hand, and the light of civilization around them, had sapped the very foundations of the Red Man’s race. Swiftly the work went on. A stifled groan—a scream of anguish occasionally broke the stillness of the hour. Save that, all was wrapped in deep, dread, ominous silence. At length, by accident, a rifle was discharged. On that little circumstance hung the life of hundreds. The sound echoes through the long street—a window is raised—a door is opened—the alarm is given—and armed men pour forth, and prepare to resist the foe.
All was confusion and dismay. Rifles were fired—loaded, and discharged again. Tomahawks gleamed—swords flashed—occasionally a small piece of ordnance rolled its infant thunder over the plain, and the smoke and din of the contest rose up together to the heavens. Men ran hither and thither. Some commanded, and none obeyed.
Suddenly, “a man of venerable aspect” appeared among the scattered and nearly discomfited inhabitants. He collected them in a body, and, assuming the command, arrayed them in the best manner for defence. He seemed experienced and skilful in the art of war. And now the tide was changed; the Indians in their turn were routed and fled in confusion. In vain the chiefs attempted to rally them. A sudden panic seized the savages; and they, precipitately, fled. After the danger was over, all eyes were looking for the man who had so wonderfully assisted them, but in vain—he had gone, none knew whither. Many conjectures were formed as to who the stranger could be; some supposed it was the guardian angel of the town—but no; it was Goffe, the Regicide!
His seemingly miraculous appearance at that time may be easily accounted for. Goffe and Whalley, two of the Judges of Charles the First, were then both secreted in the house of the Rev. Mr. Russell. Seeing the inhabitants in danger, Goffe determined to hazard his life for those who had so generously afforded him refuge at the risk of their own.
Amongst those of the Indians who had lain in ambush, the most eager of all was Wawhillowa, the young chief of Nonotuck. With a disposition naturally fierce, his intercourse with the whites had done little to soften it, or to influence him in their favor; and since the dispute with William Russell, over the carcass of the deer, he had been burning with indignation and resentment. He had joined the expedition against Hadley with his warriors, partly in the hope of meeting Russell in the fray, and thus gratifying his revenge; and partly because his spirit could not bear to be inactive, whilst the name of Philip was spreading terror through New England. Emulous of the rising fame and fortunes of the Narragansett King, he hoped, ere long, to raise for himself a name among the tribes that should eclipse the reputation of all before him. The English, he thought, were fit objects on which to exercise his ambition; and, having lately conceived a strong aversion to the whole race, he had determined to embrace the present opportunity of signalizing himself, and venting on his enemies his hearty dislike.
The ambuscade laid for the purpose of cutting off the expected retreat of the English, of course, utterly failed of its object; and when those who formed it saw the ill success of their coadjutors, they began to seek safety—each for himself as best he might. Wawhillowa disdained to leave the field without some trophy of his valor; and, while his associates were fleeing in every direction, he was bent on executing a plan which would at once satisfy his animosity, and establish his celebrity among the warriors of his tribe.
Just back of the house in which Mr. Webster resided was a small eminence, from the top of which could be obtained a fine view of the whole plain of Hadley. The sides of this little hill were thickly covered with bushes, through which a narrow foot path led from the house to its summit. To this hill had Eliza Webster repaired to witness the contest that was raging on the plain. Wawhillowa having cautiously approached the house, at length caught the flutter of Eliza’s white garments through the bushes, and hastily but silently approached her. Suddenly she was grasped by a strong and unseen hand, and her handkerchief being pressed into her mouth effectually prevented her screaming. The strength of the young chief was that of a giant, and scarcely hindered by the slender form of the fair girl he bore, he bounded like a tiger after his comrades.
Swiftly they fled, nor paused till the sun was within an hour or two of high noon. And still Wawhillowa pressed on, bearing his fair charge, not left far behind even by his unencumbered associates. When he considered that there was no longer danger of pursuit, he set the poor girl on her feet, and, removing the handkerchief from her mouth, ordered her to walk on before him. In vain she asked him why he treated her thus—why he had torn her from her friends and was bringing her to a cruel death—or to a captivity worse than death. In vain she pleaded her friendship with Tahattawa—her former intimacy even with himself; he walked on in stern silence, and now and then by an impatient gesture, gave her to understand that he wished her to be as taciturn as himself. With the eye of one accustomed to the forest, the chief bent his course directly towards the place of their encampment. Bushes and thorns often obstructed their way; and although Eliza was wearied and sadly torn by the briars, she even dared to threaten her foe. Not aware of the difficulty that existed between them, and which had been the cause of her own seizure, she warned Wawhillowa to beware of the vengeance of her lover.
At the mention of the name of his deadly foe, the fiery savage sprang to the side of his victim and was about to plunge his knife to her heart, but calming the transport of his passion he spared her for a more perfect revenge. His eye glared fiercely on her, and triumph shone in every lineament of his features as he replied,