But time pressed, and Winslow, bidding Habbamak “leave wringing of his hands,” trudged on over the patches of snow, through the naked forests shivering in the gusty winds of March, under the sullen sky. Corbitant’s lodge was near; here it was hoped that fuller intelligence might be gained. Corbitant was not at home, but his squaw informed them that Massasoit was not yet dead, though he could scarcely live long enough to permit his visitors to close his eyes.[408]
Reinvigorated by this news, and persuaded that while there was life there was hope, the envoys again pressed forward with eager footsteps. Soon Massasoit’s wigwam was reached. A cordon of visitors surrounded it; and so great was the crowd, that it was with difficulty that the Pilgrims pushed through and gained an entrance. “When they succeeded, they beheld a scene so repulsive and so annoying as to be quite sufficient to banish whatever vitality the sick sagamore might still possess. Not only was the lodge crammed with filthy Indians, whose number effectually excluded all fresh air, but the pow-wows were busied in yelling their magical incantations, now rubbing the sick sachem, now wailing, now making frantic gestures; so that, had the disease possessed intelligence and been cognizant of what was taking place, it would have been effectually frightened away. Six or eight ‘medicine-men’ were manipulating him at once, and his ears were dinned with yells, when he should have been perfectly quiet.”[409]
When the pow-wows had concluded their superstitious spells and exorcisms, they told Massasoit that Winslow had come to visit him. The sick Indian, turning on his skin couch, greeted the Englishman kindly. Disease had almost choked him, and quite robbed him of sight; he was indeed near death. Winslow at once conveyed the assurance of the deep grief of the colonists at his sickness, informed him that the pale-faces had sent physic for his restoration to health, and offered himself to undertake the cure. These words, being translated by Habbamak, the Indian at once and cordially thanked Winslow, and accepted his good offices.[410]
The skilful Englishman, with a “confection of many comfortable conserves,” soon worked a cure. The convalescent sagamore said, “Now I know that the English are indeed my friends, and love me; while I live I will never forget this kindness.”[411] Nobly did he keep his word; for, after requesting “the pale-face medicine” to exercise his skill upon others of his tribe, who were down with the same disease which had laid him low, his gratitude was so warm that he disclosed to the pale-face leech the fact that a wide-spread and well-matured conspiracy was afoot to exterminate Weston’s colony, in revenge for injuries heaped upon the Indians; that all the northeastern tribes were in the league; and that the massacre was to cover the Pilgrims also, lest they should avenge the fall of their neighbors. “A chief was here at the setting of the sun,” added Massasoit, “and he told me that the pale-faces did not love me, else they would visit me in my pain, and he urged me to join the war party. But I said, No. Now if you take the chiefs of the league, and kill them, it will end the war-trail in the blood of those who made it, and save the settlements.”[412]
Thankful to Massasoit for this disclosure, and profoundly impressed with its importance, the envoys speedily bade the sagamore good-by, and started for Plymouth. Reaching Corbitant’s lodge towards evening, they decided to sleep with him. “We found him,” says Winslow, “a notable politician, yet full of merry jests and squibs, and never better pleased than when the like are turned again on him.”[413]
“If I were sick, as Massasoit has been,” asked he, “would Mr. Governor send me medicine?”
“Yes,” said Winslow.
“Would you bring it?” queried Corbitant.
“Certainly,” was the reply.
At this the sachem was delighted. He resumed his questions.