King Philip - John S. C. Abbott

Death of King Philip

The heroic and unfortunate monarch of the Wampanoags was now indeed a fugitive, and almost utterly desolate. A few of the more noble of the Indians still adhered faithfully to the fortunes of their ruined chieftain. The colonists pursued the broken bands of the Indians with indefatigable energy. A small party sought refuge at a place called Agawam, in the present town of Wareham. Captain Church immediately headed an expedition, pursued them, and captured the whole band. A notorious Indian desperado called Sam Barrow was among the number. He was a bloodthirsty wretch, who had filled the colony with the terror of his name. He boasted that with his own hand he had killed nineteen of the English. Captain Church informed him that, in consequence of his inhuman murders, the court could allow him no quarter. The stoical savage, with perfect indifference, said that he was perfectly willing to die, and only requested the privilege of smoking a pipe. He sat down upon a rock, while his Indian executioner stood by his side with his gleaming tomahawk in his hand. The savage smoked a few whiffs of tobacco, laid aside his pipe, and calmly said, "I am ready." In another instant the hatchet of the executioner sank deep into his brain. He fell dead upon the rock.

On the 6th of August one of Philip's Indians deserted his master and fled to Taunton. To make terms for himself, he offered to conduct the English to a spot upon the river where Wetamoo had secreted herself with a party of Pocasset warriors. Twenty of the inhabitants of Taunton armed themselves and followed their Indian guide. He led them to a spot now called Gardiner's Neck, in the town of Swaney.

At the beginning of the war, Wetamoo, flushed with hope, had marched to the conflict leading three hundred warriors in her train. She was now hiding in thickets, swamps, and dens, with but twenty-six followers, and they dejected and despairing. Next to King Philip, Wetamoo had been the most energetic of the foes of the English. She was inspired with much of his indomitable courage, and was never wanting in resources. The English came upon them by surprise, and captured every one but Wetamoo herself. The heroic queen, too proud to be captured, instantly threw off all her clothing, seized a broken piece of wood, and plunged into the stream. Worn down by exhaustion and famine, her nerveless arm failed her, and she sank beneath the waves. Her body, like a bronze statue of marvelous symmetry, was soon after found washed upon the shore. As faithful chroniclers, we must declare, though with a blush, that the English cut off her head, and set it upon a pole in their streets, a trophy ghastly, bloody, revolting. Many of her subjects were in Taunton as captives. When they beheld the features of their beloved queen, they filled the air with shrieks of lamentation.

The situation of Philip was now indescribably deplorable. All the confederate tribes had abandoned him; the most faithful of his followers had already perished. His only brother was dead; his wife and only son were slaves in the hands of the English, doomed to unending bondage; every other relative was cold in death. The few followers who still, for their own protection, accompanied him in his flight, were seeking in dismay to save their own lives. His domain, which once spread over wide leagues of mountain and forest, was now contracted to the dark recesses and dismal swamps where, as a hunted beast, he sought his lair. There was no place of retreat for him. All the Connecticut Indians had become his bitter foes, because he had embroiled them in a war which had secured their ruin. The Mohawks, upon the Hudson, were thirsting for his blood.

Still, this indomitable man would not think of yielding. He determined, with a resolution which seemed never to give way, to fight till a bullet from the foe should pierce his brain. In this hour of utter hopelessness, one of Philip's warriors ventured to urge him to surrender to the English. The haughty monarch immediately put the man to death as a punishment for his temerity and as a warning to others. The brother of this Indian, indignant at such severity, deserted to the English, and offered to guide them to the swamp where Philip was secreted. The ruined monarch had returned to the home of his childhood to fight his last battles and to die.

Captain Church happened to be at this time, with a party of volunteers, at Rhode Island, having crossed over by the ferry from Tiverton. Here he met the Indian traitor. "He was a fellow of good sense," says Captain Church, "and told his story handsomely." He reported that Philip was upon a little spot of upland in the midst of a miry swamp just south of Mount Hope. It was now evening. Half of the night was spent in crossing the water in canoes. At midnight Captain Church brought all his company together, and gave minute directions respecting their movements. They surrounded the swamp. With the earliest light of the morning they were ordered to creep cautiously upon their hands and feet until they came in sight of their foes. As soon as any one discovered Philip or any of his men, he was to fire, and immediately all were to rise and join in the pursuit. To make sure of his victim, Captain Church also formed a second circle surrounding the swamp, placing an Englishman and an Indian behind trees, rocks, etc., so that no one could pass between them. He also stationed small parties in selected places in ambuscade.

Having completed all his arrangements, he took his friend Major Sandford by the hand, and said,

"I have now so posted my men that I think it impossible that Philip should escape us."

He had hardly uttered these words ere the report of a musket was heard in the swamp, and this was instantaneously followed by a whole volley. Some of the Indians had been discovered, and the murderous work was commenced. The morning had as yet but just dawned. An awful scene of dismay, tumult, and blood ensued. Philip, exhausted by days and nights of the most harassing flight and fighting, had been found soundly asleep. The few warriors still faithful to him, equally exhausted, were dozing at his side. A party of the English crept cautiously within musket shot of their sleeping foes, discharged a volley of bullets upon them, and then rushed into their encampment.

King Philip's War


The dreams of the despairing fugitive were disturbed by the crash of musketry, the whistling of bullets, and the shout and the onset of his foes. He leaped from his couch of leaves, and, like a deer, bounded from hummock to hummock in the swamp. It so happened that he ran directly upon an ambush which Captain Church had warily established. An Englishman and the Indian deserter, whose name was Alderman, stood behind a large tree, with their guns cocked and primed. As Philip, bewildered and unconscious of his peril, drew near, the Englishman took deliberate aim at him when he was but at the distance of a few yards, and sprung his lock. The night dews of the swamp had moistened the powder, and his gun missed fire. The life of Philip was thus prolonged for one half of a minute. The traitor Alderman then eagerly directed his gun against the chief to whom but a few hours before he had been in subjection. A sharp report rang through the forest, and two bullets, for the gun was double charged, passed almost directly through the heart of the heroic warrior. For an instant the majestic frame of the chieftain, as he stood erect, quivered from the shock, and then he fell heavy and stone dead in the mud and water of the swamp.

Alderman, delighted with his exploit, ran eagerly to inform Captain Church that he had shot King Philip. Church ordered him to be perfectly silent about it, that his men might more vigorously pursue the remaining warriors. For some time the pursuit and the carnage continued. Captain Church then, by a concerted signal, called his army together, and informed them of the death of their formidable foe. The tidings were received with a simultaneous shout of exultation, which, repeated again and again, reverberated through the solitudes of the forests. The whole army then advanced to the spot where the sovereign of the Wampanoags lay gory in death. They had but little reverence for an Indian, and, seizing the body, they dragged it, as if it had been the carcass of a wild beast, through the mud to an upland slope, where the ground was dry. Here, for a time, they gazed with exultation upon the great trophy of their victory, and spurned the dishonored body as if it had been a wolf or a panther which had been destroying their families and their Rocks. Captain Church then said,

"Forasmuch as he has caused many an Englishman's body to lie unburied and to rot above the ground, not one of his bones shall be buried."

An old Indian executioner, a vulgar, blood-thirsty wretch, was then called to cut up the body. With bitter taunts he stood over him with his hatchet, and cut off his head and quartered him. Philip had one remarkable hand, which was much scarred by the explosion of a pistol. This hand was given to Alderman, who shot him, as his share of the spoil. Alderman preserved it in rum, and carried it around the country as a show; "and accordingly," says Captain Church, "he got many a penny by it." We would gladly doubt the statement, if we could, that the head of this ill-fated chief was sent to Plymouth, where it was for a long time exposed on a gibbet. The four quarters of the mangled body were hung upon four trees; and there they remained swinging in the moaning wind until the elements wasted them away.

Thus fell Pometacom, perhaps the most illustrious savage upon the North American continent. The interposition of Providence alone seems to have prevented him from exterminating the whole English race upon this continent. Though his character has been described only by those who were exasperated against him to the very highest degree, still it is evident that he possessed many of the noblest qualities which can embellish human nature.

It is said that with reluctance and anguish he entered upon the war, and that he shed tears when the first English blood was shed. His extraordinary kindness to the Leonards, inducing him to avert calamities from a whole settlement, lest they, by some accident, might be injured, develops magnanimity which is seldom paralleled. He was a man of first-rate abilities. He foresaw clearly that the growth of the English power threatened the utter extermination of his race. War thus, in his view, became a dire necessity. No man could be more conscious of its fearful peril. With sagacity which might excite the envy of the ablest of European diplomatists, he bound together various heterogeneous and hostile tribes, and guided all their energies. Though the generality of the Indians were often inhuman in the extreme, there is no evidence that Philip ever ordered a captive to be tortured, while it is undeniable that the English, in several instances, surrendered their captives to the horrid barbarities of their savage allies.

"His mode of making war," says Francis Baylies, "was secret and terrible. He seemed like the demon of destruction hurling his bolts in darkness. With cautious and noiseless steps, and shrouded by the deep shade of midnight, he glided from the gloomy depths of the woods. He stole on the villages and settlements of New England, like the pestilence, unseen and unheard. His dreadful agency was felt when the yells of his followers roused his victims from their slumbers, and when the flames of their blazing habitations glared upon their eyes.

"His pathway could be traced by the horrible desolation of its progress, by its crimson print upon the snows and the sands, by smoke and fire, by houses in ruins, by the shrieks of women, the wailing of infants, and the groans of the wounded and the dying. Well indeed might he have been called the terror of New England. Yet in no instance did he transcend the ordinary usages of Indian warfare.

"We now sit in his seats and occupy his lands; the lands which afforded a bare subsistence to a few wandering savages can now support countless thousands of civilized people. The aggregate of the happiness of man is increased, and the designs of Providence are fulfilled when this fair domain is held by those who know its use; surely we may be permitted at this day to lament the fate of him who was once the lord of our woods and our streams, and who, if he wrought much mischief to our forefathers, loved some of our race, and wept for their misfortunes!"

There was, however, but little sympathy felt in that day for Philip or any of his confederates. The truly learned and pious but pedantic Cotton Mather, allowing his spirit to be envenomed by the horrid atrocities of Indian warfare, thus records the tragic end of Pometacom:

"The Englishman's piece would not go off, but the Indians presently shot him through his venomous and murderous heart. And in that very place where he first contrived and commenced his mischief, this Agag was now cut in quarters, which were then hanged up, while his head was carried in triumph to Plymouth, where it arrived on the very day that the church was keeping a solemn thanksgiving to God. God sent them in the head of a Leviathan for a thanksgiving feast."

We must remember that the Indians have no chroniclers of their wrongs, and yet the colonial historians furnish us with abundant incidental evidence that outrages were perpetrated by individuals of the colonists which were sufficient to drive any people mad. No one can now contemplate the doom of Pometacom, the last of an illustrious line, but with emotions of sadness.

"Even that he lived it for his conqueror's tongue;

By foes alone his death song must be sung.

No chronicles but theirs shall tell

His mournful doom to future times.

May these upon his virtues dwell,

And in his fate forget his crimes!"

The war was now virtually at an end. Still there were many broken bands of Indians wondering through the wilderness in a state of utter desperation; they knew that to surrender doomed them to death or to hopeless slavery. Though they were unable to wage any effective warfare, they could desolate the settlements with murders and with terrible depredations.

A few days after the death of King Philip, intelligence was brought to Plymouth that Annawan, Philip's chief captain, a man of indomitable energy, was ranging the woods with a band of warriors in the vicinity of Rehoboth and Swanzey, and doing great mischief.

Annawan was now commander-in-chief of all the remaining Indian forces. His death or capture was accordingly esteemed a matter of great moment. Captain Church immediately gathered around him a band of his enthusiastic troops. They were so devoted to their successful commander that they declared their readiness to follow him as long as an Indian was left in the woods. They immediately commenced their march, and ranged the woods along the Pocasset shore. Not finding any Indians, they crossed the arm of the bay in canoes to Rhode Island, intending to spend the next day, which was the Sabbath, there in religious rest. Early the next morning, however, a messenger informed the captain that a canoe filled with Indians had been seen passing from Prudence Island to the west side of Bristol, which was then called Poppasquash Neck. Captain Church, thinking that these men were probably going to join the band of Annawan, resolved immediately to pursue them. He had no means of transporting his troops but in two or three frail birch canoes. He crossed himself, however, with sixteen of his Indian allies, when the gale increased to such severity, and hove up such a tumultuous sea, that the canoes could no longer pass. Captain Church now found himself upon Bristol Neck with but sixteen Indian allies around him, while all the rest of his force, including nearly all of his English soldiers, were upon Rhode Island, and cut off from all possibility of immediately joining him. Still, the intrepid captain adopted the resolve to march in pursuit of the enemy, though he was aware that he might meet them in overwhelming numbers.

The Indians expressed some reluctance to go unaccompanied by English soldiers; finally, however, they consented. Skulking through almost impenetrable thickets, they came to a salt meadow just north of the present town of Bristol. It was now night, and though they had heard the report of two guns in the woods, they had met no Indians. A part of their company, who had been sent out on a skulk, had not returned, and great anxiety was felt lest they had fallen into an ambush and been captured. The night was dark, and cold, and dreary. They had not a morsel of bread, and no food to cook; they did not dare to build a fire, as the flame would be sure to attract their wakeful enemies. Hungry and solitary, the hours of the night lingered slowly away. In the earliest dawn of the morning, the Indian scouts returned with the following extraordinary story, which proved to be true. They said that they had not advanced far when they discovered two Indians at a distance approaching them upon one horse. The scouts immediately hid in the brush in parallel lines at a little distance from each other. One of the Indians then stationed himself as a decoy, and howled like a wolf. The two Indians immediately stopped, and one, sliding froth the horse, came running along to see what was there. The cunning Indian, howling lower and lower, drew him on between those lying in wait for him, until they seized and instantly gagged him. The other, seeing that his companion did not return, and still hearing the faint howlings of the wolf, also left his horse, and soon experienced the same fate.

The two captives they then examined apart, and found them to agree in the story that there were eight more Indians. Who had come with them into the Neck in search of provisions, and, that they had all agreed to meet at an old Indian burying-place that evening. The two captives chanced to be former acquaintances of the leader of the scouting party. He told them enticing stories of the bravery of Captain Church; and of the advantages of fighting with him, and for him instead of against him. The vagabond prisoners were in a very favorable condition to be influenced by such suggestions. They heartily joined their victors, and aided in entrapping their unsuspecting comrades. The eight were soon found, and; by a continuance of the same stratagem, were all secured. All these men immediately co-operated with Captain Church's company, and aided in capturing their remaining friends. In this perhaps they were to be commended, as there was nothing before them but misery, starvation, and death in the wilderness; while there was at least food and life with Captain Church.

With their band thus strengthened there was less fear of surprise. A horse was killed, roaring fires built, and the Indians, roasting the meat upon wooden spits, exulted for a few hours in a feast of steaks which, to them at least, were savory and delicious. The Indians usually carried salt in their pockets: with this alone they seasoned their horseflesh. As there was not a morsel of bread to be obtained, Captain Church had no better fare than his savage companions.

The Indians were now in exceeding good-humor. All having eaten their fill, and loading themselves with a sufficient supply for the day, they commenced their march, under the guidance of the captives, to the place where they had left their women and children. All were surprised and captured. But no one could tell where Annawan was to be found. All agreed in the declaration that he was continually moving about, never sleeping twice in the same place.

One of the Indian prisoners entreated Captain Church to permit him to go into a swamp, about four miles distant, where his father was concealed with his young wife. He promised to bring them both in. Captain Church, thinking that he might, perhaps, obtain some intelligence respecting Annawan, decided to go with him. Taking with him one Englishman and a few Indians, and leaving the rest to remain where they were until his return, he set out upon this enterprise.

When they arrived on the borders of the swamp, the Indian was sent forward in search of his father. Pretty soon they heard a low howling, which was promptly responded to by a corresponding howl at a distance. At length they saw an old man coming toward them with his gun upon his shoulder, and followed by a young Indian girl, his daughter. Concealing themselves on each side of the narrow trail, Captain Church's party awaited their approach, and seized them both. Threatening them with terrible punishment if they deceived him with any falsehood, he examined them apart.

Both agreed that they had been lately in Annawan's camp; that he had with him about sixty Indians, and that he was at but a few miles distance, in Squannaconk Swamp, in the south-easterly part of Rehoboth. "Can I get there to-night?" inquired Captain Church. "If you set out immediately," the old Indian replied, and travel stoutly, you can reach there by sunset."

Just then the young Indian who had been in search of his father returned with his father and another Indian. Captain Church was now in much perplexity. He was very desirous of going in pursuit of Annawan before the wary savage should remove to other quarters. He had, however, but half a dozen men with him, and it was necessary to send a messenger back to acquaint those who had been left of his design. Collecting his little band together, he inquired if they were ready to go with him to endeavor to take Annawan. The enterprise appeared to them all very perilous. They replied,

"We are willing to obey your commands. But Annawan is a renowned and veteran warrior. He served under Pometacom's father, and has been Pometacom's chief captain during this war. He is a very subtle man, a man of great energy, and has often said that he would never be taken alive by the English. Moreover, the warriors who are with him are very resolute men. We therefore fear that it would be impossible to take him with so small a band. We should but throw away our lives."

Still, Captain Church, relying upon his own inexhaustible resources, and upon the well-known despondency and despair of the Indians, resolved to go, and with a few words roused the enthusiasm of his impulsive and fickle followers. He sent the young Indian, with his father and the young squaw, back to the camp while he took the other old man whom he had captured as his guide. "You: have given me my life," said the Indian, "and it is my duty to serve you."

Energetically they commenced their march through the woods, the old man leading off with tremendous strides. Occasionally he would get so far in advance that the party would lose sight of him, when he would atop until they came up. He might easily have escaped had he wished to do so. Just as the sun was setting, the old man made a full, stop and sat down. The rest of the company came up, all being very weary, and sat down around him.

"At this hour," said the old man, "Annawan always sends out his scouts. We must conceal ourselves here until after dark, whew the scouts will have returned."

As soon, as the darkness of night had settled over the forest, the old man again rose to resume the march. Captain Church said to him, "Will you take a gun and fight for us?"

The faithful guide bowed very low, and nobly said, "I pray you not to impose upon me such a thing as to fight Annawan, my old friend. I will go along with you and be helpful to you, and will lay hands on any man who shall offer to hurt you."

In the gloom of the wilderness it was now very dark, and all kept close together, and moved cautiously and silently along. Soon they heard a noise as of a woman pounding corn. All stopped and listened. They had arrived at Annawan's retreat. Captain Church, with one Englishman and half a dozen Indians, most of whom had been taken captive that very day, were about to attack one of the fiercest and most redoubtable of Philip's chieftains, surrounded by sixty of his tribe, many of whom were soldiers of a hundred battles. Drake, in his Book of the Indians, gives the following description of this noted place:

"It is situated in the southeasterly corner of Rehoboth, about eight miles from Taunton Green, a few rods from the road which leads to Providence, and on the southeasterly side of it. If a straight line were drawn from Taunton to Providence, it would pass very nearly over this place. Within the limits of an immense swamp of nearly three thousand acres there is a small piece of upland, separated from the main only by a brook, which in some seasons is dry. This island, as we may call it, is nearly covered with an enormous rock, which to this day is called Annawan's Rock. Its southeast side presents an almost perpendicular precipice, and rises to the height of twenty-five or thirty feet. The northwest side is very sloping and easy of ascent, being at an angle of not more than thirty-five or forty degrees. A more gloomy and hidden recess, even now, although the forest-tree no longer waves over it, could hardly be found by any inhabitant of the wilderness."

Creeping cautiously to the summit of the rock, Captain Church looked down over its precipitous edge upon the scene presented below. The spectacle which opened to his view was wild and picturesque in the extreme. He saw three bands of Indians at short distances from each other, gathered around several fires. Their pots and kettles were boiling, and meat was roasting upon the spits. Some of the Indians were sleeping upon the ground, others were cooking, while others were sitting alone and silent, and all seemed oppressed and melancholy. Directly under the rock Annawan himself was lying, apparently asleep, with his son by his side. The guns of the Indians were stacked at a little distance from the fires, with mats spread over them to protect them from the weather. It seemed impossible to descend the precipitous face of the rock, and Captain Church accordingly crept back and inquired of his guide if they could not approach by some other way.

"No," answered the guide. "All who belong to Annawan's company are ordered to approach by that entrance, and none can from any other direction without danger of being shot."

The old man and his daughter had left the encampment of Annawan upon some mission; their return, therefore, would excite no suspicion. They both had tule baskets bound to their backs. Captain Church directed them to clamber down the rocks to the spot where Annawan was reposing. Behind their shadow Church and two or three of his soldiers crept also. The night was dark, and the expiring embers of Annawan's fire but enabled the adventurers more securely to direct their steps. The old chief, in a doze, with his son by his side, hearing the rustling of the bushes, raised his eyes, and seeing the old Indian and his daughter, suspected no danger, and again closed his eyes. In this manner, supporting themselves by roots and vines, the small party effected its descent undiscovered. Captain Church, with his hatchet in his hand, stepped directly over the young man's head, and seized his weapons and those of his father. The young Annawan, discovering Captain Church, whipped his blanket over his head, and shrunk up in a heap. Old Annawan, starting from his recumbent posture, and supposing himself surrounded by the English army, exclaimed, "Howoh," I am taken  and sank back won the ground in despair. Their arms were instantly secured, and perfect silence was commanded on pain of immediate death. The Indians who had followed Captain Church down over the rock, having received previous instructions, immediately hastened to the other fires, and informed the Indians that their chief was taken captive; that they were surrounded by the English army, so that escape was impossible; and that, at the slightest resistance, a volley of bullets would be poured in upon them, which would mow them all down. They were assured that if they would peacefully submit they might expect the kindest treatment.

As Church's Indians were all acquainted with Annawan's company, many of them being relatives, the surprised party without hesitancy surrendered both their guns and hatchets, and they were carried to Captain Church. His whole force of six men was now assembled at one spot but the Indians still supposed that they were surrounded by a powerful army in ambush, with loaded muskets pointed at then. Matters being thus far settled, Annawan ordered an abundant supper to be prepared of "cow beef and horse beef." Victors and vanquished partook of this repast together. It was now, thirty-six hours since Captain. Church and his men had had any sleep, Captain Church, overwhelmed with responsibility and care, was utterly exhausted. He told his men that if they would let him have a nap of two hours, he would then keep watch for all the rest of the night, and they might sleep. He laid himself down; but the excitement caused by his strange and perilous position dove all slumber from his eyelids, He looked aroma him, and soon the whole company was soundly sleeping, all excepting Annawan himself. The Indian and the English chieftain lay side by side for an hour; looking steadfastly at each other, neither uttering a word. Captain Church could not speak Indian, and he supposed that Annawan could not speak English. At length Annawan arose, laid aside his blanket, and deliberately walked away. Almost before Captain Church had time to collect his thoughts, he had disappeared in the midnight gloom of the forest. Though all the arms of the Indians had been taken from them, Captain Church was apprehensive that Annawan might by some means obtain a gun and attempt some violence. He knew that pursuit would be in vain in the darkness of the night and of the forest.

Placing himself in such a position by the side of young Annawan that any shot which should endanger him would equally endanger the son, he remained for some time in great anxiety. At length he heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Just then the moon broke from among the clouds, and shone out with great brilliance. By its light he saw Annawan returning, with something glittering in his hand. The illustrious chieftain, coming up to Captain Church, presented him with three magnificent belts of wampum, gorgeously embroidered with flowers, and pictures of beasts and birds. They were articles of court dress which had belonged to King Philip, and were nearly a foot wide and eight or ten feet long. He also had in his hands two powder-horns filled with powder, and a beautiful crimson blanket. Presenting these to Captain Church, he said, in plain English,

"Great captain, you have killed King Philip. I believe that I and my company are the last that war against the English. I suppose the war is ended by your means, and therefore these things belong to you. They were Philip's royalties, with which he adorned himself when he sat in state. I think myself happy in having an opportunity to present them to you."

Neither of these illustrious men could sleep amid the excitements of these eventful hours. Annawan was an intelligent man, and was fully conscious that a further continuance of the struggle was hopeless. With the most confiding frankness, he entertained his conqueror with the history of his life from his earliest childhood to the present hour. The whole remainder of the night was spent in this discourse, in which Annawan, with wonderfully graphic skill, described his feats of arms in by-gone years, when, under Massasoit, Philip's father, he led his warriors against hostile tribes.

As soon as day dawned, Captain Church collected his men and his sixty prisoners, and, emerging from the swamp, took up their march for Taunton. They soon gained the Taunton road, about four miles from the town, and there, according to appointment, met Lieutenant Howland, with the men who had been left behind. They lodged at Taunton that night. The next morning all the prisoners were sent forward to Plymouth excepting Annawan. Captain Church was anxious to save his life, and took the old chieftain with him to Rhode Island. After a few days he returned with him to Plymouth. Captain Church pleaded earnestly that Annawan's life might be spared and supposing, without any doubt, that this request would not be denied him, set out, after a few days, in pursuit of another small band of Indians who were committing robberies in the vicinity of Plymouth.

The leader of this band was Tuspaquin, sachem of Wamasket. At the beginning of the conflict he had led thee hundred warriors into the field. He led the band which laid nineteen buildings in ashes in Scituate on the twentieth of April, and which burned seventeen buildings in Bridgewater on the eighth of May. Also, on the eleventh of May, he had burned eleven houses and five barns in Plymouth. The English were consequently exceedingly exasperated against him. Tuspaquin had great renown among his soldiers. He had been in innumerable perils, and had never been wounded. The Indians affirmed that no bullet could penetrate his body; that they had often seen them strike him and glance off.

Intelligence had been brought to Plymouth that Tuspaquin was in the vicinity of Sippican, now Rochester; doing great damage to the inhabitants, killing their horses, cattle, and swine.

Monday afternoon Captain Church set out in, pursuit of him. The next morning they discovered a trail in the forest, and, following it noiselessly, they came to a place called Lakenham, where the thicket was almost impenetrable. Smoke was discovered rising from the thicket, and two Indians crept in to see what could be discovered. They soon returned with a report that quite a party of Indians, mostly women and children, were sitting silently around the embers. Captain Church ordered every man to creep on his hands and feet until they had formed a circle around the Indians, and then, at a given signal, to make a rush, and take them all prisoners. The stratagem was entirely successful.

Captain Church found, to his extreme satisfaction, that he had captured the wife and children of Tuspaquin, and most of his relatives. They said that he had gone, with two other Indians, to Wareham and Rochester to kill horses. Captain Church took all his prisoners back to Plymouth except two old squaws. They were left at the encampment with a good supply of food, and were directed to inform Tuspaquin on his return that Captain Church had been there, and had captured his wife and his children; that, if he would surrender himself and his companions at Plymouth, they should be received kindly, be well provided for, and he would employ them as his soldiers.

The next day Captain Church had occasion to go to Boston. Upon his return after a few days, he found, to his extreme chagrin and grief, that Tuspaquin had come in and surrendered; that both he and Annawan had been tried as murderers, and had been condemned and executed. This transaction cannot be too severely condemned.