Mount Hope; or Philip, king of the Wampanoags: an historical romance

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CHAPTER II. «*Stt at the feet of History.**— 7%« Jigu

To form any thirtg like a correct opinion of the causes which led to the war with which our story is inseparably connected, requires the greatest impartiality of judgment, as well as a minute study of the records of those times. The situation of both parties to this bloody drama was of such peculiar delicacy; their fears, as well as the worst passions of their natures, were wrought upon by inciting causes so unhappy, and at the same time so overpowering, that our sympathies are almost equally divided between Civilization reaching forth her arm to take possession of a soil one day to be exclusively her own, and savage life clinging to old religious, hereditary forms, the bay and the river, the haunts of the otter and the beaver, and, more than all, the burial-places of the dead.

The English population of New England, at that period, amounted to about fifty-five thousand ; the aboriginal, to less than one-half that number. The English lived in permanent houses, and had permanent means of subsistence ; the Indians had nothing but perishable wigwams of bark to secure them from the inclemencies of the winds and snows common to this wild. region, and gained that uncertain livelihood which chance throws in the way of improvident savages, who have no commerce, and no methodical system of agriculture. One party was towered a high hill, still known as the "Burying-hiH"— the place consecrated by the Puritan adveatuMrs for the burial of their dead. From the summit of this hill, which rises to the height of about two hundred feet, the view of the surrounding country was at that time wild beyond eomparison. In the back-ground lay an elevated plain, covered with pines and ever*greens; to the north, on a pleasant hill, embowered in trees, stood an old-fashioned-looking mansion, where Miles Stcmdish, the military hero of the colony, lived and died ; to the east and south, stretched the broad expanse of Massachusetts bay, with its well-defined southern limit, the peninsula of Cape Cod. On the morning of the 16th of June, the summit of Burying-hill presented a scene of unusual animation. The whole male population that tenanted the humble houses which stood upon the hill-side, seemed to have forsaken their honfes, and betaken themselves to the summit of this hill, where they were occupied, at an early hour, with an intensity of application which plainly indicated the progress of some enterprise, deemed by all the parties concerned of vital importance to the interests of the colony. The strong palisades already enclosed an area one hundred and fifly feet square, and the work looked as if it might, when completed, withstand the assaults of the combined savage tribes of New England. A little apart from the rest of the party, upon a wooden bench that had been placed beneath a wide-branching oak, sat Governor Wi^&low, a soldierly-looking gentleman, about forty-five years jof age, punctiliously dressed, and armed with the long strilight sword much in use at that period. His features y^re eminently handsome, and there was about his whole' appearance an air of refinement that seemed to have little in common with the rough forms and faces of those who surrounded him. He appesured to be in motTnt hops. 17

earnest conversation with a man about thirty-five years of age, who stood with his head uncovered, probably out of respect to the executive presence.

This latter personage (then and still known by the title of Captain Church) was of an athletic form, full, florid countenance, and light brown hair, which curled in thick clusters around a forehead that seemed to have more breadth than height. His large gray eye had that happy expression of merry good-humour, and careless courage that never fails to attract the notice of a stranger. His dress, though neat, was perfectly simple, and his look and manner were those of a bold, free-hearted pioneer, ready for the most daring adventure, and from constitution, as well as from habits of exposure, able to endure the worst extremes of the elements. The conversation between the two gentlemen was evidently, from the tone of voice and animated looks of the parties, one in which they were deeply interested, and upon which they entertained some difference of opinion.

" And what think you," said the govenor — as if anxious to draw out the views of his friend upon a new topic— "What think you of the project proposed and advocated by some of the .leading men of this colony, of erecting a fort at Mount Hope neck, and driving the Wampanoags from their own ground ?"

"There can be no doubt," replied Church, "that Philip is determined to give us battle, and that his purpose is now settled, never to lay aside his arms till he has scalped and tomahawked every man, woman and child in the English colonies. To speak frankly, I never thought the Plymouth colony had dealt towards this Indian in a politic way or with entire justice. They have always contrived to deter. ^ mine against him all actions of ejectment and other suits

2* relating to the title and possession of land, when he was drawn into their courts by any one of the colonists ; and they have increased his jealousy to an unreasonable pitch, by summoning him to appear at Plymouth on slight occasions and ill-grounded accusations, when they knew that he could not acknowledge the authority that cited him. Then the murder of Sausaman, your excellency, was never made clear to my mind ; Philip denies that he or his friends knew of it, or took part in it ; and professes to consider the trial and execution of those Indians standing charged therewith, as a worse murder than the othen Now, it seems to me that a fort erected on the Neck, would only make him more implacable, and lay open to him our plan for the campaign — a thing not to be desired, if we are to have an easy game with him. And besides, an Indian is like a fox : you must take him as he runs, and even then you may chance to chase him over many a hill and down many a steep bank, and lie with your musket cocked behind a hundred different rocks and trees, before you shall get a crack at him ; and then it will go hard but the beast will have llf6 and wind enough left to carry him to his den. You may build a fort within gun-shot of an Indian camp ; and before you have driven down half your palisades, the enemy is away, and has found out some other swamp, twenty miles distant, with cabins to shelter, and com to supply every son and daughter of his tribe. We must hunt them — if your excellency will trust the word of a man who has tried it in every mode, and at all seasons of the year — ^we must hunt them through swamp and thicket, upon their own fresh trails, and, if possible, when there are no leaves on the trees. The red-skins will scorn your forts, as hungry crows do the old hats and coats that stand upoU poles in our corn-fields."

** I will lay your views before the General Court, and can promise for them a fair hearing at the least," replied the governor, *<But is there no chance of averting this destructive war? Is it past our power to treat with this haughty-minded savage? Can no terms be proposed, no concessions made to appease him?"

** I much doubt nie, if there can," responded Ae other ; **the matter has proceeded too far for reconciliaticHi. Testerday I was at Seconnet, and met there the squaw-saohem Awashonks by her own appointment Six of Philip's men were with her, soliciting aid against the English, with their faces painted in the most hideous manner, fully attired and equipped for war, and looking fiercely at me, as if Uiey would have killed me for rage, because Awashonks had invited me to the dance. Had I shown a sign of fear, it might have gone ill with me ; but I stepped quietly up to the Mount Hope men, and taking hold of their bags, and finding them filled with bullets, asked them what their bullets were for : they replied, scoffingly, *To shoot pigeons with.' I thought best to put a bold face on the matter, and show them that I despised their threats. I advised Awashonks in their presence to knock them on the head, and make an end of them — a piece of counsel that had its effect, for they were as quiet as dead men during the rest of my stay there. Our conference ended by her desiring me to wait on your excellency, and place her under the protection of the English. This state of things cannot last long, and I have little doubt the rascals will be scalpii^ and burning us ere a fortnight's end."

^< I too am of the same opinion, and shall lose no time in mustering the colonial troops," said the governor. "And what sayest thou, my friend? Can we depend on your jpersonal attendance and cooperation during this campaign ?"

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" With all my heart. I would gladly calm the mind of Philip, and bring him to terras of conference and alliance once more, if such a thing were possible ; but that day is over. He is proud and implacable, and, unless I have mistaken my man, will give us many a day of hard fighting before we shall be rid of him. But I must take my leave of your excellency, for I have a wife and a home to see afler in these evil times, before I can strike a blow for the commonwealth."

"Go, and God be with.jou!" said the governor, as with a hearty shake of the hand he bade the weather-beaten adventurer adieu ; who, hastening down the hill, was not long in Teaching the spot where the waters of the bay rocked the impatient pinnace, which only waited the weighed anchor and spread sail to bear him to Seconnet.

Winslow stood watching him till the diminished form, of his little crafl looked with its white sail like a bubble upon the waves, and muttered to himself, as he walked towards the fort, " He is right, he is right. What a pity our wise ones should not have taken his advice, and made peace with this vindictive savage ! But we shall see what will come of it."

Scarcely a week had elapsed, ailer the interview just described, before the first blood was shed in that most sanguinary of all wars that stain the annals of civilization upon this continent. As the inhabitants of Swansey were returning on a fast-day from religious worship, they were waylaid by Philip's men, and one man was killed: two others werei wounded.

HOVNTHOPB. 21

Chapter III

<* A springy motion in her gait A riling step did indicate Of pride and Joy n(% common rate) That flitfhed her Bpirit."

CflARLBs Lamm.

While the pastioipators in dus drama are making ready each the part which he is to play in it, we shall he pardoned for asking the reader^s company while we take a short leave of its turbulent scenes, and visit one of those quiet domestic homes that made even the face of the wilderness lovely in the. olden time.

Not a quarter of a mile from the spot where now stands the lovely village of B ^ there stood at that day a comfortable-looking cottage, built in the English style, upon the southern slope of a mountain, the last of a series or chain running north-east and south-west for several miles through a rich and populous pcntion of the commonwealth of Massachusetts. The BUifi* (for so it was called) was densely wooded with oak, chestnut and pine, and upon the side nearest the house was a space of several acres, free from any entanglements of bushes or vines, so that there was nothing except the gigantic trunks and wide-spreading gnarled branches of the trees to intercept the view towards the north from the cottage- windows.

But beyond this limited space, the acclivity was more irregular and steep, and the soil seemed abandoned to the wildest luxuriance of vegetation. Tall broken >ocks

82 MOTTITT HOPE.

towered above the trees, with many a rift at their base, where the wolf and panther found a safe retreat from the pursuit of man.

The view to the south was varied and beautifully softened by the graceful slopes of the hills, which bore more of the appearance of long and ample cultivation, than seemed to belong to so primitive a settlement From the arbour in the garden ^t lay a little to the east of the cottage, the eye caught a glance of the villiage spire through the screen of leaves that nature had thrown-around it, and the western landscape was relieved by a sparkling lake that lay like a winding river among the green sloping hills, reflecting upon its bosom every i^ature of the landscape with the faithfulness of a mirror. The high gable windows of the cottage, and the little gallery that extended along its frcmt, were almost hidden by the red and white honeysuckle, and wild American vines that interlaced their tenacious fibres, and spread their delicate leaves from the foundation to the roof of the secluded mansion.

It would be readily inferred that a spot so well chosen for its natural advantages, and so tastefully decorated by art, must be the home of refinement and elegance, and such it really was. The Rev. Charles Southworth, the proprietor, was a dissenting clergyman, a gentleman of femily and superior natural endowments, who was educated at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, and would have gradiiated with the highest honours, had he not refused, from scruples of c(Hiscience which he said were insuperable, to subsoribe the articles, according to the requirements of the University.

Becoming more and more dissatisfied with what he deemed the abuses practiced by the English church at that period, and having made the aoquaintance of Grovemor

MOUNT HOPl. 3S

Hf inthrop, of Connectioiit, while on a yisit to London in the year 16 — ^ he resolved to try his fortunes in the new world, then open to the disaffected and the aggriered of every name and rank. With this view he converted his fortune, which for those days might be considered ample, into money, and with his library and other moveable property embarked for America. He was at the time of his emigraticm about forty years of age, and having a few months before been bereft of an amiable and lovdy wife, had no family friend to share his fortunes in America, save his niece, a young orphan girl, about ten years old, of great beauty, for whom he cherished the affectionate fond, ness of a father.

He had retreated to this retired neighbouriiood, and had arranged his library in his new house^ with the intention of passing the remainder of hb days in die retirement so congenial to a schdar, when the death of the former clergyman of the little church to which he belonged, suddenly called him to be its pastor.

Anne Willoughby was sixteen years old at the com. mencem^eit of the war, and, as well from her extreme beauty as fVom certain characteristics not very well understood by the dmple villagers, she was^ whether preseirt or absent, an object of peculiar interest. It was observed that she never mingled with the village maidens in their sports, and that her demeanour towards them was of that condescending and distant order litde calculated to invite intimacy. A rumour was also abroad diat she was descended of an ancient family, and that there was a mystery hanging over her present humble condition, which would be cleared up (so credulous were the minds of that simple-hearted people) by her beii^ called at no remote day, if not to wear the crown, at least to fill a high rank as the daughter and heiress of some great earl or duke* So they thought, and so they whispered ; but who had put so extravagant a fancy in their heads, it was difficult to tell ; for her uncle never alluded to her early history, and she always evaded the attempts of the curious to elicit the secret, with a shrinking sensitiveness that only served to increase their anxiety to a more intense degree. It was also observed, and with no little pain, by that religious and anti-episcopal community, that although she attended upon her uncle's preaching regularly on the Sabbath, and lectures not infrequently during the week, she was often seen reading in the library, what Dame Austin, one of the matrons of the village, called, "one of those unlawful papal books, full of printed prayers and abominable formalities," which, for better euphony, we shall denominate the Book of Common Prayer. The prejudice excited in the public mind at this alarming disclosure was somewhat appeased, however, by the good dame, who was generous enough to add, that " she was convinced Mistress Anne must possess, the true spirit of the eyangelists, as she was not only faithful in her attendance upon all the ordinances, and listened to all of worthy Mr. Southworth's godly discourses, but administered to the sick in more charitable offices than the whole village besides; and she dared affirm that she read this bundle of heresies for the sake of assisting the worthy minister in showing it up to the world in its true colours :" adding, that "Mistress Anne was learned and scholarly, and could read the dead tongues as if she was bom a Greek —only she wished the sweet young lady would call things by their right names, and quit speaking of that heathenish Roman jargon of Juno /the empress of the skies.' and that naughty winged boy with the bow and quiver : she never knew any good come of such nonsense." The young lady

UOTTNT HOPS. 25

had two other faults, that fell under the ohserratioii of those supervisors of public propriety. It was whispered that *^she wore a diamond ring upon her finger, and that she had been seen to wander alone in the evening along the becush of the romantic little lake of which we have made mentiony and sometimes at a late hour." But this latter charge rested upon such uncertain evidence that it was never breathed, except in the ear of a few spinsters, and then under the strictest injunctions of secresy; **for it was never to be credited," said Danie Austin, whose words we have quoted above, ^either that the minister would sufier such a thing, or that the young lady could be so unsettled in her Christian walk as to be given over to conduct so blameworthy."

Notwithstanding these strictures passed upon the demeanour of the young lady, she was beloved by most, and regarded with admiration by all, who came within the circle of her influence. Her tall and gracefhlly-formed figure — the noble, yet perfectly feminine, cmst of her features — the unafiected stateliness with which she moved' among her inferiors, as if it were a thing of course that they should pay court to her — ^the easy elegance of her conversation, and a certain air of frank, ingenuous truthfulness — gave her fascinations such as fortune, frugal of her gifts, seldom bestows upon a single favourite. Her complexion was rich and variable, and her low, sweet voice was so delightfully modulated, that it seemed but the breathing of the purest thoughts and noblest impulses. Her brow was such as poets and painters in all ages have loved to delineate ; not high and broad, but delicately moulded, and pale as marble. It seemed, when contrasted with the dark brown hair that shaded it, the rare ideal of feminine love-

26 MorNT hofM.

liness, such as oflen haunts the dreams of the imaginatiire and young, but seldom meets us in the walks of life.

On the evening of the ' — day of June, and three days after the unhappy affair at Swansey, Aime Willoughby sat alone in the little gallery that fronted the cottage, with her head leaning upon her small white hand, apparently in deep thought. The village bell had just rung the hour of nine, and its tones had scarcely died away among the dark leaves of the forest that spread around her, when a sudden flash of lightning lit up the lake and forest with a broad glare, followed instantaneously by a peal of thunder that shook the house to its foundation. Aroused, but not alarmed, by this shock of the elements that portended a violent storm, the young Icidy arose, and entered the cottage. Observing that black clouds still gathered above the horizon, and that the large drops began to rattle against the window.panes, she fastened the shutters, and was proceeding to close the hall-door, when the forest was again illuminated by another flash, that just disclosed through the rain-drops that now fell in torrents the imperfect outline of a mounted horseman, riding precipitately towards the cottage. A moment of suspense followed, when she perceived, by a repetition of this momentary light, that her eye had not deceived her; for her visiter, having hastily dismounted, and tied his horse to a tree, was rapidly advancing towards the cottage. Her first impulse was to close the door, and call her uncle to receive or exclude, as he thought proper, this unexpected guest; but long accustomed to encounter the vicissitudes and privations of a life in the wilderness, she had acquired < — if, indeed, she did not inherit — a fearlessness which might seem weakness to maidens who live in more luxurious days. She had sparcely made up her mind to receive him, when he presented himself at the threshold, and disclosed features

JKOUNT Hapr* 27

"which at once assnred her that she had run no hazard m extending to him the hospitalities of the house.

*' Lady,'' said the stranger, in a voice and with a smile that showed him not unschooled in the language due to one of her apparent rank^ ^^you have before you a wearied and forlorn traveller, who has been compelled by the fury of the storm to seek a temporary shelter under this roof. If you are alone and unprotected," he continued, observing that she made no answer, '*I will only crave your permission to tarry till the storm has abated, when I will pursue my journey."

"Sir," replied the lady, "this house is alwa3rs open to receive the wanderer who will participate in its humble hospitalities. We can at least give you food and shelter; and for protection, in these troublous times, you will be much more likely to bestow it upon our little household, than need it at their, hands."

The stranger smiled, and glanced carelessly at his sword and pistols, as he replied, "I have indeed old and tried friends at my girdle, that have stood me in good stead ere this ; yet I cannot think I shall be beholden to them for any services to-night. And yet," he added, playfully, ** I know not in what cause I would employ either short-sword or pistol with more zeal than in thine own, fair daughter."

** I will speak to my uncle, who will give you such entertainment as the house affords ; bu t "

"But I know not by what name you are to make his acquaintance, you would say," rejoined the guest, smiling. **But you will be saved the trouble of an introduction, or I am much mistaken. — Charles Southworth," he continued, addressing himself to his host, who now entered the room, "do you see any lines in these care-worn features that call to mind the dreams of your youth?"

28 HOUNTHOPF.

Mr, Southworth stood a moment with his eyes fixed intently on the melancholy features of the old man, as if r^perusing the dimmed and torn page of some familiar book of school-boy days. Surely, that proud lip, that high forehead, where mind and passum had both left their scathing furrows, and that ircm frame, did not now appear before him for the first time.

"It is he — and yet it cannot be — ^he is dead— but, were it his ghost, I would embrace it!" exclaimed the reverend clergyhisui ; and, laying his head affectionately upon the breast of his mysterious visiter, he sobbed aloud.

"My son," said the venerable man, in a voice that had in it nothing of the tremulousness of age, "look at these brawny sinews^ and feel the grasp of this bony han^ : I am no spirit, sent to awaken in your heart the bitter memory of the sufferings of your father's friend ; but I come with my load of earthly sorrows yet heavy upon my back, hunted from hold to hold like a wolf, in this inhospitable wilderness, by that silly boy who now miwrules England, for having dared to sit in judgment upon the life of the man — Charles Stuart — whom they impiously call *.the martyr.' I am Goffe the regicide ! I come to thee, my son, and ask what I may never find till I lay my old limbs in the grave — a lurking-place from the swifl of foot, who are even now snuffing like hounds upon my track. But, if my stay here would peril thee or thine, I will go my ways. It is better that I die at once, than bring harm to the form that I once fondled on my knee."

"Thou art welcome — how welcome, words can never express — ^to this humble dwelling. Neither king nor king's pursuivant can find thee here. To-morrow I will show thee a secret chamber, known to no one save myself^— not even to this child of mine— where I will bring thee bread

KOVKT HOPE. 29

and meat in the morning, and bread and meat in the evening, as the winged messengers did to the prophet in the days of old."

"Enough, gentle -Charles; enough, till then! But who and what is she who looks and moves and smiles so like

her who once But what avails the past! — who is now

a spirit blest as angels?"

" I will tell thee all in due time,^ said the clergyman. And both in^rinted a &tkerly kiss upon the cheek of Anne Willoughby, as they parted for the night.

a*

30 HOTTNT BOFB.

Chapter IV

''Not unfamiWiUP to mind eOTj Blasts of the night! ye howl— as now."

Hbmrt Kxbkb Whitb.

The whole night seemed abandoned to the caprices of the elements, alternate storm and calm. It had not continued to rain more than an hour after the family had retired, when a sudden and terrific blast of wind swept through the forest, tearing up by their roots immense trees in its course, and strewing the ground with their torn and shattered limbs. Anne Willoughby rose, opened the casement, and looked out upon the venerable oaks and pines that had so long guarded her sequestered home, and felt, as branch afler branch quivered and fell to the ground, as if she was witnessing the death-agonies of dear and longcherished friends. But the fierce blast was only momentary, and then the moon shone through the rifled clouds tranquilly over the wreck of the storm.

"There they lie," said tjie maiden, mournfully, "with the water-drops still glittering upon their dark leaves, to waste and wither in the heat of to-morrow's sun. Yet, while the tough oak is splintered in the wind, how strange that my favourite willow, with its drooping branches, that trembled in the gentlest zephyr, should be spared ! Is not this scene a strange type of me and mine? The proud father and noble brothers, cold upon the battle-field — ^the fragile girl, the daughter and the sister, left unharmed.

MOTTNT HOPE<: dl-

but desolate^ In a world that h^ so little sunshine for a solitary heart ! Were it not for the high hopes and buoyant^ nature of one whom I may not name even to my own

thoughts But what crackling sound is that, like &

stealthy footstep among those fallen boughs? Sure my ear doies not deceive me ; and that tall form, gliding from behind the shadow of yonder pine, is not the creation of a wild fancy. It is an Indian ; and close beneath my window is another, looking in upon me. Heaven help me!"

Her first impulse was to alarm the house, and call her friends to her assistance ; but seeing that the savage who stood in open view beneath the window had his arms folded across his breast, in the attitude rather of a suppliant than an assailant, and that he was addressing himself to speak^ she summoned all her firmness of mind, and listened.