Book: The Beginnings of New England

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Such was the experience of a captive whose treatment was, according to
Indian notions, hospitable. There were few who came off so well. Almost
every week while she was led hither and thither by the savages. Mrs.
Rowlandson heard ghastly tales of fire and slaughter. It was a busy
winter and spring for these Nipmucks. Before February was over, their
exploit at Lancaster was followed by a shocking massacre at Medfield.
They sacked and destroyed the towns of Worcester, Marlborough, Mendon,
and Groton, and even burned some houses in Weymouth, within a dozen
miles of Boston. Murderous attacks were made upon Sudbury, Chelmsford,
Springfield, Hatfield, Hadley, Northampton, Wrentham, Andover,
Bridgewater, Scituate, and Middleborough. On the 18th of April Captain
Wadsworth, with 70 men, was drawn into an ambush near Sudbury,
surrounded by 500 Nipmucks, and killed with 50 of his men; six
unfortunate captives were burned alive over slow fires. But Wadsworth's
party made the enemy pay dearly for his victory; that afternoon 120
Nipmucks bit the dust. In such wise, by killing two or three for one,
did the English wear out and annihilate their adversaries. Just one
month from that day Captain Turner surprised and slaughtered 300 of
these warriors near the falls of the Connecticut river which have
since borne his name, and this blow at last broke the strength of
the Nipmucks. [Sidenote: Virtual exterminations of the Indians,
February--August, 1676]

Meanwhile the Narragansetts and Wampanoags had burned the towns of
Warwick and Providence. After the wholesale ruin of the great "swamp
fight," Canonchet had still some 600 or 700 warriors left, and with
these, on the 26th of March, in the neighbourhood of Pawtuxet, he
surprised a company of 50 Plymouth men under Captain Pierce and slew
them all, but not until he had lost 140 of his best warriors. Ten days
later Captain Denison, with his Connecticut company, defeated and
captured Canonchet, and the proud son of Miantonomo met the same fate
as his father. He was handed over to the Mohegans and tomahawked. The
Narragansett sachem had shown such bravery that it seemed, says the
chronicler Hubbard, as if "some old Roman ghost had possessed the body
of this western pagan." But next moment this pious clergyman, as if
ashamed of the classical eulogy just bestowed upon the hated redskin,
alludes to him as a "damned wretch." [Sidenote: Death of Canonchet]

The fall of Canonchet marked the beginning of the end. In four sharp
fights in the last week of June, Major Talcott, of Hartford, slew
from 300 to 400 warriors, being nearly all that were left of the
Narragansetts; and during the month of July Captain Church patrolled the
country about Taunton, making prisoners of the Wampanoags. Once more
King Philip, shorn of his prestige, comes upon the scene. We have seen
that his agency in these cruel events had been at the outset a potent
one. Whatever else it may have been, it was at least the agency of the
match that explodes the powder-cask. Under the conditions of that savage
society, organized leadership was not to be looked for. In the irregular
and disorderly series of murdering raids Philip may have been often
present, but except for Mrs. Rowlandson's narrative we should have known
nothing of him since the Brookfield fight.

At length in July, 1676, having seen the last of his Nipmuck friends
overwhelmed, the tattered chieftain showed himself near Bridgewater,
with a handful of followers. In these his own hunting-grounds some of
his former friends had become disaffected. The daring and diplomatic
Church had made his way into the wigwam of Ashawonks, the squaw sachem
of Saconet, near Little Compton, and having first convinced her that a
flask of brandy might be tasted without fatal results, followed up his
advantage and persuaded her to make an alliance with the English. Many
Indians came in and voluntarily surrendered themselves, in order to
obtain favourable terms, and some lent their aid in destroying their old
sachem. Defeated at Taunton, the son of Massasoit was hunted by Church
to his ancient lair at Bristol Neck and there besieged. His only escape
was over the narrow isthmus of which the pursuers now took possession,
and in this dire extremity one of Philip's men presumed to advise his
chief that the hour for surrender had come. For his unwelcome counsel
the sachem forthwith lifted his tomahawk and struck him dead at his
feet. Then the brother of the slain man crept away through the bushes to
Church's little camp, and offered to guide the white men to the morass
where Philip lay concealed. At daybreak of August 12 the English
stealthily advancing beat up their prey. The savages in sudden panic
rushed from under cover, and as the sachem showed himself running at the
top of his speed, a ball from an Indian musket pierced his heart, and
"he fell upon his face in the mud and water, with his gun under him."
His severed head was sent to Plymouth, where it was mounted on a pole
and exposed aloft upon the village green, while the meeting-house
bell summoned the townspeople to a special service of thanksgiving.
[Sidenote: Death of Philip, August 12]

It may be supposed that in such services at this time a Christian
feeling of charity and forgiveness was not uppermost. Among the captives
was a son of Philip, the little swarthy lad of nine years for whom Mrs.
Rowlandson had made a cap, and the question as to what was to be done
with him occasioned as much debate as if he had been a Jesse Pomeroy
[34] or a Chicago anarchist. The opinions of the clergy were, of course,
eagerly sought and freely vouchsafed. One minister somewhat doubtfully
urged that "although a precept in Deuteronomy explicitly forbids killing
the child for the father's sin," yet after all "the children of Saul and
Achan perished with their parents, though too young to have shared their
guilt." Thus curiously did this English reverence for precedent, with a
sort of grim conscientiousness colouring its gloomy wrath, search for
guidance among the ancient records of the children of Israel. Commenting
upon the truculent suggestion, Increase Mather, soon to be president of
Harvard, observed that, "though David had spared the infant Hadad, yet
it might have been better for his people if he had been less merciful."
These bloodthirsty counsels did not prevail, but the course that was
adopted did not lack in harshness. Among the sachems a dozen leading
spirits were hanged or shot, and hundreds of captives were shipped off
to the West Indies to be sold into slavery; among these was Philip's
little son. The rough soldier Church and the apostle Eliot were among
the few who disapproved of this policy. Church feared it might goad such
Indians as were still at large to acts of desperation. Eliot, in an
earnest letter to the Federal Commissioners, observed: "To sell souls
for money seemeth to me dangerous merchandise." But the plan of
exporting the captives was adhered to. As slaves they were understood to
be of little or no value, and sometimes for want of purchasers they were
set ashore on strange coasts and abandoned. A few were even carried to
one of the foulest of mediaeval slave-marts, Morocco, where their fate
was doubtless wretched enough. [Sidenote: Indians sold into slavery]

In spite of Church's doubts as to the wisdom of this harsh treatment,
it did not prevent the beaten and starving savages from surrendering
themselves in considerable numbers. To some the Federal Commissioners
offered amnesty, and the promise was faithfully fulfilled. Among those
who laid down arms in reliance upon it were 140 Christian Indians, with
their leader known as James the Printer, because he had been employed at
Cambridge in setting up the type for Eliot's Bible. Quite early in the
war it had been discovered that these converted savages still felt the
ties of blood to be stronger than those of creed. At the attack on
Mendon, only three weeks after the horrors at Swanzey that ushered in
the war, it was known that Christian Indians had behaved themselves
quite as cruelly as their unregenerate brethren. Afterwards they made
such a record that the jokers and punsters of the day--for such there
were, even among those sombre Puritans--in writing about the "Praying
Indians," spelled _praying_ with an _e_. The moral scruples of these
savages, under the influence of their evangelical training, betrayed
queer freaks. One of them, says Mrs. Rowlandson, would rather die than
eat horseflesh, so narrow and scrupulous was his conscience, although it
was as wide as the whole infernal abyss, when it came to torturing
white Christians. The student of history may have observed similar
inconsistencies in the theories and conduct of people more enlightened
than these poor red men. "There was another Praying Indian," continues
Mrs. Rowlandson, "who, when he had done all the mischief he could,
betrayed his own father into the English's hands, thereby to purchase
his own life; ... and there was another ... so wicked ... as to wear
a string about his neck, strung with Christian fingers." [Sidenote:
Conduct of the Christian Indians]

Such incidents help us to comprehend the exasperation of our forefathers
in the days of King Philip. The month which witnessed his death saw also
the end of the war in the southern parts of New England; but, almost
before people had time to offer thanks for the victory, there came news
of bloodshed on the northeastern frontier. The Tarratines in Maine had
for some time been infected with the war fever. How far they may have
been comprehended in the schemes of Philip and Canonchet, it would be
hard to say. They had attacked settlers on the site of Brunswick as
early as September, 1675. About the time of Philip's death, Major
Waldron of Dover had entrapped a party of them by an unworthy stratagem,
and after satisfying himself that they were accomplices in that
chieftain's scheme, sent them to Boston to be sold into slavery. A
terrible retribution was in store for Major Waldron thirteen years
later. For the present the hideous strife, just ended in southern New
England, was continued on the northeastern frontier, and there was
scarcely a village between the Kennebec and the Piscataqua but was laid
in ashes. [Sidenote: War with the Tarratines, 1676-78]

By midsummer of 1678 the Indians had been everywhere suppressed, and
there was peace in the land. For three years, since Philip's massacre
at Swanzey, there had been a reign of terror in New England. Within
the boundaries of Connecticut, indeed, little or no damage had been
inflicted, and the troops of that colony, not needed on their own soil,
did noble service in the common cause.

In Massachusetts and Plymouth, on the other hand, the destruction of
life and property had been simply frightful. Of ninety towns, twelve had
been utterly destroyed, while more than forty others had been the scene
of fire and slaughter. Out of this little society nearly a thousand
staunch men, including not few of broad culture and strong promise, had
lost their lives, while of the scores of fair women and poor little
children that had perished under the ruthless tomahawk, one can hardly
give an accurate account. Hardly a family throughout the land but was
in mourning. The war-debt of Plymouth was reckoned to exceed the total
amount of personal property in the colony; yet although it pinched every
household for many a year, it was paid to the uttermost farthing; nor
in this respect were Massachusetts and Connecticut at all behind-hand.
[Sidenote: Destructiveness of the war]

But while King Philip's War wrought such fearful damage to the English,
it was for the Indians themselves utter destruction. Most of the
warriors were slain, and to the survivors, as we have seen, the
conquerors showed but scant mercy. The Puritan, who conned his Bible so
earnestly, had taken his hint from the wars of the Jews, and swept
his New English Canaan with a broom that was pitiless and searching.
Henceforth the red man figures no more in the history of New England,
except as an ally of the French in bloody raids upon the frontier. In
that capacity he does mischief enough for yet a half-century more, but
from central and southern New England, as an element of disturbance or a
power to be reckoned with, he disappears forever.




CHAPTER VI.

THE TYRANNY OF ANDROS.


The beginnings of New England were made in the full daylight of modern
history. It was an age of town records, of registered deeds, of
contemporary memoirs, of diplomatic correspondence, of controversial
pamphlets, funeral sermons, political diatribes, specific instructions,
official reports, and private letters. It was not a time in which
mythical personages or incredible legends could flourish, and such
things we do find in the history of New England. There was nevertheless
a romantic side to this history, enough to envelop some of its
characters and incidents in a glamour that may mislead the modern
reader. This wholesale migration from the smiling fields of merry
England to an unexplored wilderness beyond a thousand leagues of sea was
of itself a most romantic and thrilling event, and when viewed in the
light of its historic results it becomes clothed with sublimity. The men
who undertook this work were not at all free from self-consciousness.
They believed that they were doing a wonderful thing. They felt
themselves to be instruments in accomplishing a kind of "manifest
destiny." Their exodus was that of a chosen people who were at length
to lay the everlasting foundations of God's kingdom upon earth. Such
opinions, which took a strong colour from their assiduous study of the
Old Testament, reacted and disposed them all the more to search its
pages for illustrations and precedents, and to regard it as an oracle,
almost as a talisman. In every propitious event they saw a special
providence, an act of divine intervention to deliver them from the
snares of an ever watchful Satan. This steadfast faith in an unseen
ruler and guide was to them a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by
night. It was of great moral value. It gave them clearness of purpose
and concentration of strength, and contributed toward making them,
like the children of Israel, a people of indestructible vitality and
aggressive energy. At the same time, in the hands of the Puritan
writers, this feeling was apt to warp their estimates of events and
throw such a romantic haze about things as seriously to interfere with a
true historical perspective. [Sidenote: Romantic features in the early
history of New England]

Among such writings that which perhaps best epitomizes the Puritan
philosophy is "The Wonder-working Providence of Zion's Saviour in New
England," by Captain Edward Johnson, one of the principal founders of
Woburn. It is an extremely valuable history of New England from 1628 to
1651, and every page is alive with the virile energy of that stirring
time. With narrative, argument, and apologue, abounding in honesty
of purpose, sublimity of trust, and grotesqueness of fancy, wherein
touching tenderness is often alternated with sternness most grim and
merciless, yet now and then relieved by a sudden gleam of humour,--and
all in a style that is usually uncouth and harsh, but sometimes bursts
forth in eloquence worthy of Bunyan,--we are told how the founders of
New England are soldiers of Christ enlisted in a holy war, and how they
must "march manfully on till all opposers of Christ's kingly power be
abolished." "And as for you who are called to sound forth his silver
trumpets, blow loud and shrill to this chiefest treble tune--for the
armies of the great Jehovah are at hand." "He standeth not as an idle
spectator beholding his people's ruth and their enemies' rage, but as an
actor in all actions, to bring to naught the desires of the wicked, ...
having also the ordering of every weapon in its first produce, guiding
every shaft that flies, leading each bullet to his place of settling,
and weapon to the wound it makes." To men engaged in such a crusade
against the powers of evil, nothing could seem insignificant or trivial;
for, as Johnson continues, in truly prophetic phrase, "the Lord Christ
intends to achieve greater matters by this little handful than the world
is aware of." [Sidenote: Edward Johnson]

The general sentiment of the early New England writers was like that
of the "Wonder-working Providence," though it did not always find such
rhapsodic expression. It has left its impress upon the minds of their
children's children down to our own time, and has affected the opinions
held about them by other people. It has had something to do with a
certain tacit assumption of superiority on the part of New Englanders,
upon which the men and women of other communities have been heard
to comment in resentful and carping tones. There has probably never
existed, in any age or at any spot on the earth's surface, a group of
people that did not take for granted its own preeminent excellence. Upon
some such assumption, as upon an incontrovertible axiom, all historical
narratives, from the chronicles of a parish to the annals of an empire,
alike proceed. But in New England it assumed a form especially apt to
provoke challenge. One of its unintentional effects was the setting up
of an unreal and impossible standard by which to judge the acts and
motives of the Puritans of the seventeenth century. We come upon
instances of harshness and cruelty, of narrow-minded bigotry, and
superstitious frenzy; and feel, perhaps, a little surprised that
these men had so much in common with their contemporaries. Hence the
interminable discussion which has been called forth by the history of
the Puritans, in which the conclusions of the writer have generally been
determined by circumstances of birth or creed, or perhaps of reaction
against creed. One critic points to the Boston of 1659 or the Salem of
1692 with such gleeful satisfaction as used to stir the heart of Thomas
Paine when he alighted upon an inconsistency in some text of the Bible;
while another, in the firm conviction that Puritans could do no wrong,
plays fast and loose with arguments that might be made to justify the
deeds of a Torquemada. [Sidenote: Acts of the Puritans often judged by a
wrong standard]

From such methods of criticism it is the duty of historians as far as
possible to free themselves. If we consider the Puritans in the light
of their surroundings as Englishmen of the seventeenth century and
inaugurators of a political movement that was gradually to change for
the better the aspect of things all over the earth, we cannot fail to
discern the value of that sacred enthusiasm which led them to regard
themselves as chosen soldiers of Christ. It was the spirit of the
"Wonder-working Providence" that hurled the tyrant from his throne at
Whitehall and prepared the way for the emancipation of modern Europe. No
spirit less intense, no spirit nurtured in the contemplation of things
terrestrial, could ever have done it. The political philosophy of a Vane
or a Sidney could never have done it. The passion for liberty as felt
by a Jefferson or an Adams, abstracted and generalized from the love
of particular liberties, was something scarcely intelligible to the
seventeenth century. The ideas of absolute freedom of thought and
speech, which we breathe in from childhood, were to the men of that age
strange and questionable. They groped and floundered among them, very
much as modern wool growers in Ohio or iron-smelters in Pennsylvania
flounder and grope among the elementary truths of political economy. But
the spirit in which the Hebrew prophet rebuked and humbled an idolatrous
king was a spirit they could comprehend. Such a spirit was sure to
manifest itself in narrow cramping measures and in ugly acts of
persecution; but it is none the less to the fortunate alliance of
that fervid religious enthusiasm with the Englishman's love of
self-government that our modern freedom owes its existence. [Sidenote:
Spirit of the Wonder-working Providence]

The history of New England under Charles II. yields abundant proof that
political liberty is no less indebted in the New World than in the Old
to the spirit of the "Wonder-working Providence." The theocratic ideal
which the Puritan sought to put into practice in Massachusetts and
Connecticut was a sacred institution in faults of the defence of
which all his faculties were kept perpetually alert. Much as he loved
self-government he would never have been so swift to detect and so
stubborn to resist every slightest encroachment on the part of the crown
had not the loss of self-government involved the imminent danger that
the ark of the Lord might be abandoned to the worshippers of Dagon.
It was in Massachusetts, where the theocracy was strongest, that the
resistance to Charles II. was most dogged and did most to prepare the
way for the work of achieving political independence a century later.
Naturally it was in Massachusetts at the same time that the faults
of the theocracy were most conspicuous. It was there that priestly
authority most clearly asserted itself in such oppressive acts as are
always witnessed when too much power is left in the hands of men whose
primary allegiance is to a kingdom not of this world. Much as we owe to
the theocracy for warding off the encroachments of the crown, we cannot
be sorry that it was itself crushed in the process. It was well that
it did not survive its day of usefulness, and that the outcome of
the struggle was what has been aptly termed "the emancipation of
Massachusetts." [Sidenote: Merits and faults of the theocracy]

The basis of the theocratic constitution of this commonwealth was the
provision by which the exercise of the franchise was made an incident of
church-membership. Unless a man could take part in the Lord's Supper, as
administered in the churches of the colony, he could not vote or
hold office. Church and state, parish and town, were thus virtually
identified. Here, as in some other aspects of early New England, one is
reminded of the ancient Greek cities, where the freeman who could
vote in the market-place or serve his turn as magistrate was the man
qualified to perform sacrifices to the tutelar deities of the tribe;
other men might dwell in the city but had no share in making or
executing its laws. The limitation of civil rights by religious tests is
indeed one of those common inheritances from the old Aryan world that
we find again and again cropping out, even down to the exclusion of
Catholics from the House of Commons from 1562 to 1829. The obvious
purpose of this policy in England was self-protection; and in like
manner the restriction of the suffrage in Massachusetts was designed
to protect the colony against aggressive episcopacy and to maintain
unimpaired the uniformity of purpose which had brought the settlers
across the ocean. Under the circumstances there was something to be
said in behalf of such a measure of self-protection, and the principle
required but slight extension to cover such cases as the banishment of
Roger Williams and the Antinomians. There was another side to the case,
however. From the very outset this exclusive policy was in some ways
a source of weakness to Massachusetts, though we have seen that the
indirect effect was to diversify and enrich the political life of New
England as a whole. [Sidenote: Restriction of the suffrage to church
members]

At first it led to the departure of the men who founded Connecticut,
and thereafter the way was certainly open for those who preferred the
Connecticut policy to go where it prevailed. Some such segregation was
no doubt effected, but it could not be complete and thorough. Men who
preferred Boston without the franchise to Hartford with it would remain
in Massachusetts; and thus the elder colony soon came to possess a
discontented class of people, always ready to join hand in glove with
dissenters or mischief-makers, or even with emissaries of the crown. It
afforded a suggestive commentary upon all attempts to suppress human
nature by depriving it of a share in political life; instead of keeping
it inside where you can try conclusions with it fairly, you thrust it
out to plot mischief in the dark. Within twenty years from the founding
of Boston the disfranchisement of such citizens as could not participate
in church-communion had begun to be regarded as a serious political
grievance. These men were obliged to pay taxes and were liable to be
called upon for military service against the Indians; and they naturally
felt that they ought to have a voice in the management of public
affairs. [Sidenote: It was a source of political discontent]

Besides this fundamental ground of complaint, there were derivative
grievances. Under the influence of the clergy justice was administered
in somewhat inquisitorial fashion, there was an uncertainty as to just
what the law was, a strong disposition to confuse questions of law with
questions of ethics, and great laxity in the admission and estimation of
evidence. As early as 1639 people had begun to complain that too much
power was rested in the discretion of the magistrate, and they clamoured
for a code of laws; but as Winthrop says, the magistrates and ministers
were "not very forward in this matter," for they preferred to supplement
the common law of England by decisions based on the Old Testament rather
than by a body of statutes. It was not until 1649, after a persistent
struggle, that the deputies won a decisive victory over the assistants
and secured for Massachusetts a definite code of laws. In the New Haven
colony similar theocratic notions led the settlers to dispense with
trial by jury because they could find no precedent for it in the laws of
Moses. Here, as in Massachusetts, the inquisitorial administration of
justice combined with partial disfranchisement to awaken discontent, and
it was partly for this reason that New Haven fell so easily under the
sway of Connecticut. [Sidenote: Inquisitorial administration of justice]

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