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 Ethical Smut Erotica Presents :
Dungeons & Decadence
Book One

Hidden Treasures of the Emperor's Harîm

A Pick an Erotic Adventure Path

Erotic Story by Roslyn Hetrick

 Hidden Treasures of the Emperor’s Harîm

#PEAP Book One.

Dungeons & Decadence & Ethical Smut Erotica present this Pick an
Erotic Adventure Path multiple choice, multiple possible outcomes erotic
role-playing story (#eroticRP or #eRP) by Roslyn Hetrick.

Text copyright © 2019 Roslyn Hetrick & Ethical Smut Erotica

(Dungeons & Decadence Imprint).

All Rights Reserved.

This is a work of erotic fiction. Names, characters, organizations,

places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or presented in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Please don’t steal my story if you can afford to pay for it. If money is
really tight, though, I understand. I’ve been there.

But if you try to sell it in any form I will tell Amazon on you.

#adventure #amwritingerotica #dungeonsanddecadence

#eroticacommunity #eroticampersand #eroticRP #eRP #fantasy #halfelf
#halfsister #Harîm #Hazif #hiddentreasures #hookah #indieauthor #Jamina
#Lenorae #PEAP #pickaneroticadventurepath #RPG #selfpublished #stoned
#taboo #wordporn
Pick an Erotic Adventure Path • D&D • Dungeons & Decadence •
Ethical Smut Erotica • Erotic Fantasy • Lenorae • RPG
 Introduction
Pick an Erotic Adventure Path!

Welcome to the first instalment of Ethical Smut Erotica presents its

Dungeons & Decadence imprint’s Pick an Erotic Adventure Path series of
sexy, erotic role-playing stories in the style of the multiple choice, multiple
possible outcomes novellas I read when I was younger but am not allowed
to name without being sued, but with an erotic twist.

Throughout this and future books, you will take the role of the heroine
Lenorae, a slyly adventuresome young half-Elven maiden with a curious,
artlessly sensual nature coupled with an impulsive, slightly larcenous bent
as she makes her way through each quest, for better or worse depending on
the choices you, the reader make.

Each story has several possible outcomes, some sexy, some sad, as
well as multiple paths by which to reach them. You determine your story by
following the instructions at the bottom of each section, picking which page
to read next until you reach your outcome.

Your instructions will look like this, so you can easily recognize them.

If it’s not the one you’d hoped for, or if you simply want to play again
and see what else might happen you can!
 Just begin again, or pick up at whatever junction you like and discover
what other fates await Lenorae.

In this, her first adventure, Lenorae is exploring the Emperor’s palace

in the hopes of finding her lost jewel among the fabled Hidden Treasures of
the Emperor’s Harîm!
 Lenorae
Introducing Lenorae, Your Heroine.

Not quite as tall as most girls your apparent age, though you’ve taken
longer than most to reach young womanhood, slender, fit and willowy
though you’ve budded nicely in recent months, even if you wish your pert,
apple-sized breasts with their pale rose nipples were bigger.

The way that men, even some womens’ eyes follow you now as you
pass, lingering on your shapely legs and firm, round bum still confuses you
while also giving you a little shiver of excitement, sometimes even making
you wet down there…

Your clear, pale complexion, expressively generous mouth and fit,

toned young body were your mother’s gifts to her daughters.

Wide-set almandine eyes of deep sapphire blue and thick, lustrous

silvery tresses, of which you are very proud and maybe even a little vain, as
well as the delicately pointed ears whose tips show when you wear your
hair up are the gifts your father left you when he bedded you mother.

Recently those soft silver curls have sprouted elsewhere too, right
around the time you had your first moon blood.
 Lenorae, you are a youngish waif of a girl, just on the cusp of
adulthood. You’re bright, inquisitive, insatiably curious, particularly when it
comes to magic and, ah, sensuality.

Still a virgin, your experience in such matters has been limited to

cadging a few simple but useful spells regarding the former, while shyly but
excitedly fumbling, kissing, even the occasional mutual masturbation with
your best girl friend Mandie late at night in your cozy shared room at The
Weary Traveler Inn.

It’s not something you discuss with anyone, but you’re definitely ready
to try more, to enjoy new pleasures.

At least you think you are. It’s exciting, but it’s scary as well,
imagining boys and what they want, not to mention what they’ve got to
offer a girl.

Sometimes whether she wants it or not, you know.

Life at the Inn has taught you a few hard lessons, not to mention the
sheets you have to gather and clean, the musky scents you have to air out of
the rooms after some patrons spend the night together.

You never knew your father. He is a Forest Elf, you know that much,
which makes you a half-Elf, a slender waif of a girl who blends the best
features of both peoples into a harmonious whole, gifted with an Elf’s
whisper quiet footsteps, their sensitive hearing, which can be a mixed
blessing at night in The Weary Traveler, and uncanny night vision.

One day you’ll find him though. Of that much you are certain, it’s been
a daydream of yours ever since you grew old enough to understand such
matters.

You’ve even learned some of the Forest Elven language, whatever you
could glean from passing travellers or the occasional book or scroll, either
pilfered from some unwary patron or borrowed from Nesmit, the
awkwardly shy Apprentice Wizard who also taught you those precious few
cantrips, the simplest of spells in return for a kiss, stolen late one night
when he was flush with his third cup of mulled wine.

Your Human mother, Nalla, died when you were just a girl. You and
your Human half-sister, Lamana, found refuge in at The Weary Traveler,
working as scullery maids and serving patrons in the taproom.

That is, until your sister, older and at the time prettier, certainly more
fully flowered was taken away by members of the City Watch after being
caught trying to pilfer a bolt of cloth-of-silver in the Grand Marketplace.

It’s been rumoured that she is now one of the Emperor’s Harîm girls.

The Emperor’s Harîm is the subject of much speculation, avarice and

envy, as it’s said that, in addition to a bevy of beautiful girls of all sizes,
shapes and talents, plucked from throughout the Western Empire’s borders
and even beyond, that the stern, whispered to be evilly handsome by those
who may have glimpsed him during one of His Imperial Majesty’s periodic
forays from his splendidly luxurious palace court, seemingly immortal
sovereign keeps a wondrous treasure trove hidden among the chambers of
his many consorts.

Not simply for the comforts and luxuries they impart, but because the
Harîm Guards, a company of finely trained, fiercely loyal soldiers chosen
for one shared quality above all :

They have no interest at all in women, preferring to share the company

of other men when enjoying the sensual pleasures.

You’re not quite certain how that works, mind. It’s yet another mystery
that piques your curiosity.

You’re quick, agile, albeit perhaps a touch fragile, determined and

clever.

In addition to your modest magical talent you’ve a knack for finessing

the locks on the Inn’s many doors and, however unladylike it may be,
you’ve been picking pockets and cutting purses since you were a child,
skills learned from Lamana and by observing the many professional thieves
who make their living in and around The Weary Traveler inn and amidst the
bustling, jostling crowds of the surrounding Grand Marketplace.

You also have a blade, passed down from your mother who told you it
had belonged to your father.

Leaf-shaped, perilously sharp and marvellously light it’s a true magical

Elf-blade, you’re sure of it, though the gruff but kindly old Javan, owner
and keeper of The Weary Traveler Inn, scoffs at such notions.

Still, you keep it scabbarded on your waist for protection and the bit of
swagger it lends your steps and unusually, passers-by rarely seem to notice
it when scabbarded.

Furthermore, over the years you’ve worked at the inn, the copper
pennies, silver shillings and even the occasional gold crown you’ve saved,
be they tips or more larcenously obtained will soon be traded for a stylish
yet deceptively protective silk and lizard hide outfit you’ve commissioned
from Hazif the silk merchant.

His tented stall in the heart of the Grand Marketplace is frequented by

noble and merely aspirant patrons alike.

Though Hazif can be rude, unpleasant and is widely rumoured to be

untrustworthy, the quality of his silks and craftsmanship are equally widely
acknowledged to be the finest in all of Port Eilast, the city in which you’ve
been told you were born and unquestionably have been raised.

Nor are you entirely without friends other than Nesmit. Over the
course of the past season you’ve been courting the friendship of a Dragonet,
a fierce but miniature winged, fire-breathing copper-scaled lizard named
Vindaloo.

It’s said that Dragonets can read the thoughts of those nearby, which
gives you occasionally furtive wonderings just what he thinks of those
thoughts, the ones that come unbidden, especially late at night, frequently
accompanied by your delicate fingers’ naughty wanderings.
 He, at least you’re fairly certain he’s male, isn’t always entirely
reliable, often keeping the company of other, wild Dragonets, so you likely
won’t be seeing him this adventure, but in time…

Speaking of which, it’s time to begin your adventure, exploring The

Hidden Treasures of the Emperor’s Harîm!
 Beginning
Your Adventure Begins!
Today is your sister, Lamana’s birthday but she isn’t here to celebrate
it for the tenth year in a row, having been ‘chosen’ to join the Emperor’s
Harîm.

While ten years means little to the long-lived, some even whisper
immortal Elves, even half-Elves such as yourself hardly feeling time’s
withering caress, Lamana is fully Human.

Taken at the tender age of fourteen, she would be a grown woman

now, you know… one who has been increasingly on your mind as, having
recently achieved a tentative mastery of certain magics.

Cantrips, as well as having grown more dangerous to others than to

yourself with your blade, as the Varl, the City Watchman who frequents The
Weary Traveler and occasionally offer the odd pointer, largely out of
amusement while you’d proudly showed off your increasing confidence and
skill.

You’re as ready as you’re likely to be to attempt the bold rescue

you’ve dreamt of since Lamana was taken.

Your first step is to visit Hazif the silk merchant in the Grand
Marketplace, the crowded, noisy, riotously colourful gathering of merchants
from all over the continent offering their wares, typically from the back of
carts, or from within bright, patterned tents for those able to afford to
escape the summer heat.

Circling the marketplace are the permanent store fronts, glass windows
barred with iron, stone walls with thick, heavy doors protecting the most
valuable of wares, not to mention their owners.

Two main roads lead to the Grand Marketplace.

The Merchant’s Way is the final stretch of the Trade Road that leads to
the city’s gates and, once through them, lined by inns and taverns, such as
The Weary Traveler, as well as traders, brokers and all manner of services
offered to exhausted caravans, to the marketplace itself.

Nearly opposite this path is the grander, wider Processional.

Lined with the finest shops, temples and the townhouses of the truly
wealthy, it finds its end opening onto the courtyard and gardens surrounding
the Imperial Palace.

You’ve only dared venture that way occasionally and never for long,
out of the fear that you too might be taken by His Majesty’s men.

You’ll have to set that fear aside soon enough.

 1.0
The Grand Marketplace.

Making your way through the varied, multi-coloured tents and stalls of
the Grand Marketplace, amidst the throngs of shoppers and vendors
hawking their wares loudly in any number of exotic-sounding, foreign
tongues, some with brightly-painted signs advertising the treasures on offer,
others with criers calling out to draw attention, you move confidently, your
Elf-blade on your hip, until you spy the canopy of Hazif the silk merchant’s
colourful tent.

The Kashmiri silk-seller and occasional clothier is easily spotted due

to his exotic, heavyset yet still somewhat handsome features, dusky
complexion and for his voluminous, outlandishly bright silk clothing,
consisting of pantaloons, a sash, slash-sleeved tunic and vest, topped by a
tightly-wound turban both held in place and adorned by a plumed, gold and
ruby pin.

Hazif smiles broadly when he spots you approaching his tent, a lewd,
oily smirk that makes your skin crawl ever so slightly. You push on, though,
having business to complete with the merchant.

“Greetings, fair Lenorae, it is a pleasure, as always, to see you. May I

assume that you’ve come to finish our transaction?”

Nodding, you move to stand before him. “I have, and I’ve brought the
remainder of the payment. It’s yours once I’ve examined what you
promised, of course.”

“Of course,” Hazif agrees, unctuously. “I have it awaiting your

approval in my tent. Won’t you join me?”

Nodding at his invitation, you allow him to hold the tent’s flap aside
for you to duck inside, feeling his eyes on you, then starting as they are
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 Poor John Alden, the fair-haired, timid youth, was aghast,
overwhelmed with anguish. He tried to smile, but the nerves of his
face twitched with painful convulsions. He endeavored to excuse
himself, but his impetuous friend, whose commanding mind
overawed him, would listen to no excuse. To all John’s remonstrances
he replied:

“I was never a maker of phrases.

I can march up to a fortress, and summon the place to surrender;
But march up to a woman, with such a proposal, I dare not.
I am not afraid of bullets, nor shot from the mouth of a cannon,
But of a thundering ‘no!’ point blank from the mouth of a woman,
That I confess I’m afraid of, nor am I ashamed to confess it.”

John Alden, anguish-stricken as he was, could not refuse. The

strong mind dominated over the weaker one. Agitated, almost
convulsed with contending emotions, he entered the paths of the
forest, crossed the brook which ran south of the village, and
gathering a handful of wild flowers, almost in delirium, approached
the lonely dwelling of Priscilla. As he drew near, he heard her sweet
voice singing a hymn as she walked to and fro beside the spinning-
wheel. Priscilla met him on the threshold, with a cordial greeting,
hoping that he had come to declare his love. He was greatly
embarrassed, and after a long parley, very awkwardly blurted out the
words, that he had come with an offer of marriage from Captain
Miles Standish. Priscilla was amazed, grieved, wounded. With eyes
dilated with sadness and wonder, she looked into John’s face and
said, after a few moments of ominous silence:
“If the great Captain of Plymouth is so eager to wed me,
Why does he not come himself and take the trouble to woo me?
If I am not worth the wooing, I surely am not worth the winning.”

John, exceedingly embarrassed, said, in unfortutunate phrase,

that the captain was very busy, and had no time for such things. The
offended maiden replied:
 “Has he no time for such things, as you call it, before he is married;
Would he be likely to find it, or make it, after the wedding?”

Quite forgetting himself, John launched forth eloquently in the

praise of his military friend,
“Spoke of his courage and skill, and all his battles in Flanders,
How with the people of God he had chosen to suffer affliction,
How, in return for his zeal, they had made him Captain of Plymouth.
He was a gentleman born, could trace his pedigree plainly
Back to Hugh Standish, of Duxbury Hall, in Lancashire, England,
Who was the son of Ralph, and the grandson of Thurston de
Standish;
Heir unto vast estates, of which he was basely defrauded,
Still bore the family arms, and had for his crest a cock argent
Combed and wattled gules, and all the rest of the blazon.
He was a man of honor, of noble and generous nature;
Though he was rough, he was kindly; she knew how, during the
winter,
He had attended the sick, with a hand as gentle as woman’s.
Somewhat hasty and hot, he could not deny it, and headstrong,
Stern as a soldier might be, but hearty and placable always;
Not to be laughed at and scorned, because he was little of stature,
For he was great of heart, magnanimous, courtly, courageous;
Any woman in Plymouth, nay, any woman in England,
Might be happy and proud to be called the wife of Miles Standish.”

As Priscilla listened to this glowing and eloquent eulogy, it only

increased her admiration for the young and beautiful John Alden. She
had long loved him. Maidenly instinct taught her that she also was
beloved by him. Though this love had never been communicated to
her in words, it had again and again been expressed in loud-speaking
glances of the eye and in actions. With tremulous voice she ventured
to reply, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?”
The tone, the look which accompanied the words, revealed at
once, to the bashful youth, the love of Priscilla. A tempest of
 conflicting emotions rushed into his soul. How could the
magnanimous youth plead his own cause, and thus apparently betray
his friend. Perplexed, bewildered, he burst from the house, like an
insane man; hurried to the sea shore, wandered along the sands,
where the surf was breaking with loud roar; bared his head to the
ocean breeze, and endeavored in vain to cool the fever, which
seemed to burn in both body and soul. His tender conscience
condemned him as being unfaithful to his friend.
He could not, without a sense of guilt, supplant his friend; and
he could not live in Plymouth and refuse the hand of Priscilla, so
delicately and yet so decidedly proffered. Heroically he resolved to
return to England.
There was a vessel in the harbor which was to sail on the
morrow. The poet speaks of it as the returning Mayflower.
Chronology will hardly permit us to accept that representation. Rose
Standish died on the 8th of February, N. S. The Mayflower sailed, on
her return voyage, the 5th of April, but two months after the death
of the wife Captain Standish so tenderly loved. As the frenzied youth
gazed upon the vessel riding at anchor, and rising and falling upon
the ocean swell, he exclaimed:
“Back will I go o’er the ocean, this dreary land will abandon,
Her whom I may not love, and him whom my heart has offended.
Better to be in my grave, in the green old churchyard in England,
Close by my mother’s side, and among the dust of my kindred;
Better be dead and forgotten, than living in shame and dishonor
Sacred and safe and unseen, in the dark of the narrow chamber
With me my secret shall lie, like a buried jewel that glimmers
Bright on the hand that is dust, in the chambers of silence and
darkness,
Yes, as the marriage ring of the great espousal hereafter.”

Thus resolving he hurried, in the gathering twilight, through the

glooms of the forest to the “seven houses” of Plymouth. He entered
the door of his home and found the Captain anxiously awaiting his
 return. He had been gone long and was rather severely reproached
for his tardiness. He then gave a minute account of the interview.
But when he came to her declaration, “Why don’t you speak for
yourself, John?” the Captain rose from his seat in a towering passion.
As he was vehemently uttering his reproaches a messenger came,
with the information that hostile Indians were approaching. Instantly
the bold warrior forgot Priscilla, and all his displeasure at John Alden,
in contemplation of his immense responsibilities as military protector
of the colony. Hastily he girded on his armor and left the house. He
found the leading men already assembled in the council room. Upon
the table lay the skin of the rattlesnake, to which we have before
alluded, filled with arrows, with the Indian who brought it, by its
side. Captain Standish at once understood the significance of the
mysterious gift. He said,
“‘Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth.
War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous
Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge.’
Then, from the rattlesnake’s skin, with a sudden contemptuous
gesture,
Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets,
Full to the very jaws and handed it back to the savage,
Saying in thundering tones, ‘Here, take it! this is your answer.’
Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage,
Bearing the serpent’s skin, and seeming himself like a serpent,
Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest.”

Early the next morning Captain Standish took eight men, well
armed, and marched, under the guidance of Hobomak, to the point
where he supposed the hostile Indians were gathering. The vessel
was about to sail. The signal gun was fired. All the inhabitants of the
little village flocked to the beach. The ship’s boat was at Plymouth
rock, waiting to convey the captain of the vessel, who was on shore,
to the ship. He was bidding his friends adieu and cramming the
capacious pockets of his storm coat with letters and packages. John
Alden, with others, was seen hurrying down to the sea shore. The
 captain stood with one foot on the rock and the other on the
gunwale of the boat, speaking his last words and just ready to push
off. Alden, in his despair, was about to enter the boat, without any
words of adieu to his friends, thinking in absence and distance to
find relief to his tortured feelings, when he saw Priscilla looking sadly
upon him.
“But as he gazed on the crowd, he beheld the form of Priscilla
Standing dejected among them, unconscious of all that passing.
Fixed were her eyes upon his, as if she divined his intention,
Fixed with a look so sad, so reproachful, imploring and patient,
That, with a sudden revulsion, his heart recoiled from its purpose
As from the verge of a crag, where one step more is destruction.”

Thus influenced, he abandoned his intention of returning to

England more suddenly than he had formed it. As he stepped back
he said, with a true lover’s fervor,
“There is no land so sacred, no air so pure and so wholesome
As is the air she breathes, and the soil that is pressed by her
footsteps.
Here for her sake will I stay, and like an invisible presence
Hover around her forever, protecting, supporting her weakness.
Yes! as my foot was the first that stepped on this rock at the landing,
So, with the blessing of God, shall it be the last at the leaving.”

The captain of the ship sprang into the boat, waved an adieu to
the lonely band of exiles, numbering but about fifty men, women and
children, who were gathered upon the shore, and the boat, driven by
the sturdy arms of the rowers, soon reached the ship. The anchor
was raised, the sails unfurled, and the only link which seemed to
connect them with the home of their fathers was sundered. Long the
saddened Pilgrims stood gazing upon the vessel as it receded from
their view, and then returned to their lowly cabins, their homely fare,
and to the toils and perils of their life of exile.
 “So they returned to their homes; but Alden lingered a little,
Musing alone on the shore and watching the wash of the billows.”

As he thus stood, lost in painful thought and almost distracted by

the perplexities in which he found himself involved, he perceived
Priscilla standing beside him. They had a long conversation together,
which the poet manages with admirable skill. The artless, frank,
affectionate Priscilla was unwittingly every moment exciting deeper
emotions of tenderness and admiration in the heart of her lover. And
yet, in the most painful embarrassment from respect to his friend
Miles Standish, he refrained from offering her, as he longed to do, his
hand and heart.
In the mean time Captain Standish, at the head of his brave little
band, was tramping through the trails of the forest, through thickets
and morasses, over hills and across streamlets,

“All day long, with hardly a halt, the fire of his anger,
Burning and crackling within, and the sulphurous odor of powder,
Seeming more sweet to his nostrils than all the scents of the forest.
Silent and moody he went, and much he revolved his discomfort.”

After a march of three days, he is represented as coming to an

Indian encampment. The little cluster of huts was upon a meadow,
with the gloomy forest on one side, and the ocean surf breaking
upon the other. A few women were scattered around among the
wigwams. A formidable band of warriors, evidently on the war path,
plumed and painted, and thoroughly armed, were gathered around
their council fires. As soon as they saw the bright armor of the
Pilgrims, as the brave little band emerged from the forest, two of the
chiefs, men of gigantic stature, came forward to meet them. With
much historic accuracy of detail the poet describes the scene which
ensued—a scene which has been presented to the reader in the
preceding narrative.
One of these was Pecksuot, the other Wattawamat. These burly
savages, huge as Goliath of Gath, met Captain Standish, at first with
 deceitful words, hoping to disarm his suspicions. Through Hobbomak,
the interpreter, who had accompanied the Captain, they proposed to
barter their furs for blankets and muskets. But they soon saw, in the
flashing eyes of Captain Standish, that he was not to be thus
beguiled. The poet, giving utterance to authentic history in glowing
verse, and making use of almost the very expressions uttered by the
savages, writes:
“Suddenly changing their tone, they began to boast and to bluster.
Then Wattawamat advanced with a stride in front of the other,
And with a lofty demeanor, thus vauntingly spake to the Captain:
‘Now Wattawamat can see, by the fiery eyes of the Captain,
Angry is he in his heart; but the heart of the brave Wattawamat
Is not afraid at the sight. He was not born of a woman,
But on the mountain, at night, from an oak tree riven by lightning.’
Forth he sprang at a bound, with all his weapons about him,
Shouting, ‘Who is there here to fight with the brave Wattawamat?’
Then he unsheathed his knife, and, whetting the blade on his left
hand,
Held it aloft and displayed a woman’s face on the handle,
Saying, with bitter expression and look of sinister meaning,
‘I have another at home, with the face of a man on the handle;
By and by they shall marry; and there will be plenty of children.’”

Pecksuot also indulged in similar language and gesture of insult

and menace, brandishing his gleaming knife, boasting that it could
eat, though it could not speak, and telling the Captain that he was so
small in stature that he ought to go and live with the women.
Meanwhile many Indians were seen stealthily creeping around, from
bush to bush in the forest, with the evident design of making a
simultaneous attack upon the little band of white men. Some of
these Indians were armed with muskets, others with arrows set on
their bow strings. Nearer and nearer they were approaching, to
enclose him in the net of an ambush from which there could be no
escape. As Captain Standish watched with his eagle eye these proofs
of treachery, and listened to the insults and threats of the herculean
 chiefs, who, he knew, were only waiting for the fit moment to leap
upon him,
“All the hot blood of his race, of Sir Hugh and of Thurston de
Standish,
Boiled and beat in his heart, and swelled in the veins of his temples.
Headlong he leaped on the boaster, and snatching his knife from its
scabbard,
Plunged it into his heart; and, reeling backward, the savage
Fell with his face to the sky, and a fiend-like fierceness upon it.
Straight there arose from the forest the awful sound of the war-
whoop,
And, like a flurry of snow, on the whistling wind of December,
Swift and sudden and keen came a flight of feathery arrows.”

This was followed by a discharge of musketry from the Pilgrims.

A bullet pierced the brain of Pecksuot, and he fell dead. The savages,
having lost both of their chiefs, fled like deer. As the head of
Wattawamat, the gory trophy of war, was sent to Plymouth, and was
exposed on the roof of the fort, Priscilla averted her face with terror
and, shuddering, thanked God she had not married such a man of
war as Captain Standish.
Month after month passed away, while the captain is represented
as scouring the land with his forces, watching the movements of the
hostile Indians, and thwarting their intrigues. Though Priscilla had
refused his hand, the bashful John Alden did not feel that he could,
in honor, take advantage of the absence of his friend, the Captain,
and seek her for his bride. So assuming simply the attitude of
friendship, the two lovers lived, with some degree of tranquility and
in constant intimacy, side by side.
“Meanwhile, Alden at home had built him a new habitation,
Solid, substantial, of timber, rough-hewn from the firs of the forest.
Wooden-barred was the door, and the roof was covered with rushes,
Latticed the windows were, and the window-panes were of paper,
Oiled to admit the light, while wind and rain were excluded.”
 The description which the poet gives of the intercourse between
these simple children of the wilderness, whose hearts glowed with
purity and love, is beautiful in its pastoral simplicity. At length the
tidings, very appalling to the Pilgrims, reached the little settlement,
that their redoubtable Captain had been slain in a battle with the
Indians—shot down by a poisoned arrow. It was said that he had
been led into an ambush, and, with his whole band, had perished.
John and Priscilla were together when an Indian brought this
intelligence to Plymouth. Both joy and grief flashed through the soul
of John Alden. His friend was dead. The bonds which had held John
captive were forever sundered. Scarcely knowing what he did, he
threw his arms around Priscilla, pressed her to his bosom, and
devoutly exclaimed, “Those whom the Lord hath united, let no man
put them asunder.”
The wedding day soon came. The simple ceremony was
performed by Elder Brewster. All the Pilgrims were present.

“Lo! when the service was ended, a form appeared on the threshold,
Clad in armor of steel, a sombre and sorrowful figure.
Why does the bridegroom start and stare at the strange apparition?
Why does the bride turn pale and hide her face on his shoulder?
Is it a phantom of air,—a bodiless, spectral illusion?”

It was Captain Miles. The report of his death was unfounded. He

had arrived unexpectedly in the village (for there were no mails in
those days), just in time to be present at the close of the wedding.
With characteristic magnanimity he advanced to the bridegroom,
cordially shook his hand and wished him joy.
“‘Forgive me,’ he said,
‘I have been angry and hurt—too long have I cherished the feeling;
I have been cruel and hard, but now, thank God, it is ended.
Mine is the same hot blood that leaped in the veins of Hugh
Standish:
Sensitive, swift to resent, but as swift in atoning for error.
Never so much as now was Miles Standish the friend of John Alden.’”
 In a similar strain he addressed the bride. The Pilgrims were
amazed and overjoyed to see their heroic Captain returned to them.
Tumultuously they gathered around him. Bride and bridegroom were
forgotten in the greeting which was extended to the Captain.
Some cattle had, by this time, been brought to the colony, and a
snow-white bull had fallen to the lot of John Alden. The animal was
covered with a crimson cloth upon which was bound a cushion.
Priscilla mounted this strange palfrey, which her husband led by a
cord tied to an iron ring in its nostrils. Her friends followed, and thus
she was led to her home.
“Onward the bridal procession now moved to their new habitation,
Happy husband and wife and friends conversing together.
Pleasantly murmured the brook, as they crossed the ford in the
forest,
Pleased with the image, that passed like a dream of love through its
bosom,
Tremulous, floating in air, o’er the depth of the azure abysses;
Down through the golden leaves the sun was pouring his splendors,
Gleaming on purple grapes that, from branches above them
suspended,
Mingled their odorous breath with the balm of the pine and the fir-
tree,
Wild and sweet as the clusters that grew in the valley of Eschol;
Like a picture it seemed of the primitive pastoral ages,
Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,
Old, and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,
So, through the Plymouth woods, passed onward the bridal
procession.”

Such is the poetic version of the legend of the Courtship of Miles

Standish. Nearly every event which the poet has woven into his
harmonious lines, is accurate even in its most minute details. We
have given but a meagre view of the beauties of this Idyl, and
commend the same, in full, to the perusal of the reader.
 CHAPTER XIV.
The Trading-Posts Menaced.

Menace of the Narragansets.—Roger Williams.—

Difficulty on the Kennebec.—Bradford’s Narrative.—
Captain Standish as Mediator.—The French on the
Penobscot.—Endeavors to Regain the Lost Port.—
Settlements on the Connecticut River.—Mortality
among the Indians.—Hostility of the Pequots.—
Efforts to Avert War.—The Pequot Forts.—Death of
Elder Brewster.—His Character.

In the spring of the year 1632 an Indian runner came, in

breathless haste, into the village of Plymouth, with the intelligence
that the Narragansets, under Canonicus, were marching against
Mount Hope, and that Massassoit implored the aid of the Pilgrims.
The chief of the Wampanoags had fled, with a party of his warriors,
to Sowams, in the present town of Warren, R. I., where the Pilgrims
had a trading-post. It used to be said, in the French army, during the
wars of Napoleon I., that the presence of the Emperor, on the field
of an approaching battle, was equivalent to a re-enforcement of one
hundred thousand men. It seems to have been the impression, with
both colonists and Indians, that Captain Standish, in himself alone,
was a resistless force. He was immediately despatched to Sowams,
with three men, to repel an army of nobody knew how many
hundreds of savage warriors.
 Upon his arrival at Sowams, the captain soon learned that the
Wampanoags were indeed in serious peril. The Narragansets were
advancing in much strength. Captain Standish sent promptly a
messenger to Plymouth to forward a re-enforcement to him
immediately, with powder and muskets. As there was but little
ammunition at that time in Plymouth, application was made to
Governor Winthrop, of Massachusetts, for a supply. There were but
few horses then in either of the colonies, and the messenger
returned on foot through the woods with twenty-seven pounds of
powder upon his back, which Governor Winthrop had contributed
from his own stores. Fortunately the Pequots, taking advantage of
the absence of the Narraganset warriors, made an inroad upon their
territory, which caused Canonicus to abandon his march upon
Sowams and to make a precipitate retreat to defend his own realms.
Mr. Roger Williams, whose name is one of the most illustrious in
the early annals of New England, had a little before this time come
over to Massachusetts. Being displeased with some things there, he
left that colony and came to Plymouth.
“Here,” writes Governor Bradford, “he was friendly entertained,
according to their poor ability, and exercised his gifts among them,
and after some time was admitted a member of the church. And his
teaching was well approved, for the benefit whereof I still bless God,
and am thankful to him, even for his sharpest admonitions and
reproofs. He this year began to fall into some strange opinions, and
from opinion to practice; which caused some controversy between
the church and him, and, in the end, some discontent on his part, by
occasion whereof he left them somewhat abruptly.”
In the year 1634 a serious difficulty occurred upon the Kennebec
River. The Plymouth colony claimed this river, and fifteen miles on
each side of it, by special patent. They thus were enabled to
monopolize the very important trade with the Indians. A man by the
name of Hocking, from the settlement at Piscataqua, with a boat
load of goods, entered the river, and ascending above the trading
coast of the Plymouth colony, commenced purchasing furs of the
Indians. Mr. John Howland was in command of the post at that time.
He forbade the trade; but Hocking, with insulting language, bade
him defiance. Howland took a boat and some armed men, and
ascended the river to the spot where the heavily laden boat of
Hocking was riding at anchor, and earnestly expostulated with him
against his illegal procedings. The result we will give in the words of
Governor Bradford:
“But all in vain. He could get nothing of him but ill words. So he
considered that now was the season for trade to come down, and
that if he should suffer him to take it from them, all their former
charge would be lost, and they had better throw all up. So
consulting with his men, who were willing thereto, he resolved to
put him from his anchors, and let him drift down the river with the
stream; but commanded the men that none should shoot a shot
upon any occasion, except he commanded them.
“He spoke to him again, but all in vain. Then he sent a couple in
a canoe to cut his cable, the which one of them performs. But
Hocking takes up a piece, which he had laid ready, and, as the bark
sheared by the canoe, he shot him, close under her side, in the
44
head, so that he fell down dead instantly. One of his fellows, who
loved him well, could not hold, but with a musket shot Hocking, who
fell down dead, and never spake word. This was the truth of the
thing.”
Mr. John Alden, probably the husband of Priscilla, was one of the
men in the bark with the Pilgrims. They returned to the trading post,
much afflicted by the untoward adventure. Not long after this Mr.
Alden, visiting Boston, was arrested for the deed, upon the
complaint of a kinsman of Hocking, and held to bail. The
Massachusetts government had no right of jurisdiction in the affair.
But Governor Winthrop was quite embarrassed to know what was
best to be done in a case thus far without any precedent. He wrote
very courteously to Governor Winslow, then Chief Magistrate of
Plymouth, informing him of what had been done, and enquiring if
the Plymouth people would take action in a case which seemed
rather to belong to their jurisdiction.
“This we did,” writes Governor Winthrop, “that notice might be
taken that we did disavow the said action, which was much
condemned of all men, and which, it was feared, would give
occasion to the king to send a general governor over. And besides, it
had brought us all, and the gospel, under a common reproach, of
cutting one another’s throats for beaver.”
Governor Bradford was also greatly troubled, being apprehensive
respecting the influence it might exert upon the home government.
He speaks of the occurrence as “one of the saddest things that befel
them since they came.” There was embarrassment all around. It was
hardly consistent with the dignity of Plymouth to surrender the case
to the Massachusetts court. Mr. Alden, who had been arrested, was
no actor in the business. He simply happened to be in the boat,
having gone to the Kennebec with supplies.
Under these difficult circumstances Captain Standish was sent to
Massachusetts to consult with the authorities there upon the best
course to be pursued; to make explanations, and to endeavor to
obtain the release of John Alden. Great wisdom was requisite in
discharging the duties of this mission, combining conciliation with
firmness. The Captain was equal to the occasion. He represented
that the Plymouth people exceedingly regretted what had happened,
but they felt that they were not the aggressors, but had acted in self
defense. It was admitted that one of their servants had shot
Hocking, but that he had first shot Talbot, and would have killed
others had he not himself been killed. It was urged that the
Massachusetts colony had no jurisdiction in the case, and that it had
done unjustly in imprisoning, and arraigning before its court, one of
the Plymouth men. The spirit of conciliation manifested by both
parties was admirable, as is manifest in the following admission
made to the Massachusetts court, as recorded by Governor
Bradford:
 “But yet, being assured of their Christian love, and persuaded
that what was done was out of godly zeal, that religion might not
suffer, or sin be in any way covered, especially the guilt of blood, of
which all should be very conscientious, they did endeavor to
appease and satisfy them the best they could; first by informing
them of the truth in all circumstances about the matter; and
secondly, in being willing to refer the case to any indifferent and
equal hearing and judgment of the thing here, and to answer it
elsewhere when they should be duly called thereto. And further, they
craved Mr. Winthrop’s, and others of the revered magistrates there,
their advice and direction therein. This did mollify their minds, and
45
bring things to a good and comfortable issue in the end.”
In accordance with Governor Winthrop’s advice, a general
conference of prominent men, both ministers and laymen, was held
in Boston. After seeking divine guidance in prayer, the matter was
very thoroughly discussed. Then the opinion of each one was taken,
both magistrates and ministers. With entire unanimity they came to
the conclusion that, “Though they all could have wished that these
things had never been, yet they could not but lay the blame and
guilt on Hocking’s own head. And thus,” writes Governor Bradford,
“was this matter ended, and love and concord renewed.”
In the struggle between the Dutch and the English, for the
possession of the Connecticut River and its lucrative trade, a party of
Dutch ascended the river far above their trading-house, at the
present site of Hartford. Here there was a powerful tribe of Indians.
Being, as usual with the Indians, at war with their neighbors, about
one thousand of them had built a fort, which they had strongly
palisadoed. Some Dutch traders went up to pass the winter with
them, and to purchase their furs. A terrible plague came upon the
Indians, and nine hundred and fifty died in the course of a few
weeks. The living could not bury the dead. Their bodies were left to
decay in the open air. The Dutch, with difficulty, amidst the snows of
winter, made their escape from this horrible pestilence, and
succeeded, when almost dead with hunger and cold, in reaching
their friends in Hartford.
The account of the ravages of the small-pox among the Indians,
around the English settlements, is too revolting to be transferred to
these pages. The suffering was awful. Though the English ministered
to them with the greatest humanity, yet not one of them was
attacked by the disease. The judgment of God seemed to have fallen
upon the Indians, and they were everywhere perishing.
The Plymouth colony had a very flourishing trading-house on the
Penobscot River. In the year 1635, a French frigate appeared in the
harbor, and took possession of the post, in the name of the king of
France. The captain, Monsieur d’ Aulney, made an inventory of their
goods, took a bill of sale at his own price, promised to pay when
convenient, put the men on board their shallop, supplied them
amply with provisions, and, with many bows and compliments, sent
them home to Plymouth. Once before this post had been thus
captured. The Plymouth people were greatly disturbed by the loss.
The French commander threatened to come again the next year,
with eight ships, and to seize all the plantations in that section of the
country which was claimed by the king of France.
Plymouth applied to Massachusetts to co-operate in the
endeavor to recapture the post, and to drive out the French. The
Governor of Plymouth and Captain Standish were sent to meet the
Massachusetts commissioners. They urged that both colonies were
equally interested in the dislodgement of the French, and that the
expense should be equally borne. But the Massachusetts
commissioners insisted that as the post belonged to Plymouth alone,
that colony ought to defray all the expenses of the expedition. Thus
the negotiation terminated.
Plymouth, thus left to its own resources, hired a vessel, the
Great Hope, of about three hundred tons, well fitted with ordnance.
It was agreed with its commander that he should recapture the post,
and surrender it, with all the trading commodities which were there,
to the agents, who were to accompany him from Plymouth. As his
recompense, he was to receive seven hundred pounds of beaver
skins, to be delivered as soon as he should have accomplished his
task. If he failed, he was to receive nothing.
Thomas Prince was then Governor of Plymouth. He sent Captain
Miles Standish, in their own bark, with about twenty men, to aid,
should it be needful, in the recovery of the post, and to take the
command there, should the post be regained. Captain Standish’s
bark led the way, and piloted the Great Hope into the harbor, on the
Penobscot. He had in his vessel the seven hundred pounds of
beaver, with which to pay for the expedition. But Golding proved a
totally incompetent man, displaying folly almost amounting to
insanity. He would take no advice from Captain Standish. He would
not even allow Captain Standish to summon the post to surrender.
Had this been done, the French would at once have yielded, for they
were entirely unprepared to resist the force sent against them.
Neither would he bring his ship near enough to the post to do any
execution, as without any summons and at a great distance, he
opened a random and harmless fire.
Captain Standish earnestly remonstrated, assuring Golding that
he could lay his ship within pistol shot of the house. As the stupid
creature burned his powder and threw away his shot, the French,
behind an earth-work out of all harm’s reach, made themselves
merry over the futile bombardment. At length Golding became
convinced of his folly, and placed his vessel upon the spot which
Captain Standish had pointed out. Then he ascertained, to the
excessive chagrin of Captain Standish and his party, that he had
expended all his ammunition. The wretch then designed to seize
upon the bark and the beaver skins. But Captain Standish, learning
of this, spread his sails and returned in safety to Plymouth.
The Governor and his assistants in Massachusetts Bay, hearing
of this utter failure of the expedition, became alarmed in reference
to their own safety. They wrote very earnestly to Plymouth, saying:
“We desire that you would, with all convenient speed, send
some man of trust, furnished with instructions from yourselves, to
make such agreement with us about this business, as may be useful
for you and equal for us.”
Captain Standish, with Mr. Prince, was immediately sent to
Massachusetts with full powers to act in accordance with instructions
given them. The negotiations, however, failed; as the Massachusetts
colonists were still not prepared to pay their share of the expense.
The French remained undisturbed on the Penobscot. They carried on
a vigorous trade with the Indians, supplying them abundantly with
muskets and ammunition.
The terrible mortality, which had swept away so many thousand
Indians from the Connecticut, turned the attention of the
Massachusetts colonists again to that beautiful and fertile region.
The Dutch claimed the country. The Plymouth colony claimed it. And
now the Massachusetts colonists were putting in their claim.
Jonathan Brewster, the oldest son of Elder Brewster, was at the head
of the little Plymouth settlement at Windsor. The following extracts
from one of his letters addressed to the authorities at Plymouth, give
a very clear idea of the state of the question at that time. The letter
is dated Matianuck (Windsor), July 6, 1835.
“The Massachusetts men are coming almost daily, some by
water and some by land, who are not yet determined where to
settle, though some have a great mind to the place we are upon,
and which was last bought. Many of them look for that which this
river will not afford, except it be at this place, to be a great town
and have commodious dwellings for many together. I shall do what I
can to withstand them. I hope that they will hear reason; as that we
were here first, and entered with much difficulty and danger, both in
regard of the Dutch and Indians, and bought the land and have
since held here a chargeable possession, and kept the Dutch from
further encroaching, who would else, long ere this, have possessed
all, and kept out all others.
“It was your will that we should use their persons and
messengers kindly; and so we have done, and do daily to your great
charge. For the first company had well nigh starved had it not been
for this house; I being forced to supply twelve men for nine days
together. And those who came last I helped the best we could,
helping them both with canoes and guides. They got me to go with
them to the Dutch, to see if I could procure some of them to have
quiet settling near them; but they did peremptorily withstand them.
Also I gave their goods house-room, according to their earnest
request. What trouble and charge I shall be further at I know not;
for they are coming daily, and I expect those back again from below,
whither they are gone to view the country. All which trouble and
charge we undergo for their occasion, may give us just cause, in the
judgment of all wise and understanding men, to hold and keep that
46
we are settled upon.”
The question was finally settled by treaty, and the Massachusetts
colonists soon planted settlements at Wethersfield, Hartford, and
some other places on the river. There were three dominant nations,
if we may so call them, at this time, in southern New England. The
chiefs of these nations exercised a sort of feudal domination over
many petty tribes. The Wampanoags, under Massasoit, held the
present region of Massachusetts generally. The Narragansets, under
Canonicus, occupied Rhode Island. The Pequots, under Sassacus,
extended their dominion over nearly the whole of Connecticut.
These tribes, powerful and jealous, were almost invariably engaged
in hostilities. Roger Williams estimated the number of Pequots at
thirty thousand souls. They could bring four thousand warriors into
the field. The seat of their chief was at Groton, near New London.
Twenty-six smaller tribes were held in subjection by him. The
Pequots were deemed the most fierce and cruel race of all the tribes
who dwelt in New England.
The Narragansets were a nobler race of men. They somewhat
surpassed the Pequots in numbers, and manifested traits of
character far more generous and magnanimous. They could bring
five thousand warriors into the field. The seat of Canonicus, their
chief, was not far from the present town of Newport.
 The Wampanoags had suffered terribly from the pestilence
which ravaged New England just before the arrival of the Pilgrims.
The number of their warriors had been reduced from over three
thousand to about five hundred. Early in the year 1637 the Pequots
began to manifest decided hostility against the English. There was a
small settlement at Saybrook, near the mouth of the Connecticut
river. As the colonists were at work in the fields, unsuspicious of
danger, a band of Indians fell upon them and killed several men and
women. The Indians retired with loud boastings and threats. Soon
after they came in larger numbers and attacked a fort. Though they
were repelled, their attack was so bold and spirited as to astonish
the English and cause them great alarm.
The Pequots endeavored to make peace with the Narragansets,
that they might enter into an alliance with them against the English.
Not a little ability was displayed in the plan of operations which they
suggested. “We have no occasion to fear,” they said, “the strength of
the English. We need not come to open battle with them. We can set
fire to their houses, shoot their cattle, lie in ambush for them
whenever they go abroad. Thus we can utterly destroy them without
any danger to ourselves. The English will be either starved to death,
or will be compelled to leave the country.”
For a time the Narragansets listened to these representations,
being quite inclined to accept them. The anxiety of the English was
very great. They desired only peace, with the prosperity it would
bring. War and its ruin they greatly deplored.
The Pilgrims did everything which could be done to avoid the
Pequot war; but it was forced upon them. Sassacus was a very
shrewd man, and laid very broad plans for his military operations. He
could summon thousands of warriors who would fall furiously upon
all the scattered settlements, lay them in ashes, and massacre the
inhabitants.
In the year 1634, just after a very flourishing trading post had
been established on the Connecticut river at Windsor, two English
traders, Captains Norton and Stone, ascended the river in a boat,
laden with valuables for the Indian trade, which they intended to
exchange for furs. These traders had eight white boatmen in their
employ. The Indians were peaceful, and they had no apprehensions
of danger. One night, as the boat was moored by the side of the
stream, a band of Indians, with hideous yells, rushed from an
ambush upon them, put every man to death and, having plundered
the boat of all its contents, sunk it in the stream.
These traders were from Massachusetts. This powerful colony
demanded of Sassacus that the murderers should be surrendered to
them, and that payment should be made for the plundered goods.
The bloody deed had been performed at midnight in the glooms of
the forest. There was no survivor to tell the story. Sassacus
fabricated one, very ingeniously, to palm off upon the English. No
one could deny the villany of Captain Hunt, who, some years before,
had kidnapped several Indians and sold them into slavery. Sassacus
declared that Captains Norton and Stone, without any provocation,
had seized two Indians, bound them hand and foot in their boat, and
were about to carry them off, no one knew where.
The friends of these captives crept cautiously along the shore
watching for an opportunity to rescue them. The white men were all
thoroughly armed with swords and muskets, rendering any attempt
to rescue the captives extremely perilous. The right of self-defense
rendered it necessary, in the conflict which would ensue, to kill. In
the darkness of the night they rushed upon the boat which was
drawn up to the shore, killed the white men and released the
captives. He also stated that all the Indians engaged in the affray,
excepting two, had since died of the small-pox.
This plausible story could not be disproved. The magistrates of
Massachusetts, high-minded and honorable men, wished to treat the
Indians not merely with justice, but with humanity. It could not be
denied that, admitting the facts to be as stated by Sassacus, the
Indians had performed a heroic act—one for which they deserved
praise rather than censure. The Governor of Massachusetts therefore
accepted this explanation, and resumed his friendly alliance with the
treacherous Pequots.
Roger Williams, who had taken up his residence in Rhode Island,
had secured the confidence of the Indians to a wonderful degree. He
exposed himself, apparently, to the greatest perils, without any
sense of danger. He had acquired wonderful facility in speaking the
language of the Narragansets, in the midst of whom he dwelt. There
were still so many indications that the Pequots were plotting
hostilities, that the Governor and Council of Massachusetts wrote to
Mr. Williams, urging him to go to the seat of Canonicus, and
dissuade him from entering into any coalition with the Pequots,
should such be in process of formation. This truly good man
immediately left his home and embarked alone, in a canoe, to skirt
the coast of Narraganset Bay, upon his errand of mercy. It is
probable that he made this journey in a birch canoe, paddling his
way over the smooth waters of the sheltered bays. He encountered
many hardships, and many great perils, as occasional storms arose,
dashing the surf upon the shore. After several days of such lonely
voyaging, he reached the royal residence of Canonicus. The
barbarian chieftain was at home, and it so happened that when Mr.
Williams arrived at his wigwam, he found several Pequot warriors
there, who had come on an embassage from Sassacus to engage
the Narragansets in the war.
For three days this bold man remained alone among these
savages, endeavoring, in every way, to thwart the endeavors of the
Pequot warriors. These agents of Sassacus were enraged at Mr.
Williams’ influence in circumventing their plans. They plotted his
massacre, and every night Mr. Williams had occasion to fear that he
would not behold the light of another morning. But Canonicus,
unlettered savage as he was, had sufficient intelligence to appreciate
the fearlessness and true grandeur of character of Mr. Williams. He
dismissed the discomfited Pequots, refusing to enter into any
alliance with them. He renewed his treaty of friendship with the
English, and engaged to send a large party of his warriors to co-
operate with them in repelling the threatened assault of the Pequots.
 The benefits thus conferred upon the English by the efforts of
Mr. Roger Williams were incalculable. Many distant tribes, who were
on the eve of joining Sassacus, alarmed by the defection of the
Narragansets, also withdrew; and thus the Pequots were compelled
to enter upon the war with forces considerably weaker than they had
originally intended. Still they were foes greatly to be dreaded. The
English settlements were now widely scattered, and each was in
itself feeble. The Pequots could marshal four thousand of as fierce
warriors as earth has ever seen. A small bag of pounded corn would
furnish each warrior with food for many days. They could traverse
the forest trails with almost the velocity of the wind. Rushing upon
some unprotected hamlet at midnight, with torch and tomahawk,
they could, in one awful hour, leave behind them but smouldering
ashes and gory corpses. Disappearing, like wolves, in the
impenetrable forest, they could again rush upon any lonely farm-
house, leagues away, and thus, with but little danger to themselves,
spread ruin far and wide. No man in the scattered settlements could
fall asleep at night without the fear that the hideous war-whoop of
the Indian would rouse him and his family to a cruel death before
morning.
The Pequots were continually perpetrating new acts of violence,
while the English, with great forbearance, were doing everything in
their power to avert the open breaking out of hostilities. To add to
the embarrassment of the English they received conclusive evidence
that Captains Norton and Stone, with their boats’ crew, were
wantonly murdered by the Indians, and that the statement of
extenuating circumstances, made by Sassacus, was an entire
fabrication. The forbearance of the English only stimulated the
insolence of the Pequots.
In July 1635, John Oldham ventured on a trading expedition to
the Pequot country. He went as an agent of the Massachusetts
colony, one object being to ascertain the disposition of the savages.
The Indians captured his boat, killed Captain Oldham, horribly
mutilating his body, and the rest of the crew, two or three in
number, were carried off as captives. The time for attempts at
conciliation was at an end. It was resolved to prosecute the war with
all vigor, and so to punish the Pequots as to give them a new idea of
the power of the English, and to present a warning to all the other
savages against the repetition of such outrages.
Plymouth colony furnished fifty soldiers, commanded by Captain
Miles Standish. Massachusetts raised two hundred men. The
settlements on the Connecticut furnished ninety men. The Mohegans
and Narragansets sent to the English camp of rendezvous about two
hundred warriors, promising many more. It was decided to strike the
Pequots a sudden and heavy blow. We cannot here enter into the
details of the fierce and decisive war which ensued.
These military bands rendezvoused on the shores of Narraganset
bay, and commenced a rapid march through the forest. The
Narragansets were exceedingly jubilant in the prospect of inflicting
vengeance upon a foe who had often compelled them to bite the
dust. As they hurried along through the narrow trails towards the
Pequot territory, volunteer Narragansets joined them until five
hundred feathered warriors were in their train.
The Indian guides led them to a strong fort, on the banks of the
river Mystic. A large number of Pequot warriors were assembled
here, quite unapprehensive of the attack which was about to fall
terribly upon them. Silently, in the night the English and the Indians
surrounded them, that there might be no escape.
“And so,” writes Governor Bradford, “assaulted them with great
courage, shooting amongst them, and entering the fort with all
speed. Those that first entered found sharp resistance from the
enemy, who both shot at and grappled with them. Others ran into
their houses, and brought out fire and set them on fire, which soon
took in their mats, and, standing close together, with the wind, all
was quickly in a flame. Thereby more were burned to death than
were otherwise slain. It burned their bow-strings, and rendered
them unserviceable. Those that escaped the fire were slain with the
sword. Some were hewed to pieces, others were run through with
their rapiers, so that they were quickly dispatched, and very few
escaped. It was conceived that they thus destroyed about four
hundred at this time.
“It was a fearful sight to see them thus frying in the fire, the
streams of blood quenching the same, and horrible was the scent
thereof. But the victory seemed a sweet sacrifice, and they gave the
praise thereof to God, who had wrought so wonderfully for them,
thus to give them so speedy a victory over so proud and insulting an
47
enemy.”
“The Narraganset Indians all this while stood round about, but
aloof from all danger, and left the whole execution to the English,
except it were the stopping of any that broke away; insulting over
their enemies in this their ruin and misery, when they were writhing
in the flames. After this service was thus happily accomplished, they
marched to the water side, where they met with some of their
vessels, by which they had refreshing with victuals and other
necessaries.”
The war was continued with vigor, and the Pequot warriors
became nearly exterminated. Sassacus fled to the Mohawks, in New
York. They cut off his head. Thus the war ended. The Pequots were
no longer to be feared. Driven from their homes, they took refuge,
in their dispersion, in different tribes, and this formidable barbaric
nation became extinct.
War is always demoralizing. Many, rioting in its scenes of
carnage and of crime, lose all sense of humanity, and become
desperadoes. After the close of the Pequot war, a young fellow, lusty
and desperate, by the name of Arthur Peach, who had done valiant
service in cutting down the Indians, felt a strong disinclination to
return to the monotony of peaceful life. He became thoroughly
dissolute, a wild adventurer, ripe for any crime. To escape the
consequences of some of his misdeeds, he undertook, with three
boon companions, as bad as himself, to escape to the Dutch colony
at the mouth of the Hudson. As they were travelling through the
woods they stopped to rest, and, kindling a fire, sat down to smoke
their pipes. An Indian came along, who had a quantity of wampum,
which had become valuable as currency, recognized by all the tribes.
They invited him to sit down and smoke with them. As they were
thus smoking together, Peach said to his companions that he meant
to kill the Indian, “for the rascal,” said he, “has undoubtedly killed
many white men.” The Indian, who did not understand English, was
unsuspicious of danger. Peach, watching his opportunity, thrust his
sword through his body once or twice, and taking from him his
wampum and some other valuables, he and his companions hurried
on their way, leaving him as they supposed, dead.
Though mortally wounded, the Indian so far revived as to reach
some of his friends, when, having communicated to them the facts
of the murder, he died. The men were all arrested. The proof was so
positive that they made no denial of their guilt. They were all
condemned, and three were executed, one having made his escape.
Francis Baylies, commenting upon this occurrence, writes:
“This execution is an undeniable proof of that stern sense of
duty which was cherished by the Pilgrims. To put three Englishmen
to death for the murder of one Indian, without compulsion, or
without any apprehension of consequences, for it does not appear
that any application was made on the part of the Indians, for the
punishment of the murderers, and they might have been pacified by
the death of one, and probably even without that, denotes a degree
of moral culture unknown in new settlements. It stands in our annals
without a parallel instance. The truth of the fact is avouched by all
our early historians, and it stands an eternal and imperishable
monument of stern, unsparing, inflexible justice. And, in all
probability it was not without its earthly reward, for the Indians,
convinced of the justice of the English, abstained from all attempts
48
to avenge their wrongs, by their own acts, for many years.”
The Plymouth colonists were still much embarrassed in
consequence of their relations with their partners in England, to
whom they were still considerably indebted. The agent of the
company there wrote that he could not make up his accounts, unless
some one from the colony should come over to England to aid him;
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