Reign of Terror- the Forgotten Historic War

By J. Elizabeth Kraft

Who survived the #1 most devastating war, per capita, in American history?

How did they do it?

This is your forgotten history. This unique moment in time, out of tragedy, shaped a new nation with the freedom that milliions are willing to risk their lives of their families to come to.

And so, your story begins: About 40 years after the landing of the Mayflower , young newly weds - William and Judith - head into the Connecticut wildness to start their new home...unaware that the most violent war in American history will overtake them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462853816

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Copyright © 2011 by J. Elizabeth Kraft.

ISBN:       Ebook                        978-1-4628-5381-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

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Contents

Preface

Chapter 1:    Philip’s Grief

Chapter 2:    Pledge for Revenge

Chapter 3:    William Meets Judith

Chapter 4:    Church Prophecy

Chapter 5:    Engagement

Chapter 6:    Wedding

Chapter 7:    War Plans

Chapter 8:    Homesite

Chapter 9:    Training Day

Chapter 10:  Taunton

Chapter 11:  House Raising

Chapter 12:  Baby

Chapter 13:  More Allies

Chapter 14:  John Sassamon

Chapter 15:  Renewed Treaty

Chapter 16:  Baron de Castine

Chapter 17:  The Murder

Chapter 18:  Jury Trial

Chapter 19:  War

Chapter 20:  Archangel

Chapter 21:  Flower of Essex

Chapter 22:  Sara

Chapter 23:  Great Swamp Fight

Chapter 24:  Starvation

Chapter 25:  Great Falls Massacre

Chapter 26:  Ambush

In memory of my mom, who spent 40 years researching King Philip’s war

I wish to thank the Xlibris staff; Marco Nepomuceno, Sherwin Soy, Gian Duterte, Pierre Pobre, Marie Jakobs, for their prompt and excellent help in getting this book ready for publishing.

Also, I would like to thank all of you helping me with

your support. It would take another book to list you all.

I hope you realize how important you are to this book.

J. Elizabeth Kraft

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Preface

This story takes place about forty years after the landing of the Mayflower. Young newlyweds, William and Judith, head into the Connecticut River wilderness to start their new home, unaware they will be overtaken by King Philip’s Indian War.

The Indian chief, nicknamed King Philip, started the war to avenge his brother’s death, believing the white settlers poisoned him. Recent archeology findings reveal his brother actually died from appendicitis.

It is the worst war, per capita, in American history and took place during 1675-1676. By ambush, attack, scatter and hide, the Indians very nearly succeeded in annihilating the English settlers. This unique moment in time changed history.

Since the Indians had no written language and the settlers had no dictionary to draw on, the story is told in a more reader friendly way to support the driving thesis of the story . . . universal revenge, love, home, family and survival.

This novel gives both sides of the war woven with the early recordings of their cultures, customs, and human emotions of love, laughter, and tragedy of their times (and ours.)

Actually the historical story of this forgotten war was started by my mother, Farrie B. Johnston. Being born in New Hampshire, she was familiar with the area and did forty years of research. After her death, I did research to verify her work, took a college course on writing, and finished it for her.

Chapter 1

Philip’s Grief

About forty years after the landing of the Mayflower, young newlyweds, William and Judith, set out to the Connecticut wilderness to build their new home, unaware the most violent war, per capita, in American history would overtake them.

The war destined to be called King Philip’s War was fueled by revenge, language barriers, and misunderstandings. The disastrous war was at its conception in 1662 on a hot July day in the New England colony of Plymouth.

The tall, thin, and craggy-faced twenty-one-year-old Philip sat listening to his handsome older brother, the Indian chief Wamsutta, joke and banter with his warriors after a long hunting trip. Philip’s eyes narrowed jealously at the easy way Wamsutta chatted with his warriors; being more of a loner, he felt left out, especially when they teased him unmercifully about his looks and virginity.

They heard the dogs barking, the clicking of metal, then the bearskin doorway of the Indian lodge was unceremoniously thrust aside, and a grim-faced English major strode in, followed by his soldiers.

In spite of the hot July day, the soldiers wore stout buff coats of undressed leather with steel cuirasses and gorgets. They carried cumbersome muskets; sniffed disapprovingly at the musty smell of smoke, sweat, and fish; and, from under their steel helmets, their eyes surveyed the furs and pottery scattered throughout the darkened room and looked contemptuously at the Indians.

Chief Wamsutta, you have been summoned to appear at the Plymouth court to answer rumors about instigating trouble! You are to leave with us now! the English major ordered.

No! I refuse to go! We’ve just returned from a hunting trip, and we are tired and hungry, angrily replied Wamsutta, rising up to confront the major. You would not have treated my father this way!

"We greatly respected your father, Chief Massasoit; your father saved our lives. When our elders landed on Plymouth Rock off the Mayflower, he showed them how to plant corn and survive the bad winters here. Pilgrims, in turn, protected your tribes against your enemies with our weapons. The treaty between them has lasted these forty years.

And we will respect you too if you work with the white man. We’ve heard rumors that you are trying to break the treaty. Come with us, and you will be respectfully treated, but you’ll die on the spot if you do not! The major aimed his musket at Wamsutta.

The tall, burly, and warmhearted Indian scout, Captain Benjamin Church, was concerned and took off his hat. He knew how hot-tempered Wamsutta was, and he intervened, adding his own words to be translated. Go with them, Wamsutta, and find out what they want. It’s better to have some inconvenience than serious trouble with them.

Philip, with fearful brown eyes, also urged his brother to go with the soldiers to Plymouth. Wamsutta saw that all the Indian weapons, the tomahawks, bows and arrows, and muskets left outside the door had been taken, and now any resistance would be useless. He felt caged!

Philip watched as his stalwart older brother departed from the lodge, walking ahead of his warriors. Little did he know that Wamsutta, only a few days later, after he was cleared of wrongdoing, would be brought back to his village desperately ill.

Their medicine man prayed to the spirit who cured the sick and wounded to come help him. But Wamsutta continued to twist in agony, and perspiration covered his contorted face. Wamsutta was unable to keep his long legs straight. He moaned and groaned in a fetal position, his hands clutching his stomach.

Crying in anguish, Philip leaned over his brother. My loving brother, my loving brother. Many do I love, but none like you. Wamsutta’s wife, Weetamoe, was kneeling and weeping beside him.

The Powah’s prayers were all in vain, for even as he exhorted the evil sickness to leave, Philip heard the death rattle in his brother’s throat. Wamsutta’s head fell back, and his spirit left him. Philip’s heart sank with grief as Weetamoe clung to his brother.

Wamsutta was dressed in his finest clothing and placed sitting in the grave, inside planks arranged to resemble a chest. His tomahawk, bows and arrows, wooden carved animals, and food were put into the grave beside him so he would not be lonely or hungry on his way to the spirit world.

Weeping and wailing, the tribe threw their most-prized possessions into the grave. Weetamoe threw in her wampum and the jewelry adorning her hair, neck, and arms. Philip threw in his favorite possessions . . . but kept his tomahawk.

After hanging Wamsutta’s finest fur coat on the limb of the spreading oak tree, the tribe fenced the grave with poles to keep out the wolves. The tribe left, leaving him with the sounds of the forest as his requiem. From that moment on, Wamsutta’s name was never spoken again.

Chapter 2

Pledge for Revenge

His name was never spoken again, but Philip could not forget his older brother. He returned to the gravesite and slumped down on his knees.

What will I do without you? Tears flowed down and made channels on the wide strip of black ash spread across his face. You were always there to guide me. I’m so sorry I urged you to go with the soldiers. Oh, why did I urge you to go? Was I still jealous and angry with you and wished you dead? Why didn’t I go with you? Philip lamented.

After a long time, the slender young Philip stood up and cried no more. With a grim face, he raised his tomahawk high into the air in anger and spoke over the grave defiantly.

From the sight of your tortured death, I know the English poisoned you, and I vow to avenge you so you will have peace in the land of the shade. I will take up my tomahawk. No matter how long it takes, I will drive the white men out into the sea.

And so Philip, the new young chief of the Mount Hope Pokanokets, went from tribe to tribe to gain support for a war against the whites. He sought help from Canonchet, chief of the Narragansetts, the largest and wealthiest tribe.

Take up the tomahawk and join me.

I need time to consult my councilors as I am concerned with what is best for my people. If we join you, we will need time to gather more warriors, weapons, wampum, and supplies.

And it must be done in secret as the settlers are twice as many and ever on the alert, warned Philip.

Not all tribes would join. One old chief said, You will all die as the whites are too many with too many weapons. When I was young, I sought revenge for wrongs done, but now I refuse to bring about my own ruin.

Weetamoe returned to be queen of her own tribe and eventually remarried. Weetamoe’s new husband, Chief Peter, was very friendly with the whites. A year or so after that, Philip married Weetamoe’s sister.

Later Philip made a visit to his sister-in-law, Weetamoe, to again urge her and her tribe into joining him in a war against the whites. He found her sitting under a big oak tree working on a band of wampum. She was proud and always took care to dress herself as neatly as the white gentry. She decorated her hair and wore make up, colorful necklaces, and bracelets.

No, do not get up, Weetamoe. I will sit down beside you. I see you are busy stringing the white, black, and purple shell beads into wampum. Philip went on to flatter her, And you look lovely today with your jeweled earrings and many bracelets and necklaces.

Weetamoe smiled at Philip and called out to her handmaiden, Get Philip a tray of food! After Philip had eaten, she called out to her handmaiden again, Now, get Philip a pipe and some tobacco.

After a while, Philip spoke, "I went to the hunting lodge of the one who was chief before me, and his spirit spoke to me as I slept beneath its roof.

His spirit said, ‘When my father was sick, the elder Winslow traveled many miles through snow to bring him broth to cure him. But Elder Winslow’s son betrayed me. His medicine man poisoned me. You saw me leave my hunting lodge well and strong. You saw me brought back poisoned, sick, and broken. Brother, I cannot rest until I am avenged!’

Weetamoe’s face darkened. "Yes, I believe the whites poisoned him.

Philip, we share a deep loss, Weetamoe confided in a low melancholy tone. I still miss the smell of your brother’s hair and the warmth of his arms around me at night. He always made me feel loved, safe, and secure."

Philip added sorrowfully, I miss his laughter and his jovial way with our people. Time has not lessened my pain. I was angry at him for teasing me, and I shall always feel sorrow and guilt deep in my heart that I urged him to go with the white men. Then he raised his voice in anger. "I will not rest until I have avenged his death.

The spirit of my brother told me to avenge him, and I will. I have sent my councilors to the north, south, east, and west to ask tribes to join me. Canonchet can put four thousand warriors in a war. He will listen to me because the authorities at Plymouth allowed the death of his father by their enemies, the Mohegans. But he will not join until we have gathered enough allies, weapons, wampum, and supplies. That will take some time.

I, Weetamoe, queen of the Pocassets, pledge my people to join with you and drive out the white men to avenge the death of my beloved first husband, that he may be contented in the land of the shades.

We will need wampum so we can bribe the tribes that are reluctant to join us, and we also need wampum and furs to buy weapons and gunpowder, Philip told her.

My tribe will hunt for furs and plant more corn on our land for extra supplies. And I will have my tribe make wampum from our rare seashells for you to trade with. You have gained much weight and stature since your marriage and the birth of your son. I will also make wampum belts for you to wear at the meetings to show you have matured and are a great chief.

Philip cautioned her, We must keep this a secret.

I agree, Weetamoe said. We cannot tell my new husband for he has always been friendly to the whites. I must find out first if we can trust him.

That is right! We must not tell him of any of our plans.

Philip and Weetamoe stood up. Philip held her hands for a brief time and then left.

Chief Peter, Weetamoe’s second husband, happened to be coming home when he saw from afar Philip holding Weetamoe’s hands.

Chief Peter warned Weetamoe, I heard rumors Philip is plotting war and you are sympathetic to him. Do not see him anymore!

Do not tell me what to do! I am queen of the Pocassets! You are not chief of this tribe. You who are more white than Indian! You visit the whites, you dress like the whites, and you act like the whites. You should be out fishing and hunting to provide food for your Indian wife.

Who are you to be criticizing me about dressing like the whites? You also dress like the whites, with your red stockings, white shoes, powdered hair, and much jewelry.

I only dress this way to show the whites I am as good as their upper society. They have no right to look down on Indians the way they do. I am Indian and proud to be one.

Yes, and you are proud of your sister’s big strapping husband. You are too fond of him. I have seen the way you look at him.

Weetamoe’s mouth clinched as she shook her fist. You! You! Looking around for something to throw, she picked up a covered chamber pot obtained in trade and threw it at him.

He stood dumbfounded, wet, and smelly.

She loudly and harshly repeated, Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do! Go and don’t come back. She turned quickly and strode off angrily, leaving Chief Peter wiping off his face and clothes and getting madder and madder.

Chief Peter couldn’t respond now to his humiliation as he was surrounded by her laughing warriors. But he promised himself revenge as he hurried away down the trail to the river.

Chapter 3

William Meets Judith

The Connecticut River flowed clear and blue in the sunshine of that warm summer day in 1670. A well-built young man wearing a three-cornered colonial hat methodically rowed a small, wide, flat-back boat around the bend of the river’s lakelike expanse. The muscles of his broad shoulders flexed and relaxed in rhythm under his shirt. With a melodic baritone voice, he was singing a ballad as his dog, Wolfer, whom he had raised, sat in front of him. The young man turned in toward the western side and beached upon the river’s pebbly shore.

After jumping from the boat, the dog, with his tail up high, quickly searched and sniffed the area, then peed. When his master whistled, the dog scampered to him, sat on his hunches beside him, and leaned against his master’s leg.

The master, chewing on a grass stem, and his dog, panting with his tongue hanging, surveyed the area and looked across a meadow bright with daisies and buttercups to a stoutly built, weather-stained brown farmhouse. The farmhouse was two stories high in front, with the second story overhanging the lower. Its shingled roof sloped from a sharp gable to a lean-to in the rear, lacking but a span of reaching the ground. The sides were covered by rived clapboards, with casement windows of small diamond-shaped panes.

At one end of the house was an immense chimney, and at the other end, the wide branches of an elm cast long shadows on the grass. Behind the house stood a long-gabled barn, with sleepy-eyed oxen standing in the barnyard; while nearby fat turkeys gobbled, and speckled hens scratched industriously.

Beyond the barn stretched fields of wheat and barley with scattered cocks of new-mown hay. The dog raised his ears and turned his head to hear the ringing of a scythe on a whetstone and smell the sweet scent of newly cut grass.

The tall young man straightened his shirt of dark brown tow linen, took off his hat, smoothed back his hair, and adjusted his queue. Come on, Wolfer, he said, bending down to give his dog an affectionate pat. They crossed the meadow and went to the house, passing the vegetable and flower garden gay with old-fashioned plumed and ragged sailors, sweet-scented garden pinks, phlox, and bouncing pet.

A shaggy sheep dog, lying in the shade of the elm tree, arose barking as a gray kitten frisking among the flowers scurried away. A slim girl not past her seventeenth birthday, fresh and lovely as the New England spring, came to the doorway and tried to hush her dog. When he would not stop barking, she shut him in the house.

She smiled shyly while smoothing her hair and, with a sweet-sounding laugh, said, There, that should take care of him.

The young man was immensely attracted to her small straight nose, red lips, healthy pink cheeks, and the way the sun brought out the red highlights in her chestnut-colored hair worn in a coil at the back of her head. Her gentian-blue dress of heavy linen had a broad white collar, and she wore a long white apron that set off the soft curves of her slender figure. He loved her scent of vanilla and spices.

I am William Dickinson, and I am working for your neighbor, Goodman Hale. He has sent me to ask if some of your brothers would help him with his haying on the morrow.

They are working in the south meadow, she said, pointing in the direction of the hayfield. Her voice was soft, gentle, and low. As her great blue-green eyes held him, he felt himself sinking into their depths.

What is your name?

I am called Judith,

That’s a lovely name. Reluctantly he tore himself away and started for the hayfield. While turning to enter the house, she caught sight of him looking back at her. She paused for a moment and smoothed her apron. He