The Red King's Horror

By Ernest Stewart

It's the story of the Great Spirits revenge for the massacre of the tribes during "Prince Phillips War" or "The Red Kings Rebellion" of 1675 - 1677. Set in 1702 - 1703 it follows the adventures of a young English lord who is charged with solving the brutal and grisly murders that occur every month on the full moon. Join Captain Sir James Wilson and his trusty servant Patsy as they search old New England for The Red King's Horror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BooxAi
• Release date: Apr 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9789655779523

Book preview

Prologue

Revenge is a dish best served cold! ...Old Apache Proverb

The swamps of eastern Massachusetts

August 12, 1677.

They were closing in on him. Captain Benjamin Church, with a few volunteers and his band of praying Indians, had been chasing the last remnants of the great sachem Metacom's army for months. Metacom, called by the white man The Red King or Prince Philip, had taken to a small island that was mostly swamp, to lick his wounds and gain a little time.

Metacom was weary of the chase and the war that was in its third year. His wife Wootonekanuska and their nine-year-old son had been captured and taken to Plymouth for trial by the white man’s church. There they were tried and found guilty and were sold with other Indians to slavery in the West Indies by the minions of the white man’s god.

Most of the great Indian leaders had been killed or captured. To be captured meant a quick and sure death and mutilation of the body by the English devils. The great sachems Quinnapin, One-eyed John, Sagamore Sam, and Muttawump had all been captured and killed in September. The war that had been forced upon Metacom and the greater New England tribes was running down. As finally, the English King was sending troops.

Charles Stuart had let the tribes take his revenge on the Puritan fathers. When the Puritan’s power had been broken and their towns burnt to the ground, he finally sent troops to restore order. The troops were at least a double-bladed sword. There would be no freedom for the Puritan fathers; many would be forced to move westward like the retreating tribes to get away from the King's justice. Freedom for some would come only after another hundred years and several more bloody wars.

Alderman, the brother of a traitor that Metacom had killed to save his own life and for a handful of silver, had betrayed the Pokanokets to Benjamin Church. While Church's main force crossed to the island, Alderman waited across the river with the rear guard. A misunderstood signal caused the rear guard to open fire prematurely just after dawn.

Metacom, hearing this, jumped up and grabbed his pouch, powder and musket. Wearing only his breeches and stockings, he ran toward the battle sounds. As he came out into the open, he saw Alderman and the rear guard. Metacom screamed a curse at Alderman; as he brought his musket up to slay the traitor. Before he could fire, two balls tore through his chest, one ball tearing through his heart. As Metacom fell to the ground, he locked eyes with Alderman until everything faded to black.

Metacom's body was taken to Plymouth, where it was decreed that his head should be cut off and his body drawn and quartered. His head was set upon a stake for passersby to admire. For nearly 25 years it remained there. Cotton Mather was fond of taking off the jaw of that blasphemous leviathan and mocking him, holding little conversations for the amusement of his fellows. The four separate quarters were hung in trees so that his body could not be hallowed by burial. Alderman was allowed to cut off a hand for a reward and he used it for years to curry favors for drinks.

Anneawon, Metacom's war captain, continued the fight, but within a few months, southern New England was at peace. It would range on in Maine for a while, but with the coming of the English Army, the Wampanoag and other Indian federations were destroyed. This was the end of what the whites would come to call The Red Kings Rebellion or Prince Philips War. All that remained were a few scattered tribes that were busily moving west away from their ancestral homes on the coast.

One night during August of 1702, a shadow approached the spike where the skull of Metacom hung. A moment later the skull was gone.

Wrapping the skull in a cloth the Pokanokets shaman Canonchets made his way out of the torch lights and into the woods. He followed the ancient paths of the forest south toward present day Warren, Rhode Island, back to the village of Metacom's birth.

Canonchets had a vision. The Great Spirit came to him and told him what he must do and how he was to do it. He had been collecting at great cost the remains of Metacom. Although he was missing a hand, Canonchets knew that he had enough for what he must do. It would soon be 25 years since the death of Metacom. Soon the second full moon of September would come, bringing the time for Metacom and the Pokanoket peoples, revenge!

There was barely enough time for Canonchets to make the trip of about 75 miles to the sacred grove near the Pokanoket town of Sowams. Canonchets was very tired. He was nearly 90 years old. He had been a youth when the white Pilgrims had first arrived to stay. Had helped them survive through their first few years. He had become a shaman under the great Pokanoket sachem Massasoit. Massasoit, whose kindness saved the Plymouth colony through all their lean years, had seen the birth and raising of Metacom into manhood. Watched as the whites turned from friendship to the warpath with the coming of the Puritans. Witnessed countless tribes fall or flee from the whites. He had witnessed the death of Massasoit and the rise and murder of Metacom's brother Wamsutta as sachem. Had witnessed Metacom's reluctant rise to become sachem of the Pokanokets.

Canonchets sat at many tribal councils, listening to Metacom try to keep the tribe intact and off the path of war. He supported Metacom with his own remembrances of the Pequot War of 1636-1637. He had tried in vain to keep the young warriors on the peaceful path. Journeyed to the white man’s towns on many occasions with Metacom to talk of peace, all to no avail. The Puritans would say one thing yet do another. They would make a treaty yet break it before the ink was dry. Finally, there came a day when the tribes could take no more and joined together in a federation to face a common foe.

Long was Canonchets witness to the many tribal councils, where sachems and shamans talked all night and day until there was nothing left to say. Until, at last, the only path that lay open, was the path that led to war!

For three years, from 1675 through 1677, the tribes of the northeast made war upon the white devils. Many white towns were burnt to the ground. Many captives taken, then returned for ransom. Unlike the whites, the peoples waged war against only the men. The women and children that were captured were treated well. There was no raping or torture for these captives, while the whites raped and pillaged everywhere they went. Many women and children choose to remain with the tribes when offered their freedom. With the death of Metacom the alliance broke apart and the tribes were scattered or sold into slavery until very few remained.

Canonchets had left Massachusetts and journeyed many moons west to the land of the Shawnee and had lived amongst them in peace on the banks of the Ohio River. In April the dreams had begun to come to Canonchets. Throughout April and May the dreams had come more and more often. On the night of the summer solstices, he had taken the mushrooms of the gods and had a spirit vision. The Great Spirit came to him in the form of a timber wolf, which told him that the time had come for him to return to the land of his ancestors. He taught him the ritual of the bringing forth of the dead. Taught him which herbs to use.

Throughout the heat of August Canonchets struggled down the coast of Massachusetts, past burned out and long abandoned villages that had for centuries sheltered the Pokanokets.

In September he reached Rhode Island and began the long journey north and around Narragansett Bay to Metacom's long destroyed home village of Sowams. Through the cranberry bogs and swamps Canonchets struggled, stopping to rest more often now but somehow always rising to trudge on another mile. Often the Great Spirit would appear by his campfire to give him strength and show him the path that the English could never find. The wolf brought Canonchets rabbits and pheasants and other wild game to the old man’s fire. Towards the end of September Canonchets came at last to the remnants of Sowams and to the sacred grove just beyond.

It was three days until the moon was again full; he had little time and much to do. The Great Spirit came to him that night and nuzzled him awake. He opened his eyes to stare into the deep blue eyes of the timber wolf. The Great Spirit told him many things that night. How the people had come to be, what waited for them in the future and the great plan of man and nature. He also told Canonchets of his death!

Canonchets stayed very busy constructing a bier and gathering all the roots, herbs and minerals from the good earth. As the sun set on the third day, Canonchets bathed himself in a cold brook and donned his finest clothes and feathers. He painted his face in the old ways of his people and began to make ready for the rising of the full moon.

The English Church spread fear of this Blue Moon, as they called it, being that it came before the harvest moon, which was itself a pagan festival that the church had been trying to wipe out for centuries, not a good omen. Satan and his minions were said to be about on such a night as this!

Canonchets built a roaring fire and into a pot, he put his roots, minerals, herbs and blood from a cut he made on his arm. When his potion was ready, he took the pot from the fire and as the moon rose, he poured its contents over the remains of Metacom. When this was done, Canonchets knelt by the bier and chanted the old prayers of the Pokanokets. He recounted the history of his people as the moon rose above the trees. The wind, which had been still, began to pick up and the trees in the sacred grove began to whisper many things to Canonchets. While in this trance, Canonchets wasn't aware of the English soldiers sneaking up behind him. He didn't see the thrust of the sword that pierced his back until it had severed his heart and emerged through his chest. He lurched upward with the thrust and with his dying eyes saw that the wolf had returned for him, and that upon the bier the body of Metacom was beginning to reform itself.

The three English soldiers were busy making jests as they kicked the old man’s body. They could do no more harm to Canonchets. He was already behind them, standing beside the timber wolf. The soldiers began to rifle through Canonchets' meager possessions, so they never noticed Metacom rising from the bier. When they did feel his presence and turned around to look into his blinding blue eyes, it was already far too late. For all of that night, villagers all along the Narragansett Bay shore heard their terrible screams!

CHAPTER 1

October 1702

It was well past sunrise before there was any movement seen inside the village of Northwood, closest to Metacom's resurrection. They had listened to the screaming all night long and it was almost 9 a.m. before anyone dared to go look in the woods by the old Indian village of Sowams. What 15-year-old Ebenezer White found sent him running back to his mother, screaming at the top of his lungs about an Indian massacre of the army. When two elders arrived, they found the three soldiers' heads on stakes: their eyes wide open and focused on a single spot and their mouths in twisted agonized screams.

That spot was the burial pyre of Canonchets. But as for the bodies of Sergeant Jonathan Goodman, Corporal Richard Stuart and Corporal David Mill, all late of the Queen's Light Horse: there was no trace. The grove itself was a bright reddish pink. When they had drunk their fill of the slaughter and had begun to ease their way out of the grove, from out of a clear blue sky came a bolt of lightning striking and setting a blue fire to Canonchets pyre. When other villagers found the elders wandering down by the bay, they were both quite mad, babbling about the heads and blue fire and the voices of a million Indians in a great victory cry. In less than a week they were both dead.

Captain Sir Charles Campbell finished reading the accounts of the Goodman massacre as it was being called and turned to his Lieutenant Sir James Wilson and asked his opinion on the matter, What do you think of this, Sir James?

Well, Sir Charles, I've seen some pretty bad sights in the Indian Wars along the great Inland Sea. I rather doubt that there was anything supernatural involved. What with the recent madness at Salem, I suppose that we, or should I say I, should look into these matters, sir?

Very good, Sir James. I like a volunteer, said Captain Campbell with a grin. Then turning deadly serious, he said, Yes, take your man and see to it at once. Find out who did this and bring them to justice. The crown cannot afford to be seen as uninterested in colonial matters. As well as three members from the Queens Light Horse were brutally murdered; I will not tolerate such outrageous behavior against the Crown! Bring these men to me, Sir James.

I'll pack and leave at once, Sir Charles. Have no fear, sir. I'll hunt them down and bring them back to you. Sounds like a good sport, hunting the most dangerous game, just like on the fields of Eton eh, Sir Charles?

The captain had been a class ahead of the Lieutenant at Eton. Both the sons of Earls, were on the path of rapid promotion as the best and the brightest. Posted to the colonies to seek their fortune in a land of boundless opportunities.

Sir Charles, at the age of 22, found himself fourth in command of her Majesty's troops in New England. In real command, General Hastings or Colonel White seldom left their houses in Manhattan. Or Colonel York in Boston, who was rumored to be suffering some brain fever, leaving all but two companies of the forces in Plymouth under Charles' command. The crown had begun cracking down on the colonies some 25 years before when the Puritans had tried a power play and caused all the trouble with the Indians in what they were now calling the Red Kings Rebellion. Then Charles Stuart had let the Indians teach the Puritans a few lessons before stepping in to seize the colonies.

Lieutenant Sir James Wilson, at the age of 21, had just returned from the wilderness. He had spent the last two years mapping in upstate New York and into the Ohio territory. After making his report to the Colonel and the Queen's representative, he was reassigned to Plymouth. He had just settled into the comforts of town when he was called back to duty.

One other thing Sir James. Colonel White sends word that the Crown has turned its eye your way and a Captaincy is being made ready for you when you return. So, look sharp, Sir James, and return quickly with some answers.

Well, at least that's some good news, Sir Charles. I'll have the cutthroats responsible on your doorstep within a fortnight. I'll take the new post road to Providence. It's but a day’s ride from there to Northwood. We'll soon put her majesty's fears to rest, said James as he poured a large glass of wine for the captain and himself.

As he handed a glass to Sir Charles, he said, Here's to her Majesty good Queen Anne, long may she reign and far away from here!

Here, here, Sir James, you are wicked! Here's to your health, said Sir Charles!

They drank a few bottles of toasts before Sir James returned to his quarters. First thing bright and early Sir James was awakened by his servant Patsy who had stayed up all night packing the lieutenant’s wardrobe, packing the horses, pouring Sir James' bath, breakfast and a thousand and one other things while the lieutenant slept off the wine. So, by the time he had dressed Sir James, he was dead tired and more than a little hungry. Thinking to stop at the cook’s tent for something to eat and then to sleep in the horse barn, he was much surprised to learn that he was due to ride hard all day behind Sir James halfway to Providence. No time to sleep or eat until sunset. Oh, what a pleasure it is to serve you, Sir James!

It was a full two hours ride out of Plymouth before they passed the last farmstead and entered the wilderness, a wilderness rapidly shrinking as the steady stream of immigrants, indentured servants, prisoners and the like arrived in the colonies fast growing ports. Commerce along the seaboard from Maine to the Carolinas was booming with manufactured goods, people and now black slaves coming from Europe. The colonies shipping sugar, cotton, tobacco, and Indian slaves to Europe and to the Caribbean isles.

With the French in New Orleans and Montreal and the Spanish in Florida and their new town of St. Louis, the English were rapidly being surrounded by Europe's other powerful colonial empires. There had been five years of peace between France and England since the end of the Nine Years War of 1689 - 1697. This occurred when Louis the XIV of France tried to reseat Catholic James II on the English throne against Protestant Mary Stuart and her husband William of Orange. Now Louis had gone to Spain as an ally in what they were now calling The War of Spanish Succession. When would it end?

On they rode in silence as befitted a Lord and his vassal until that vassal fell asleep and then fell off of his horse and dislocated his shoulder.

I say, Patsy, we'll never make the Inn at this rate, do remount and let’s be off, said Sir James as he turned his horse to ride away but then looked Patsy's way again and said:

Oh, I see, bad luck there, Patsy. You seemed to dislocate your shoulder, old boy.

Getting down from his horse and approaching Patsy from the rear, Sir James grabbed the near feinting Patsy. With a brisk twist of his shoulders, he put the shoulder back in place, causing Patsy to scream very loud before feinting. Patsy awoke several hours later to find himself tied over his horse. He thought to say something but decided to go back to sleep and didn't wake up until they approached the Inn.

I see you're awake, Patsy, said Sir James. As soon as we arrive, see to the horses and then come and attend to me.

Yes, milord, thank you, milord. Oh, and could you untie me, your grace?

The Inn had a wall around it, having been built during the Indian wars and looked more like a fortress than a country inn. Still, to Sir James, its thick walls and feather beds were very welcome in the wilderness; even if this wilderness was fast becoming hard to find this close to the coast, it was hardly the Great Inland Seas.

Next to the Inn was a barn, and behind the barn were the lodges of about thirty or so Praying Indians. Originally, they were allowed to join the white settlers in a number of towns.

They were allowed to keep their farms or orchards for selling out their people to the Puritans and then the English. That time and war was beginning to fade from memory along with the white man’s promises. Their ancestral homeland was either stolen or sold for a pittance. Why they hadn't been sold off into slavery was a thought that crossed Sir James' mind as he handed his reins to the stable boy that appeared from nowhere and dismounted. He untied his man and turned to enter the building while Patsy collapsed on the ground, his legs still being asleep. He was soon on shaky legs and following the boy into the barn.

Sir James entered the inn into the common area, where he stood by the fireplace and absorbed some heat on his backside. Two others, trappers by the looks of them, were sitting at one of two tables drinking beer out of pewter mugs. After a minute a comely looking girl arrived to welcome Sir James, saying her master was away but should be back soon and could she show Sir James to his room or would he like something to eat and drink first? He ordered a bird and bottle and settled into a chair at the other table when she returned with his bottle.

I say lass, said Sir James, as he reached out and grabbed her arm. This wine is French. That could be thought treason in some quarters.

I'm sorry, sir, my master bought two cases from a merchant in Providence.

"I'm only jesting girl; come sit with me and have a glass. Here, what's thy name, my pretty?

Barbara, my good Captain, Barbara Allen indentured servant to Mr. Herbert Appleby until the 12th of May next year.

Well, Barbara Allen, I'm only a Lieutenant, although I shall soon come into a Captaincy. What does one do to pass the time in this wilderness?

I practice my letters and my reading. I've already read seven books. I hope to be a personal maid to a fine Lady in Boston or New York.

That is a lofty goal, but I feel that you may achieve it with the right guidance, said Sir James as he reached for the wine bottle but caressed a bulging breast instead.

Oh, your birds ready, my Lord, said Barbara as she untangled herself from the Lieutenant’s clutches. Causing the trappers who had been watching to turn their heads and grin.

At this time the stable boy entered with Patsy in tow carrying a large bag. They walked past on the way to the Lieutenant's room as Barbara returned carrying the bird, a small turkey that she sat in front of the Lieutenant.

Why this is a foul fowl, have thee no hens or ducks or a fat goose mayhaps, asked the Lieutenant?

Sorry, my Lord, but this is all we have tonight. There is nothing wrong with this bird, said Barbara as she took a knife and sliced deep into the Turkey's breast. After plucking forth a slice of the white meat, she laid it with yams and carrots and a little loaf of bread in front of Sir James.

If thou sayest so fair maiden, I will at least try some for thy sake. But rather, I take thee upon my tongue, dear Barbara than this fowl!

Why speaks thee this way, my Lord?

Know you not maiden?

Tis true, my Lord, that a maiden I am and will remain until my marriage day!

Then sit awhile anyway and help me pass the time. I leave at the sun first gleaming as I must be away to bloody business in Northwood, yet a day’s ride from Providence town. Fetch me another bottle of this traitor's blood, as it is a fitting companion to this foul fowl. And also fetch my servant hence for I must feed him as well.

Off went the girl as the Lieutenant turned his attention back to the turkey breast.

She soon returned with both the bottle and Patsy in tow.

Come sit and gnaw a bone with me, Patsy.

Thank thee, Lord.

Sir James reached forward and, grabbing the turkey, ripped a leg off and tossed it to Patsy, who all but inhaled it.

When you have eaten your fill, Patsy, go and fetch my journal hither, as I've a mind to record today's events.`

Patsy arose and immediately made for Sir James journal, quill and ink bottle. He returned shortly with the same and laid it before Sir James, who had finished his meal and his second bottle of wine. Patsy moved away from the table and stood instead in front of the fire and warmed himself while Sir James made his entry. When he had finished, he dropped his quill and arose from the table. Patsy immediately collected Sir James' property and then led the way to the room where he placed the supplies away and then undressed his master and made the bed ready. When this was done, Sir James bid Patsy good night and fell immediately asleep. Patsy took this cue to take Sir James' boots and made his way back to the barn, but first, he stopped by the common room to see if there was any turkey left. There wasn't, as the trappers made short work of the remains. Patsy did, however, manage a small, overlooked yam.

An hour before dawn the stable boy shook Patsy awake and he was soon seeing to Sir James’s toilet and dressing, so by the time the sun rose, they were leaving the stockade and on the post road once again.

Onward they rode all that morning and into the late afternoon before they came to Providence town. When they arrived in town, Sir James went to the local garrison. There he found the sergeant in charge and made inquiries about Northwood and the massacre. The Sergeant called for the corporal who had actually been on the scene and made preparations to take the corporal and a squad of ten men on the morrow to Northwood.

Once again at dawn Sir James and Patsy, now accompanied by eleven regular dragoons, made their way south by southeast towards the Narragansett Bay shore. There was no broad avenue here. Barely an unrecognizable track that was gone more than present, but fortunately, the Corporal knew the way and late in the afternoon, they arrived at the little village of Northwood. They marched on through the village and into the wood until they came to the old Indian town of Sowams. There was nothing standing now, but even after 30 years you could see that a town had once stood here. Through Sowams they went until they came to the sacred grove. The heads were gone as well as any trace of the bodies.

All that remained was the three stakes the heads had rested on and the ashes of Canonchets pyre.

Alderman took the last swig from the jug and then threw it on the ground. He had been on a twenty-five yearlong drunk. Ever since betraying his people for a handful of silver and the hand of his enemy, the man that the praying Indians called Judas had been telling and retelling his story for a drink to anyone who would listen from Manhattan to Boston. He was a familiar figure in every bar and roadhouse in New England. The mummified hand of Metacom still hung from a leather strap around his neck. Shunned by everyone who knew him except the great moralist and preacher of his time Cotton Mather who knew a good thing when he saw one.

Much like Alderman, Cotton Mather had for years used the story of Metacom for his own advantage, becoming a very powerful man in New England. Had for over twenty years taken friends and important visitors to Metacom's head and using it as a puppet, caused much laughter and gaiety among the drunken rabble of Plymouth. Unfortunately, someone had stolen it under the noses of the town guards.

The praying Indians had become nervous for some reason and had started to spread rumors about the resurrection of Metacom. Although Cotton had tried to get them to see that surely this could not be, no one since Lazarus had ever come back to life, especially after 25 years, but the rumors persisted. When the news of the three soldier's death reached Plymouth, the Indians were seen to become agitated and many had left the town for parts unknown.

Cotton had just finished and published his Magnalia Chrristi Americana where in he droned on and on about how God, in his perfect wisdom, had given these lands to the white folk of Europe as the Indians were not worthy to live in them. Much like his father, Increase Mather, who had just stepped down as president of Harvard University, he saw the Indians and their lands as just some more tools for the white man to use.

Alderman stumbled down the beach toward Plymouth harbor and another boatload of colonists from England, which even now was docking a mile away. Even though he was dead tired, he dared not go to sleep. For the last several months he had been having strange, horrible dreams of his old enemy Metacom. Alderman knew what the praying Indians were saying was true and he had no doubts that Metacom was coming for him!

For as many times as he had thought of throwing Metacom's mummified hand away, his lust for the white man’s liquor always overrode such urges. For without Metacom's hand Alderman was nothing.

With it he was a hero of sorts to the white man and, therefore, important. Important enough or free drinks and copper coins. Once a chief of the Great White Mother had given him a golden sovereign for his tale. He had stayed drunk on that one coin for a month. Yes, more white men were good. For they had never heard his tale, of his heroic stand that saved the entire Massachusetts Bay Colony from Metacom's treachery. For over the years the story had changed with the telling. He had gone from a cowardly traitor to a mighty Sachem who saved hundreds of white captives when he alone dared enter Alderman's camp. He had killed the mighty Metacom and thirty of his best warriors single-handily before setting the white captives free and leading them to safety. Over the years Alderman began to believe this nonsense and told the story with great relish. Only now did the truth come back to haunt him and haunt him it did.

Sometimes even when he was awake, he could just catch the great blue-eyed timber wolf out of his peripheral vision. He even found the beast’s footprints once, though they quickly faded away. When he slept, the nightmares came. From out of the sky came a warrior, and at his back a great host of tribes came. At first, faintly, they called his name alderman...alderman... alderman. If he was lucky, he would awaken, his pulse racing, his heart pounding. If he couldn't escape from the dream, the chants would increase in volume until the whole world shouted ALDERMAN... ALDERMAN... ALDERMAN... ALDERMAN!

He would try and run, but his legs wouldn't move. He was stuck to the ground. When he looked into Metacom's bright blue eyes, he could see the torment that awaited him upon his death. Metacom wore a necklace made up of the 20 silver coins that Alderman had been paid for his treachery. When they came face to face, he would pull off this necklace and throw it at Alderman. The silver coins were like bees that stung him to the bone. He would then take back his hand and then the real horror would begin. Even wide-awake, those thoughts would make him shiver. Often when he awoke, his hands were covered in blood and washed them though he might with water or sand; they would not come clean.

He had walked half a mile and when he looked up, the wolf was there standing