In one of the homely narratives of the Indian wars in New England,
there is a touching account of the desolation carried into the tribe of
the Pequod Indians. Humanity shrinks from the coldblooded detail of
indiscriminate butchery. In one place we read of the surprisal of an
Indian fort in the night, when the wigwams were wrapped in flames, and
the miserable inhabitants shot down and slain in attempting to escape,
"all being dispatched and ended in the course of an hour." After a
series of similar transactions, "our soldiers," as the historian
piously observes, "being resolved by God's assistance to make a final
destruction of them," the unhappy savages being hunted from their homes
and fortresses and pursued with fire and sword, a scanty but gallant
band, the sad remnant of the Pequod warriors, with their wives and
children, took refuge in a swamp.
Burning with indignation and rendered sullen by despair, with hearts
bursting with grief at the destruction of their tribe and spirits
galled and sore at the fancied ignominy of their defeat, they refused
to ask their lives at the hands of an insulting foe, and preferred
death to submission.
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