DEERFIELD.
Hertel de Rouville.—A Frontier Village.—Rev1. John Williams.—The Surprise.—Defence of the Stebbins House.—Attempted Rescue.—The Meadow Fight.—The Captives.—The Northward3 March.—Mrs. Williams killed.—The Minister's Journey.—Kindness of Canadians.—A Stubborn Heretic.—Eunice Williams.—Converted Captives.—John Sheldon's Mission.—Exchange of Prisoners.—An English Squaw.—The Gill Family
[Pg 55]About midwinter the governor of Canada sent another large war-party against the New England border. The object of attack was an unoffending hamlet, that from its position could never be a menace to the French, and the destruction of which could profit them nothing. The aim of the enterprise was not military, but political. "I have sent no war-party towards Albany," writes Vaudreuil, "because we must do nothing that might cause a rupture6 between us and the Iroquois; but we must keep things astir in the direction of Boston, or else the Abenakis will declare for the English." In short, the object was fully7 to commit these savages8 to hostility[Pg 56] against New England, and convince them at the same time that the French would back their quarrel.[53]
The party consisted, according to French accounts, of fifty Canadians and two hundred Abenakis and Caughnawagas,—the latter of whom, while trading constantly with Albany, were rarely averse10 to a raid against Massachusetts or New Hampshire.[54] The command was given to the younger Hertel de Rouville, who was accompanied by four of his brothers. They began their march in the depth of winter, journeyed nearly three hundred miles on snow-shoes through the forest, and approached their destination on the afternoon of the twenty-eighth of February, 1704. It was the village of Deerfield, which then formed the extreme northwestern frontier of Massachusetts,—its feeble neighbor, the infant settlement of Northfield, a little higher up the Connecticut, having been abandoned during the last war. Rouville halted his followers11 at a place now called Petty's Plain, two miles from the village; and here, under the shelter of a pine forest, they all lay hidden, shivering with cold,—for they dared not make fires,—and hungry as wolves, for their provisions were spent. Though their numbers, by the lowest account, were nearly[Pg 57] equal to the whole population of Deerfield,—men, women, and children,—they had no thought of an open attack, but trusted to darkness and surprise for an easy victory.
Deerfield stood on a plateau above the river meadows, and the houses—forty-one in all—were chiefly along the road towards the villages of Hadley and Hatfield, a few miles distant. In the middle of the place, on a rising ground called Meeting-house Hill, was a small square wooden meeting-house. This, with about fifteen private houses, besides barns and sheds, was enclosed by a fence of palisades eight feet high, flanked by "mounts," or blockhouses, at two or more of the corners. The four sides of this palisaded enclosure, which was called the fort, measured in all no less than two hundred and two rods, and within it lived some of the principal inhabitants of the village, of which it formed the centre or citadel12. Chief among its inmates13 was John Williams, the minister, a man of character and education, who, after graduating at Harvard, had come to Deerfield when it was still suffering under the ruinous effects of King Philip's War, and entered on his ministry14 with a salary of sixty pounds in depreciated15 New England currency, payable16, not in money, but in wheat, Indian-corn, and pork.[55] His parishioners built him a house, he married, and had now eight children, one of whom was absent with friends at[Pg 58] Hadley.[56] His next neighbor was Benoni Stebbins, sergeant17 in the county militia18, who lived a few rods from the meeting-house. About fifty yards distant, and near the northwest angle of the enclosure, stood the house of Ensign John Sheldon, a framed building, one of the largest in the village, and, like that of Stebbins, made bullet-proof by a layer of bricks between the outer and inner sheathing19, while its small windows and its projecting upper story also helped to make it defensible.
The space enclosed by the palisade, though much too large for effective defence, served in time of alarm as an asylum20 for the inhabitants outside, whose houses were scattered,—some on the north towards the hidden enemy, and some on the south towards Hadley and Hatfield. Among those on the south side was that of the militia captain, Jonathan Wells, which had a palisade of its own, and, like the so-called fort, served as an asylum for the neighbors.
These private fortified21 houses were sometimes built by the owners alone, though more often they were the joint22 work of the owners and of the inhabitants, to whose safety they contributed. The palisade fence that enclosed the central part of the village was made under a vote of the town, each inhabitant being required to do his share; and as they were greatly impoverished23 by the last war, the General Court of the province remitted24 for a time a part of[Pg 59] their taxes in consideration of a work which aided the general defence.[57]
Down to the Peace of Ryswick the neighborhood had been constantly infested25 by scalping-parties, and once the village had been attacked by a considerable force of French and Indians, who were beaten off. Of late there had been warnings of fresh disturbance26. Lord Cornbury, governor of New York, wrote that he had heard through spies that Deerfield was again to be attacked, and a message to the same effect came from Peter Schuyler, who had received intimations of the danger from Mohawks lately on a visit to their Caughnawaga relatives. During the autumn the alarm was so great that the people took refuge within the palisades, and the houses of the enclosure were crowded with them; but the panic had now subsided28, and many, though not all, had returned to their homes. They were reassured29 by the presence of twenty volunteers from the villages below, whom, on application from the minister, Williams, the General Court had sent as a garrison30 to Deerfield, where they were lodged31 in the houses of the villagers. On the night when Hertel de Rouville and his band lay hidden among the pines there were in all the settlement a little less than three hundred souls, of whom two hundred and sixty-eight were inhabitants, twenty were yeomen soldiers of the garrison, two were visitors[Pg 60] from Hatfield, and three were negro slaves. They were of all ages,—from the Widow Allison, in her eighty-fifth year, to the infant son of Deacon French, aged32 four weeks.[58]
Heavy snows had lately fallen and buried the clearings, the meadow, and the frozen river to the depth of full three feet. On the northwestern side the drifts were piled nearly to the top of the palisade fence, so that it was no longer an obstruction33 to an active enemy.
As the afternoon waned34, the sights and sounds of the little border hamlet were, no doubt, like those of any other rustic35 New England village at the end of a winter day,—an ox-sledge36 creaking on the frosty snow as it brought in the last load of firewood, boys in homespun snowballing one another in the village street, farmers feeding their horses and cattle in the barns, a matron drawing a pail of water with the help of one of those long well-sweeps still used in some remote districts, or a girl bringing a pail of milk from the cow-shed. In the houses, where one room served as kitchen, dining-room, and parlor37, the housewife cooked the evening meal, children sat at their bowls of mush and milk, and the men of the family, their day's work over, gathered about the fire, while perhaps some village coquette sat in[Pg 61] the corner with fingers busy at the spinning-wheel, and ears intent on the stammered38 wooings of her rustic lover. Deerfield kept early hours, and it is likely that by nine o'clock all were in their beds. There was a patrol inside the palisade, but there was little discipline among these extemporized39 soldiers; the watchers grew careless as the frosty night went on; and it is said that towards morning they, like the villagers, betook themselves to their beds.
Rouville and his men, savage9 with hunger, lay shivering under the pines till about two hours before dawn; then, leaving their packs and their snow-shoes behind, they moved cautiously towards their prey40. There was a crust on the snow strong enough to bear their weight, though not to prevent a rustling41 noise as it crunched42 under the feet of so many men. It is said that from time to time Rouville commanded a halt, in order that the sentinels, if such there were, might mistake the distant sound for rising and falling gusts43 of wind. In any case, no alarm was given till they had mounted the palisade and dropped silently into the unconscious village. Then with one accord they screeched44 the war-whoop, and assailed45 the doors of the houses with axes and hatchets47.
The hideous48 din4 startled the minister, Williams, from his sleep. Half-wakened, he sprang out of bed, and saw dimly a crowd of savages bursting through the shattered door. He shouted to two soldiers who were lodged in the house; and then, with more valor49 than discretion50, snatched a pistol that hung at the[Pg 62] head of the bed, cocked it, and snapped it at the breast of the foremost Indian, who proved to be a Caughnawaga chief. It missed fire, or Williams would, no doubt, have been killed on the spot. Amid the screams of his terrified children, three of the party seized him and bound him fast; for they came well provided with cords, since prisoners had a market value. Nevertheless, in the first fury of their attack they dragged to the door and murdered two of the children and a negro woman called Parthena, who was probably their nurse. In an upper room lodged a young man named Stoddard, who had time to snatch a cloak, throw himself out of the window, climb the palisade, and escape in the darkness. Half-naked as he was, he made his way over the snow to Hatfield, binding52 his bare feet with strips torn from the cloak.
They kept Williams shivering in his shirt for an hour while a frightful53 uproar54 of yells, shrieks55, and gunshots sounded from without. At length they permitted him, his wife, and five remaining children to dress themselves. Meanwhile the Indians and their allies burst into most of the houses, killed such of the men as resisted, butchered some of the women and children, and seized and bound the rest. Some of the villagers escaped in the confusion, like Stoddard, and either fled half dead with cold towards Hatfield, or sought refuge in the fortified house of Jonathan Wells.
The house of Stebbins, the minister's next neighbor,[Pg 63] had not been attacked so soon as the rest, and the inmates had a little time for preparation. They consisted of Stebbins himself, with his wife and five children, David Hoyt, Joseph Catlin, Benjamin Church, a namesake of the old Indian fighter of Philip's War, and three other men,—probably refugees who had brought their wives and families within the palisaded enclosure for safety. Thus the house contained seven men, four or five women, and a considerable number of children. Though the walls were bullet-proof, it was not built for defence. The men, however, were well supplied with guns, powder, and lead, and they seem to have found some means of barricading56 the windows. When the enemy tried to break in, they drove them back with loss. On this, the French and Indians gathered in great numbers before the house, showered bullets upon it, and tried to set it on fire. They were again repulsed57, with the loss of several killed and wounded; among the former a Caughnawaga chief, and among the latter a French officer. Still the firing continued. If the assailants had made a resolute58 assault, the defenders59 must have been overpowered; but to risk lives in open attack was contrary to every maxim60 of forest warfare61. The women in the house behaved with great courage, and moulded bullets, which the men shot at the enemy. Stebbins was killed outright62, and Church was wounded, as was also the wife of David Hoyt. At length most of the French and Indians, disgusted with the obstinacy63 of the[Pg 64] defence, turned their attention to other quarters; though some kept up their fire under cover of the meeting-house and another building within easy range of gunshot.
This building was the house of Ensign John Sheldon, already mentioned. The Indians had had some difficulty in mastering it; for the door being of thick oak plank64, studded with nails of wrought65 iron and well barred, they could not break it open. After a time, however, they hacked66 a hole in it, through which they fired and killed Mrs. Sheldon as she sat on the edge of a bed in a lower room. Her husband, a man of great resolution, seems to have been absent. Their son John, with Hannah his wife, jumped from an upper chamber67 window. The young woman sprained68 her ankle in the fall, and lay helpless, but begged her husband to run to Hatfield for aid, which he did, while she remained a prisoner. The Indians soon got in at a back door, seized Mercy Sheldon, a little girl of two years, and dashed out her brains on the door-stone. Her two brothers and her sister Mary, a girl of sixteen, were captured. The house was used for a short time as a depot69 for prisoners, and here also was brought the French officer wounded in the attack on the Stebbins house. A family tradition relates that as he lay in great torment70 he begged for water, and that it was brought him by one of the prisoners, Mrs. John Catlin, whose husband, son, and infant grandson had been killed, and who, nevertheless, did all in her power to relieve the[Pg 65] sufferings of the wounded man. Probably it was in recognition of this charity that when the other prisoners were led away, Mrs. Catlin was left behind. She died of grief a few weeks later.
The sun was scarcely an hour high when the miserable71 drove of captives was conducted across the river to the foot of a mountain or high hill. Williams and his family were soon compelled to follow, and his house was set on fire. As they led him off he saw that other houses within the palisade were burning, and that all were in the power of the enemy except that of his neighbor Stebbins, where the gallant72 defenders still kept their assailants at bay. Having collected all their prisoners, the main body of the French and Indians began to withdraw towards the pine forest, where they had left their packs and snow-shoes, and to prepare for a retreat before the country should be roused, first murdering in cold blood Marah Carter, a little girl of five years, whom they probably thought unequal to the march. Several parties, however, still lingered in the village, firing on the Stebbins house, killing73 cattle, hogs74, and sheep, and gathering75 such plunder76 as the place afforded.
Early in the attack, and while it was yet dark, the light of burning houses, reflected from the fields of snow, had been seen at Hatfield, Hadley, and Northampton. The alarm was sounded through the slumbering77 hamlets, and parties of men mounted on farm-horses, with saddles or without, hastened to the rescue, not doubting that the fires were kindled78 by[Pg 66] Indians. When the sun was about two hours high, between thirty and forty of them were gathered at the fortified house of Jonathan Wells, at the southern end of the village. The houses of this neighborhood were still standing79, and seem not to have been attacked,—the stubborn defence of the Stebbins house having apparently80 prevented the enemy from pushing much beyond the palisaded enclosure. The house of Wells was full of refugee families. A few Deerfield men here joined the horsemen from the lower towns, as also did four or five of the yeoman soldiers who had escaped the fate of most of their comrades. The horsemen left their horses within Wells's fence; he himself took the lead, and the whole party rushed in together at the southern gate of the palisaded enclosure, drove out the plunderers, and retook a part of their plunder. The assailants of the Stebbins house, after firing at it for three hours, were put to flight, and those of its male occupants who were still alive joined their countrymen, while the women and children ran back for harborage to the house of Wells.
Wells and his men, now upwards81 of fifty, drove the flying enemy more than a mile across the river meadows, and ran in headlong pursuit over the crusted snow, killing a considerable number. In the eagerness of the chase many threw off their overcoats, and even their jackets. Wells saw the danger, and vainly called on them to stop. Their blood was up, and most of them were young and inexperienced.
[Pg 67]Meanwhile the firing at the village had been heard by Rouville's main body, who had already begun their retreat northward. They turned back to support their comrades, and hid themselves under the bank of the river till the pursuers drew near, when they gave them a close volley and rushed upon them with the war-whoop. Some of the English were shot down, and the rest driven back. There was no panic. "We retreated," says Wells, "facing about and firing." When they reached the palisade they made a final stand, covering by their fire such of their comrades as had fallen within range of musket-shot, and thus saving them from the scalping-knife. The French did not try to dislodge them. Nine of them had been killed, several were wounded, and one was captured.[59]
The number of English carried off prisoners was one hundred and eleven, and the number killed was according to one list forty-seven, and according to[Pg 68] another fifty-three, the latter including some who were smothered82 in the cellars of their burning houses. The names, and in most cases the ages, of both captives and slain83 are preserved. Those who escaped with life and freedom were, by the best account, one hundred and thirty-seven. An official tabular statement, drawn84 up on the spot, sets the number of houses burned at seventeen. The house of the town clerk, Thomas French, escaped, as before mentioned, and the town records, with other papers in his charge, were saved. The meeting-house also was left standing. The house of Sheldon was hastily set on fire by the French and Indians when their rear was driven out of the village by Wells and his men; but the fire was extinguished, and "the Old Indian House," as it was called, stood till the year 1849. Its door, deeply scarred with hatchets, and with a hole cut near the middle, is still preserved in the Memorial Hall at Deerfield.[60]
Vaudreuil wrote to the minister, Ponchartrain, that the French lost two or three killed, and twenty or twenty-one wounded, Rouville himself being among the latter. This cannot include the Indians, since there is proof that the enemy left behind a considerable number of their dead. Wherever resistance[Pg 69] was possible, it had been of the most prompt and determined85 character.[61]
Long before noon the French and Indians were on their northward march with their train of captives. More armed men came up from the settlements below, and by midnight about eighty were gathered at the ruined village. Couriers had been sent to rouse the country, and before evening of the next day (the first of March) the force at Deerfield was increased to two hundred and fifty; but a thaw86 and a warm rain had set in, and as few of the men had snow-shoes, pursuit was out of the question. Even could the agile87 savages and their allies have been overtaken, the probable consequence would have been the murdering of the captives to prevent their escape.
In spite of the foul88 blow dealt upon it, Deerfield was not abandoned. Such of its men as were left were taken as soldiers into the pay of the province, while the women and children were sent to the villages below. A small garrison was also stationed at the spot, under command of Captain Jonathan Wells, and thus the village held its ground till the storm of war should pass over.[62]
[Pg 70]We have seen that the minister, Williams, with his wife and family, were led from their burning[Pg 71] house across the river to the foot of the mountain, where the crowd of terrified and disconsolate89 captives—friends, neighbors, and relatives—were already gathered. Here they presently saw the fight in the meadow, and were told that if their countrymen attempted a rescue, they should all be put to death. "After this," writes Williams, "we went up the mountain, and saw the smoke of the fires in town, and beheld90 the awful desolation of Deerfield; and before we marched any farther they killed a sucking child of the English."
The French and Indians marched that afternoon only four or five miles,—to Greenfield meadows,—where they stopped to encamp, dug away the snow, laid spruce-boughs on the ground for beds, and bound fast such of the prisoners as seemed able to escape. The Indians then held a carousal91 on some liquor they had found in the village, and in their drunken rage murdered a negro man belonging to Williams. In spite of their precautions, Joseph Alexander, one of the prisoners, escaped during the night, at which they were greatly incensed92; and Rouville ordered Williams to tell his companions in misfortune that if any more of them ran off, the rest should be burned alive.[63]
The prisoners were the property of those who had[Pg 72] taken them. Williams had two masters, one of the three who had seized him having been shot in the attack on the house of Stebbins. His principal owner was a surly fellow who would not let him speak to the other prisoners; but as he was presently chosen to guard the rear, the minister was left in the hands of his other master, who allowed him to walk beside his wife and help her on the way. Having borne a child a few weeks before, she was in no condition for such a march, and felt that her hour was near. Williams speaks of her in the strongest terms of affection. She made no complaint, and accepted her fate with resignation. "We discoursed," he says, "of the happiness of those who had God for a father and friend, as also that it was our reasonable duty quietly to submit to his will." Her thoughts were for her remaining children, whom she commended to her husband's care. Their intercourse93 was short. The Indian who had gone to the rear of the train soon returned, separated them, ordered Williams to the front, "and so made me take a last farewell of my dear wife, the desire of my eyes and companion in many mercies and afflictions." They came soon after to Green River, a stream then about knee-deep, and so swift that the water had not frozen. After wading94 it with difficulty, they climbed a snow-covered hill beyond. The minister, with strength almost spent, was permitted to rest a few moments at the top; and as the other prisoners passed by in turn, he questioned each for news of his wife. He was not[Pg 73] left long in suspense95. She had fallen from weakness in fording the stream, but gained her feet again, and, drenched96 in the icy current, struggled to the farther bank, when the savage who owned her, finding that she could not climb the hill, killed her with one stroke of his hatchet46. Her body was left on the snow till a few of her townsmen, who had followed the trail, found it a day or two after, carried it back to Deerfield, and buried it in the churchyard.
The Return from Deerfield.
Drawn by Howard Pyle. The Return from Deerfield.
Drawn by Howard Pyle.
On the next day the Indians killed an infant and a little girl of eleven years; on the day following, Friday, they tomahawked a woman, and on Saturday four others. This apparent cruelty was in fact a kind of mercy. The victims could not keep up with the party, and the death-blow saved them from a lonely and lingering death from cold and starvation. Some of the children, when spent with the march, were carried on the backs of their owners,—partly, perhaps, through kindness, and partly because every child had its price.
On the fourth day of the march they came to the mouth of West River, which enters the Connecticut a little above the present town of Brattleboro'. Some of the Indians were discontented with the distribution of the captives, alleging97 that others had got more than their share; on which the whole troop were mustered98 together, and some changes of ownership were agreed upon. At this place dog-trains and sledges99 had been left, and these served to carry their wounded, as well as some of the captive children.[Pg 74] Williams was stripped of the better part of his clothes, and others given him instead, so full of vermin that they were a torment to him through all the journey. The march now continued with pitiless speed up the frozen Connecticut, where the recent thaw had covered the ice with slush and water ankle-deep.
On Sunday they made a halt, and the minister was permitted to preach a sermon from the text, "Hear, all people, and behold100 my sorrow: my virgins101 and my young men are gone into captivity102." Then amid the ice, the snow, the forest, and the savages, his forlorn flock joined their voices in a psalm103.[64] On Monday guns were heard from the rear, and the Indians and their allies, in great alarm, bound their prisoners fast, and prepared for battle. It proved, however, that the guns had been fired at wild geese by some of their own number; on which they recovered their spirits, fired a volley for joy, and boasted that the English could not overtake them.[65] More women fainted by the way and died under the hatchet,—some with pious104 resignation, some with despairing apathy105, some with a desperate joy.
Two hundred miles of wilderness106 still lay between them and the Canadian settlements. It was a waste without a house or even a wigwam, except here and there the bark shed of some savage hunter. At the[Pg 75] mouth of White River, the party divided into small bands,—no doubt in order to subsist107 by hunting, for provisions were fast failing. The Williams family were separated. Stephen was carried up the Connecticut; Samuel and Eunice, with two younger children, were carried off in various directions; while the wretched father, along with two small children of one of his parishioners, was compelled to follow his Indian masters up the valley of White River. One of the children—a little girl—was killed on the next morning by her Caughnawaga owner, who was unable to carry her.[66] On the next Sunday the minister was left in camp with one Indian and the surviving child,—a boy of nine,—while the rest of the party were hunting. "My spirit," he says, "was almost overwhelmed within me." But he found comfort in the text, "Leave thy fatherless children, I will preserve them alive." Nor was his hope deceived. His youngest surviving child,—a boy of four,—though harshly treated by his owners, was carried on their shoulders or dragged on a sledge to the end of the journey. His youngest daughter—seven years old—was treated with great kindness throughout. Samuel and Eunice suffered much from hunger, but were dragged on sledges when too faint to walk. Stephen nearly starved to death; but after eight months in the forest, he safely reached Chambly with his Indian masters.
[Pg 76]Of the whole band of captives, only about half ever again saw friends and home. Seventeen broke down on the way and were killed; while David Hoyt and Jacob Hix died of starvation at Coos Meadows, on the upper Connecticut. During the entire march, no woman seems to have been subjected to violence; and this holds true, with rare exceptions, in all the Indian wars of New England. This remarkable108 forbearance towards female prisoners, so different from the practice of many western tribes, was probably due to a form of superstition109, aided perhaps by the influence of the missionaries110.[67] It is to be observed, however, that the heathen savages of King Philip's War, who had never seen a Jesuit, were no less forbearing in this respect.
The hunters of Williams's party killed five moose, the flesh of which, smoked and dried, was carried on their backs and that of the prisoner whom they had provided with snow-shoes. Thus burdened, the minister toiled111 on, following his masters along the frozen current of White River till, crossing the snowy backs of the Green Mountains, they struck the headwaters of the stream then called French River, now the Winooski, or Onion. Being in great fear of a thaw, they pushed on with double speed. Williams was not used to snow-shoes, and they gave him those painful cramps112 of the legs and ankles called in Canada mal à la raquette. One morning at dawn he was[Pg 77] waked by his chief master and ordered to get up, say his prayers, and eat his breakfast, for they must make a long march that day. The minister was in despair. "After prayer," he says, "I arose from my knees; but my feet were so tender, swollen113, bruised114, and full of pain that I could scarce stand upon them without holding on the wigwam. And when the Indians said, 'You must run to-day,' I answered I could not run. My master, pointing to his hatchet, said to me, 'Then I must dash out your brains and take your scalp.'" The Indian proved better than his word, and Williams was suffered to struggle on as he could. "God wonderfully supported me," he writes, "and my strength was restored and renewed to admiration115." He thinks that he walked that day forty miles on the snow. Following the Winooski to its mouth, the party reached Lake Champlain a little north of the present city of Burlington. Here the swollen feet of the prisoner were tortured by the rough ice, till snow began to fall and cover it with a soft carpet. Bending under his load, and powdered by the falling flakes116, he toiled on till, at noon of a Saturday, lean, tired, and ragged51, he and his masters reached the French outpost of Chambly, twelve or fifteen miles from Montreal.
Here the unhappy wayfarer117 was treated with great kindness both by the officers of the fort and by the inhabitants, one of the chief among whom lodged him in his house and welcomed him to his table. After a short stay at Chambly, Williams and his[Pg 78] masters set out in a canoe for Sorel. On the way a Frenchwoman came down to the bank of the river and invited the party to her house, telling the minister that she herself had once been a prisoner among the Indians, and knew how to feel for him. She seated him at a table, spread a table-cloth, and placed food before him, while the Indians, to their great indignation, were supplied with a meal in the chimney-corner. Similar kindness was shown by the inhabitants along the way till the party reached their destination, the Abenaki village of St. Francis, to which his masters belonged. Here there was a fort, in which lived two Jesuits, directors of the mission, and here Williams found several English children, captured the summer before during the raid on the settlements of Maine, and already transformed into little Indians both in dress and behavior. At the gate of the fort one of the Jesuits met him, and asked him to go into the church and give thanks to God for sparing his life, to which he replied that he would give thanks in some other place. The priest then commanded him to go, which he refused to do. When on the next day the bell rang for mass, one of his Indian masters seized him and dragged him into the church, where he got behind the door, and watched the service from his retreat with extreme disapprobation. One of the Jesuits telling him that he would go to hell for not accepting the apostolic traditions, and trusting only in the Bible, he replied that he was glad to know that Christ was to be his[Pg 79] judge, and not they. His chief master, who was a zealot in his way, and as much bound to the rites5 and forms of the Church as he had been before his conversion118 to his "medicines," or practices of heathen superstition, one day ordered him to make the sign of the cross, and on his refusal, tried to force him. But as the minister was tough and muscular, the Indian could not guide his hand. Then, pulling out a crucifix that hung at his neck, he told Williams in broken English to kiss it; and being again refused, he brandished119 his hatchet over him and threatened to knock out his brains. This failing of the desired effect, he threw down the hatchet and said he would first bite out the minister's finger-nails,—a form of torture then in vogue120 among the northern Indians, both converts and heathen. Williams offered him a hand and invited him to begin; on which he gave the thumb-nail a gripe with his teeth, and then let it go, saying, "No good minister, bad as the devil." The failure seems to have discouraged him, for he made no further attempt to convert the intractable heretic.
The direct and simple narrative122 of Williams is plainly the work of an honest and courageous123 man. He was the most important capture of the year; and the governor, hearing that he was at St. Francis, despatched a canoe to request the Jesuits of the mission to send him to Montreal. Thither124, therefore, his masters carried him, expecting, no doubt, a good price for their prisoner. Vaudreuil, in fact, bought him, exchanged his tattered125 clothes for good ones,[Pg 80] lodged him in his house, and, in the words of Williams, "was in all respects relating to my outward man courteous126 and charitable to admiration." He sent for two of the minister's children who were in the town, bought his eldest127 daughter from the Indians, and promised to do what he could to get the others out of their hands. His youngest son was bought by a lady of the place, and his eldest by a merchant. His youngest daughter, Eunice, then seven or eight years old, was at the mission of St. Louis, or Caughnawaga. Vaudreuil sent a priest to conduct Williams thither and try to ransom128 the child. But the Jesuits of the mission flatly refused to let him speak to or see her. Williams says that Vaudreuil was very angry at hearing of this; and a few days after, he went himself to Caughnawaga with the minister. This time the Jesuits, whose authority within their mission seemed almost to override129 that of the governor himself, yielded so far as to permit the father to see his child, on condition that he spoke130 to no other English prisoner. He talked with her for an hour, exhorting131 her never to forget her catechism, which she had learned by rote27. Vaudreuil and his wife afterwards did all in their power to procure132 her ransom; but the Indians, or the missionaries in their name, would not let her go. "She is there still," writes Williams two years later, "and has forgotten to speak English." What grieved him still more, Eunice had forgotten her catechism.
While he was at Montreal, his movements were[Pg 81] continually watched, lest he should speak to other prisoners and prevent their conversion. He thinks these precautions were due to the priests, whose constant endeavor it was to turn the captives, or at least the younger and more manageable among them, into Catholics and Canadians. The governor's kindness towards him never failed, though he told him that he should not be set free till the English gave up one Captain Baptiste, a noted133 sea-rover whom they had captured some time before.
He was soon after sent down the river to Quebec along with the superior of the Jesuits. Here he lodged seven weeks with a member of the council, who treated him kindly134, but told him that if he did not avoid intercourse with the other English prisoners he would be sent farther away. He saw much of the Jesuits, who courteously135 asked him to dine; though he says that one of them afterwards made some Latin verses about him, in which he was likened to a captive wolf. Another Jesuit told him that when the mission Indians set out on their raid against Deerfield, he charged them to baptize all children before killing them,—such, he said, was his desire for the salvation136 even of his enemies. To murdering the children after they were baptized, he appears to have made no objection. Williams says that in their dread137 lest he should prevent the conversion of the other prisoners, the missionaries promised him a pension from the King and free intercourse with his children and neighbors if he would embrace the[Pg 82] Catholic faith and remain in Canada; to which he answered that he would do so without reward if he thought their religion was true, but as he believed the contrary, "the offer of the whole world would tempt2 him no more than a blackberry."
To prevent him more effectually from perverting138 the minds of his captive countrymen, and fortifying139 them in their heresy140, he was sent to Chateau141 Richer, a little below Quebec, and lodged with the parish priest, who was very kind to him. "I am persuaded," he writes, "that he abhorred142 their sending down the heathen to commit outrages143 against the English, saying it is more like committing murders than carrying on war."
He was sorely tried by the incessant144 efforts to convert the prisoners. "Sometimes they would tell me my children, sometimes my neighbors, were turned to be of their religion. Some made it their work to allure145 poor souls by flatteries and great promises; some threatened, some offered abuse to such as refused to go to church and be present at mass; and some they industriously146 contrived147 to get married among them. I understood they would tell the English that I was turned, that they might gain them to change their religion. These their endeavors to seduce148 to popery were very exercising to me."
After a time he was permitted to return to Quebec, where he met an English Franciscan, who, he says, had been sent from France to aid in converting the prisoners. Lest the minister should counteract149 the[Pg 83] efforts of the friar, the priests had him sent back to Chateau Richer; "but," he observes, "God showed his dislike of such a persecuting150 spirit; for the very next day the Seminary, a very famous building, was most of it burnt down, by a joiner letting a coal of fire drop among the shavings."[68]
The heaviest of all his tribulations151 now fell upon him. His son Samuel, about sixteen years old, had been kept at Montreal under the tutelage of Father Meriel, a priest of St. Sulpice. The boy afterwards declared that he was promised great rewards if he would make the sign of the cross, and severe punishment if he would not. Proving obstinate152, he was whipped till at last he made the sign; after which he was told to go to mass, and on his refusal, four stout153 boys of the school were ordered to drag him in. Williams presently received a letter in Samuel's handwriting, though dictated154, as the father believed, by his priestly tutors. In this was recounted, with many edifying155 particulars, the deathbed conversion of two New England women; and to the minister's unspeakable grief and horror, the messenger who brought the letter told him that the boy himself had turned Catholic. "I have heard the news," he wrote to his recreant156 son, "with the most distressing157, afflicting158, sorrowful spirit. Oh, I pity you, I mourn over you day and night. Oh, I pity your weakness that,[Pg 84] through the craftiness159 of man, you are turned from the simplicity160 of the gospel." Though his correspondence was strictly161 watched, he managed to convey to the boy a long exposition, from his own pen, of the infallible truth of Calvinistic orthodoxy, and the damnable errors of Rome. This, or something else, had its effect. Samuel returned to the creed162 of his fathers; and being at last exchanged, went home to Deerfield, where he was chosen town-clerk in 1713, and where he soon after died.[69]
Williams gives many particulars of the efforts of the priests to convert the prisoners, and his account, like the rest of his story, bears the marks of truth. There was a treble motive163 for conversion: it recruited the Church, weakened the enemy, and strengthened Canada, since few of the converts would peril164 their souls by returning to their heretic relatives. The means of conversion varied165. They were gentle when gentleness seemed likely to answer the purpose. Little girls and young women were placed in convents, where it is safe to assume that they were treated with the most tender kindness by the sisterhood, who fully believed that to gain them to the faith was to snatch them from perdition. But when they or their brothers proved obdurate166, different means were used. Threats of hell were varied by threats of a whipping, which, according to Williams, were often put into execution. Parents were rigorously severed167 from their families; though one Lalande,[Pg 85] who had been sent to watch the elder prisoners, reported that they would persist in trying to see their children, till some of them were killed in the attempt. "Here," writes Williams, "might be a history in itself of the trials and sufferings of many of our children, who, after separation from grown persons, have been made to do as they would have them. I mourned when I thought with myself that I had one child with the Maquas [Caughnawagas], a second turned papist, and a little child of six years of age in danger to be instructed in popery, and knew full well that all endeavors would be used to prevent my seeing or speaking with them." He also says that he and others were told that if they would turn Catholic their children should be restored to them; and among other devices, some of his parishioners were assured that their pastor168 himself had seen the error of his ways and bowed in submission169 to Holy Church.
In midwinter, not quite a year after their capture, the prisoners were visited by a gleam of hope. John Sheldon, accompanied by young John Wells, of Deerfield, and Captain Livingston, of Albany, came to Montreal with letters from Governor Dudley, proposing an exchange. Sheldon's wife and infant child, his brother-in-law, and his son-in-law had been killed. Four of his children, with his daughter-in-law, Hannah,—the same who had sprained her ankle in leaping from her chamber window,—besides others of his near relatives and connections, were[Pg 86] prisoners in Canada; and so also was the mother of young Wells. In the last December, Sheldon and Wells had gone to Boston and begged to be sent as envoys170 to the French governor. The petition was readily granted, and Livingston, who chanced to be in the town, was engaged to accompany them. After a snow-shoe journey of extreme hardship they reached their destination, and were received with courtesy by Vaudreuil. But difficulties arose. The French, and above all the clergy171, were unwilling172 to part with captives, many of whom they hoped to transform into Canadians by conversion and adoption173. Many also were in the hands of the Indians, who demanded payment for them,—which Dudley had always refused, declaring that he would not "set up an Algiers trade" by buying them from their pretended owners; and he wrote to Vaudreuil that for his own part he "would never permit a savage to tell him that any Christian174 prisoner was at his disposal." Vaudreuil had insisted that his Indians could not be compelled to give up their captives, since they were not subjects of France, but only allies,—which, so far as concerned the mission Indians within the colony, was but a pretext175. It is true, however, that the French authorities were in such fear of offending even these that they rarely ventured to cross their interests or their passions. Other difficulties were raised, and though the envoys remained in Canada till late in spring, they accomplished176 little. At last, probably to get rid of their importunities, five prisoners[Pg 87] were given up to them,—Sheldon's daughter-in-law, Hannah; Esther Williams, eldest daughter of the minister; a certain Ebenezer Carter; and two others unknown. With these, Sheldon and his companions set out in May on their return; and soon after they were gone, four young men,—Baker177, Nims, Kellogg, and Petty,—desperate at being left in captivity, made their escape from Montreal, and reached Deerfield before the end of June, half dead with hunger.
Sheldon and his party were escorted homeward by eight soldiers under Courtemanche, an officer of distinction, whose orders were to "make himself acquainted with the country." He fell ill at Boston, where he was treated with much kindness, and on his recovery was sent home by sea, along with Captain Vetch and Samuel Hill, charged to open a fresh negotiation178. With these, at the request of Courtemanche, went young William Dudley, son of the governor.[70]
They were received at Quebec with a courtesy qualified179 by extreme caution, lest they should spy out the secrets of the land. The mission was not very successful, though the elder Dudley had now a good number of French prisoners in his hands, captured in Acadia or on the adjacent seas. A few only of the English were released, including the boy,[Pg 88] Stephen Williams, whom Vaudreuil had bought for forty crowns from his Indian master.
In the following winter John Sheldon made another journey on foot to Canada, with larger powers than before. He arrived in March, 1706, and returned with forty-four of his released countrymen, who, says Williams, were chiefly adults permitted to go because there was no hope of converting them. The English governor had by this time seen the necessity of greater concessions180, and had even consented to release the noted Captain Baptiste, whom the Boston merchants regarded as a pirate. In the same summer Samuel Appleton and John Bonner, in the brigantine "Hope," brought a considerable number of French prisoners to Quebec, and returned to Boston at the end of October with fifty-seven English, of all ages. For three, at least, of this number money was paid by the English, probably on account of prisoners bought by Frenchmen from the Indians. The minister, Williams, was exchanged for Baptiste, the so-called pirate, and two of his children were also redeemed181, though the Caughnawagas, or their missionaries, refused to part with his daughter Eunice. Williams says that the priests made great efforts to induce the prisoners to remain in Canada, tempting182 some with the prospect183 of pensions from the King, and frightening others with promises of damnation, joined with predictions of shipwreck184 on the way home. He thinks that about one hundred were left in Canada, many of whom were children in the hands of the[Pg 89] Indians, who could easily hide them in the woods, and who were known in some cases to have done so. Seven more were redeemed in the following year by the indefatigable185 Sheldon, on a third visit to Canada.[71]
The exchanged prisoners had been captured at various times and places. Those from Deerfield amounted in all to about sixty, or a little more than half the whole number carried off. Most of the others were dead or converted. Some married Canadians, and others their fellow-captives. The history of some of them can be traced with certainty. Thus, Thomas French, blacksmith and town clerk of Deerfield, and deacon of the church, was captured, with his wife and six children. His wife and infant child were killed on the way to Canada. He and his two eldest children were exchanged and brought home. His daughter Freedom was converted, baptized under the name of Marie Fran?oise, and married to Jean Daulnay, a Canadian. His daughter Martha was baptized as Marguerite, and married to Jacques Roy, on whose death she married Jean Louis Ménard, by whom she became ancestress of Joseph Plessis, eleventh bishop186 of Quebec. Elizabeth Corse, eight[Pg 90] years old when captured, was baptized under her own name, and married to Jean Dumontel. Abigail Stebbins, baptized as Marguerite, lived many years at Boucherville, wife of Jacques de Noyon, a sergeant in the colony troops. The widow, Sarah Hurst, whose youngest child, Benjamin, had been murdered on the Deerfield meadows, was baptized as Marie Jeanne.[72] Joanna Kellogg, eleven years old when taken, married a Caughnawaga chief, and became, at all points, an Indian squaw.
She was not alone in this strange transformation187. Eunice Williams, the namesake of her slaughtered188 mother, remained in the wigwams of the Caughnawagas, forgot, as we have seen, her English and her catechism, was baptized, and in due time married to an Indian of the tribe, who thenceforward called himself Williams. Thus her hybrid189 children bore her family name. Her father, who returned to his parish at Deerfield, and her brother Stephen, who became a minister like his parent, never ceased to pray for her return to her country and her faith.[Pg 91] Many years after, in 1740, she came with her husband to visit her relatives in Deerfield, dressed as a squaw and wrapped in an Indian blanket. Nothing would induce her to stay, though she was persuaded on one occasion to put on a civilized190 dress and go to church; after which she impatiently discarded her gown and resumed her blanket. As she was kindly treated by her relatives, and as no attempt was made to detain her against her will, she came again in the next year, bringing two of her half-breed children, and twice afterwards repeated the visit. She and her husband were offered a tract121 of land if they would settle in New England; but she positively191 refused, saying that it would endanger her soul. She lived to a great age, a squaw to the last.[73]
One of her grandsons, Eleazer Williams, turned Protestant, was educated at Dartmouth College at the charge of friends in New England, and was for a time missionary192 to the Indians of Green Bay, in Wisconsin. His character for veracity193 was not of the best. He deceived the excellent antiquarian, Hoyt, by various inventions touching194 the attack on Deerfield, and in the latter part of his life tried to pass himself off as the lost Dauphin, son of Louis XVI.[74]
[Pg 92]Here it may be observed that the descendants of young captives brought into Canada by the mission Indians during the various wars with the English colonies became a considerable element in the Canadian population. Perhaps the most prominent example is that of the Gill family. In June, 1697, a boy named Samuel Gill, then in his tenth year, was captured by the Abenakis at Salisbury in Massachusetts, carried to St. Francis, and converted. Some years later he married a young English girl, said to have been named James, and to have been captured at Kennebunk.[75] In 1866 the late Abbé Maurault, missionary at St. Francis, computed195 their descendants[Pg 93] at nine hundred and fifty-two, in whose veins196 French, English, and Abenaki blood were mixed in every conceivable proportion. He gives the tables of genealogy197 in full, and says that two hundred and thirteen of this prolific198 race still bear the surname of Gill. "If," concludes the worthy199 priest, "one should trace out all the English families brought into Canada by the Abenakis, one would be astonished at the number of persons who to-day are indebted to these savages for the blessing200 of being Catholics and the advantage of being Canadians,"[76]—an advantage for which French-Canadians are so ungrateful that they migrate to the United States by myriads201.
FOOTNOTES:
[53] Vaudreuil au Ministre, 14 Novembre, 1703; Ibid., 3 Avril, 1704; Vaudreuil et Beauharnois au Ministre 17 Novembre, 1704. French writers say that the English surprised and killed some of the Abenakis, who thereupon asked help from Canada. This perhaps refers to the expeditions of Colonel March and Captain Tyng, who, after the bloody202 attacks upon the settlements of Maine, made reprisal203 upon Abenaki camps.
[54] English accounts make the whole number 342.
[56] Account of ye destruction at Derefd, February 29, 1703/4.
[57] Papers in the Archives of Massachusetts. Among these, a letter of Rev. John Williams to the governor, 21 October, 1703, states that the palisade is rotten, and must be rebuilt.
[58] The names of nearly all the inhabitants are preserved, and even the ages of most of them have been ascertained205, through the indefatigable research of Mr. George Sheldon, of Deerfield, among contemporary records. The house of Thomas French, the town clerk, was not destroyed, and his papers were saved.
[59] On the thirty-first of May, 1704, Jonathan Wells and Ebenezer Wright petitioned the General Court for compensation for the losses of those who drove the enemy out of Deerfield and chased them into the meadow. The petition, which was granted, gives an account of the affair, followed by a list of all the men engaged. They number fifty-seven, including the nine who were killed. A list of the plunder retaken from the enemy, consisting of guns, blankets, hatchets, etc., is also added. Several other petitions for the relief of men wounded at the same time are preserved in the archives of Massachusetts. In 1736 the survivors206 of the party, with the representatives of those who had died, petitioned the General Court for allotments of land, in recognition of their services. This petition also was granted. It is accompanied by a narrative written by Wells. These and other papers on the same subject have been recently printed by Mr. George Sheldon, of Deerfield.
[60] After the old house was demolished207, this door was purchased by my friend Dr. Daniel Denison Slade, and given by him to the town of Deerfield, on condition that it should be carefully preserved. For an engraving208 of "the Old Indian House," see Hoyt, Indian Wars (ed. 1824).
[61] Governor Dudley, writing to Lord —— on 21 April, 1704, says that thirty dead bodies of the enemy were found in the village and on the meadow. Williams, the minister, says that they did not seem inclined to rejoice over their success, and continued for several days to bury members of their party who died of wounds on the return march. He adds that he learned in Canada that they lost more than forty, though Vaudreuil assured him that they lost but eleven.
[62] On the attack of Deerfield, see Williams, The Redeemed Captive Returning to Zion. This is the narrative of the minister, John Williams. Account of the Captivity of Stephen Williams, written by himself. This is the narrative of one of the minister's sons, eleven years old when captured. It is printed in the Appendix to the Biographical Memoir of Rev. John Williams (Hartford, 1837); An account of ye destruction at Derefd. febr. 29, 1703/4, in Proceedings209 of the Mass. Hist. Soc., 1867, p. 478. This valuable document was found among the papers of Fitz-John Winthrop, governor of Connecticut. The authorities of that province, on hearing of the catastrophe210 at Deerfield, promptly211 sent an armed force to its relief, which, however, could not arrive till long after the enemy were gone. The paper in question seems to be the official report of one of the Connecticut officers. After recounting what had taken place, he gives a tabular list of the captives, the slain, and those who escaped, with the estimated losses in property of each inhabitant. The list of captives is not quite complete. Compare the lists given by Stephen Williams at the end of his narrative. The town records of Hatfield give various particulars concerning the attack on its unfortunate neighbor, as do the letters of Colonel Samuel Partridge, commanding the militia of the county. Hoyt, Antiquarian Researches, gives a valuable account of it. The careful and unwearied research of Mr. George Sheldon, the lineal descendant of Ensign John Sheldon, among all sources, public or private, manuscript or in print, that could throw light on the subject cannot be too strongly commended, and I am indebted to him for much valued information.
Penhallow's short account is inexact, and many of the more recent narratives212 are not only exaggerated, but sometimes absurdly incorrect.
The French notices of the affair are short, and give few particulars. Vaudreuil in one letter sets the number of prisoners at one hundred and fifty, and increases it in another to two hundred and fifty. Ramesay, governor of Montreal, who hated Hertel de Rouville, and bore no love to Vaudreuil, says that fifty-six women and children were murdered on the way to Canada,—which is a gross exaggeration. (Ramesay au Ministre, 14 Novembre, 1704.) The account by Dr. Ethier in the Revue Canadienne of 1874 is drawn entirely213 from the Redeemed Captive of Williams, with running comments by the Canadian writer, but no new information. The comments chiefly consist in praise of Williams for truth when he speaks favorably of the Canadians, and charges of lying when he speaks otherwise.
[63] John Williams, The Redeemed Captive. Compare Stephen Williams, Account of the Captivity, etc.
[64] The small stream at the mouth of which Williams is supposed to have preached is still called Williams River.
[65] Stephen Williams, Account of the Captivity, etc. His father also notices the incident.
[66] The name Macquas (Mohawks) is always given to the Caughnawagas by the elder Williams.
[67] The Iroquois are well known to have had superstitions214 in connection with sexual abstinence.
[68] Williams remarks that the Seminary had also been burned three years before. This was the fire of November, 1701. See "Old Régime in Canada," 451.
[69] Note of Mr. George Sheldon.
[70] The elder Dudley speaks with great warmth of Courtemanche, who, on his part, seems equally pleased with his entertainers. Young Dudley was a boy of eighteen. "Il a du mérite," says Vaudreuil. Dudley to Vaudreuil, 4 July, 1705; Vaudreuil au Ministre, 19 Octobre, 1705.
[71] In 1878 Miss C. Alice Baker, of Cambridge, Mass., a descendant of Abigail Stebbins, read a paper on John Sheldon before the Memorial Association at Deerfield. It is the result of great research, and contains much original matter, including correspondence between Sheldon and the captives when in Canada, as well as a full and authentic215 account of his several missions. Mr. George Sheldon has also traced out with great minuteness the history of his ancestor's negotiations216.
[72] The above is drawn mainly from extracts made by Miss Baker from the registers of the Church of Notre Dame217 at Montreal. Many of the acts of baptism bear the signature of Father Meriel, so often mentioned in the narrative of Williams. Apparently, Meriel spoke English. At least there is a letter in English from him, relating to Eunice Williams, in the Massachusetts Archives, vol. 51. Some of the correspondence between Dudley and Vaudreuil concerning exchange of prisoners will be found among the Paris documents in the State House at Boston. Copies of these papers were printed at Quebec in 1883-1885, though with many inaccuracies.
[73] Stephen W. Williams, Memoir of the Rev. John Williams, 53. Sermon preached at Mansfield, August 4, 1741, on behalf of Mrs. Eunice, the daughter of Rev. John Williams; by Solomon Williams, A.M. Letter of Mrs. Colton, great granddaughter of John Williams (in appendix to the Memoir of Rev. John Williams).
[74] I remember to have seen Eleazer Williams at my father's house in Boston, when a boy. My impression of him is that of a good-looking and somewhat portly man, showing little trace of Indian blood, and whose features, I was told, resembled those of the Bourbons. Probably this likeness218, real or imagined, suggested the imposition he was practising at the time. The story of the "Bell of St. Regis" is probably another of his inventions. It is to the effect that the bell of the church at Deerfield was carried by the Indians to the mission of St. Regis, and that it is there still. But there is reason to believe that there was no church bell at Deerfield, and it is certain that St. Regis did not exist till more than a half-century after Deerfield was attacked. It has been said that the story is true, except that the name of Caughnawaga should be substituted for that of St. Regis; but the evidence for this conjecture219 is weak. On the legend of the bell, see Le Moine, Maple220 Leaves, New Series (1873), 29; Proceedings of the Mass. Hist. Soc., 1869, 1870, 311; Hist. Mag. 2d Series, ix. 401. Hough, Hist. St. Lawrence and Franklin Counties, 116, gives the story without criticism.
[75] The earlier editions of this book follow, in regard to Samuel Gill, the statements of Maurault, which are erroneous, as has been proved by the careful and untiring research of Miss C. Alice Baker, to whose kindness I owe the means of correcting them. Papers in the archives of Massachusetts leave no doubt as to the time and place of Samuel Gill's capture.
[76] Maurault, Hist. des Abenakis, 377. I am indebted to R. A. Ramsay, Esq., of Montreal, for a paper on the Gill family, by Mr. Charles Gill, who confirms the statements of Maurault so far as relates to the genealogies221.
John and Zechariah Tarbell, captured when boys at Groton, became Caughnawaga chiefs; and one of them, about 1760, founded the mission of St. Regis. Green, Groton during the Indian Wars, 116, 117-120.
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| adj.为患的，大批滋生的（常与with搭配）v.害虫、野兽大批出没于( infest的过去式和过去分词 )；遍布于 | |
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disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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rote
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| n.死记硬背，生搬硬套 | |
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28
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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29
reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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30
garrison
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| n.卫戍部队；驻地，卫戍区；vt.派(兵)驻防 | |
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31
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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32
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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33
obstruction
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| n.阻塞，堵塞；障碍物 | |
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34
waned
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| v.衰落( wane的过去式和过去分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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35
rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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36
sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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37
parlor
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| n.店铺，营业室；会客室，客厅 | |
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38
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
extemporized
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| v.即兴创作，即席演奏( extemporize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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41
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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42
crunched
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| v.嘎吱嘎吱地咬嚼( crunch的过去式和过去分词 )；嘎吱作响；（快速大量地）处理信息；数字捣弄 | |
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43
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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44
screeched
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的过去式和过去分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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45
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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46
hatchet
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| n.短柄小斧；v.扼杀 | |
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47
hatchets
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| n.短柄小斧( hatchet的名词复数 )；恶毒攻击；诽谤；休战 | |
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48
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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49
valor
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| n.勇气，英勇 | |
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50
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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51
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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52
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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53
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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54
uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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55
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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56
barricading
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的现在分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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57
repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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58
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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59
defenders
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| n.防御者( defender的名词复数 )；守卫者；保护者；辩护者 | |
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60
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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61
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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62
outright
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| adv.坦率地；彻底地；立即；adj.无疑的；彻底的 | |
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63
obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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64
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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65
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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66
hacked
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| 生气 | |
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67
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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68
sprained
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| v.&n. 扭伤 | |
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69
depot
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| n.仓库，储藏处；公共汽车站；火车站 | |
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70
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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71
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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72
gallant
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| adj.英勇的，豪侠的；(向女人)献殷勤的 | |
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73
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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74
hogs
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| n.（尤指喂肥供食用的）猪( hog的名词复数 )；（供食用的）阉公猪；彻底地做某事；自私的或贪婪的人 | |
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75
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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76
plunder
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| vt.劫掠财物，掠夺；n.劫掠物，赃物；劫掠 | |
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77
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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78
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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79
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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80
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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81
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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82
smothered
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| （使）窒息， （使）透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 )； 覆盖； 忍住； 抑制 | |
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83
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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84
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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85
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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86
thaw
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| v.（使）融化，（使）变得友善；n.融化，缓和 | |
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87
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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88
foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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89
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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90
beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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91
carousal
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| n.喧闹的酒会 | |
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92
incensed
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| 盛怒的 | |
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93
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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94
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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95
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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96
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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97
alleging
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| 断言，宣称，辩解( allege的现在分词 ) | |
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98
mustered
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的过去式和过去分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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99
sledges
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| n.雪橇，雪车( sledge的名词复数 )v.乘雪橇( sledge的第三人称单数 )；用雪橇运载 | |
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100
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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101
virgins
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| 处女，童男( virgin的名词复数 )； 童贞玛利亚（耶稣之母） | |
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102
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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103
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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104
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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105
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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106
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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107
subsist
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| vi.生存，存在，供养 | |
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108
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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109
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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110
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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111
toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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112
cramps
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| n. 抽筋, 腹部绞痛, 铁箍 adj. 狭窄的, 难解的 v. 使...抽筋, 以铁箍扣紧, 束缚 | |
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113
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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114
bruised
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| [医]青肿的，瘀紫的 | |
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115
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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116
flakes
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| 小薄片( flake的名词复数 )； （尤指）碎片； 雪花； 古怪的人 | |
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117
wayfarer
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| n.旅人 | |
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118
conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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119
brandished
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| v.挥舞( brandish的过去式和过去分词 )；炫耀 | |
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120
Vogue
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| n.时髦，时尚；adj.流行的 | |
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121
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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122
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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123
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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124
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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125
tattered
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| adj.破旧的，衣衫破的 | |
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126
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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127
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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128
ransom
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| n.赎金，赎身；v.赎回，解救 | |
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129
override
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| vt.不顾，不理睬，否决；压倒，优先于 | |
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130
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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131
exhorting
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| v.劝告，劝说( exhort的现在分词 ) | |
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132
procure
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| vt.获得，取得，促成；vi.拉皮条 | |
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133
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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134
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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135
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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136
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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137
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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138
perverting
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| v.滥用( pervert的现在分词 )；腐蚀；败坏；使堕落 | |
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139
fortifying
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的现在分词 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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140
heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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141
chateau
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| n.城堡，别墅 | |
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142
abhorred
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| v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 )；（厌恶地）回避；拒绝；淘汰 | |
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143
outrages
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| 引起…的义愤，激怒( outrage的第三人称单数 ) | |
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144
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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145
allure
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| n.诱惑力，魅力；vt.诱惑，引诱，吸引 | |
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146
industriously
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147
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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148
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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149
counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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150
persecuting
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的现在分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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151
tribulations
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| n.苦难( tribulation的名词复数 )；艰难；苦难的缘由；痛苦 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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154
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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155
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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156
recreant
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| n.懦夫；adj.胆怯的 | |
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157
distressing
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| a.使人痛苦的 | |
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158
afflicting
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| 痛苦的 | |
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159
craftiness
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| 狡猾，狡诈 | |
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160
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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161
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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162
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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163
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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164
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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165
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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166
obdurate
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| adj.固执的，顽固的 | |
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167
severed
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| v.切断，断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 )；断，裂 | |
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168
pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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169
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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170
envoys
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| 使节( envoy的名词复数 )； 公使； 谈判代表； 使节身份 | |
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171
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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172
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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173
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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174
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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176
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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177
baker
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| n.面包师 | |
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178
negotiation
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| n.谈判，协商 | |
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179
qualified
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| adj.合格的，有资格的，胜任的，有限制的 | |
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180
concessions
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| n.（尤指由政府或雇主给予的）特许权( concession的名词复数 )；承认；减价；（在某地的）特许经营权 | |
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181
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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182
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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183
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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184
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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185
indefatigable
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| adj.不知疲倦的，不屈不挠的 | |
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186
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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187
transformation
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| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
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188
slaughtered
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| v.屠杀，杀戮，屠宰( slaughter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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189
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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190
civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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191
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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192
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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193
veracity
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| n.诚实 | |
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194
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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195
computed
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| adj.[医]计算的，使用计算机的v.计算，估算( compute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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196
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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197
genealogy
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| n.家系，宗谱 | |
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198
prolific
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| adj.丰富的，大量的；多产的，富有创造力的 | |
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199
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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200
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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201
myriads
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| n.无数，极大数量( myriad的名词复数 ) | |
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202
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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203
reprisal
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| n.报复，报仇，报复性劫掠 | |
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204
memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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205
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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206
survivors
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| 幸存者，残存者，生还者( survivor的名词复数 ) | |
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207
demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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208
engraving
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| n.版画；雕刻（作品）；雕刻艺术；镌版术v.在（硬物）上雕刻（字，画等）( engrave的现在分词 )；将某事物深深印在（记忆或头脑中） | |
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209
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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210
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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211
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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212
narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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213
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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214
superstitions
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| 迷信，迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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215
authentic
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| a.真的，真正的；可靠的，可信的，有根据的 | |
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216
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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217
dame
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| n.女士 | |
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218
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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219
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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220
maple
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| n.槭树，枫树，槭木 | |
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221
genealogies
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| n.系谱，家系，宗谱( genealogy的名词复数 ) | |
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