University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE EXECUTION.

The morning of the Execution, like that of the Resurrection,
brought out “both small and great, a multitude which no man
could number.” They came “from the East and the West,

the North and the South.” Highways were glutted with waggons
and horses, by-ways with foot-people. They came from
distances of eight, twenty, and even forty miles. Booths, carts,
wheel-barrows supplied a profusion of eatables and drinkables.
A man with a hand-organ in cap and bells, hawkers of
ballads, a “Lion from Barbary,” Obed peddling his nostrums,
gaming tables, offered attractions to the crowd, and contributed
to the variety of objects with which the Green brimmed and
overflowed. At an early hour Margaret left the Deacon's;
where, whatever might have been her inclinations, she could
hardly have found accommodations, since the house was filled
with people from the fourth up to the fourteenth shade of connection,
including half a score of infants. Taking what on the
whole seemed to be the most feasible route, whereby to escape
the annoyance of the multitude and horrors of the day, she hid
herself in the deep bed and under the decayed foliage of Mill
Brook. Slowly sauntering up the channel of the stream, she
found herself on the open road, and close by the premises of
Anthony Wharfield. Ruth espying her as she was on the point
of fleeing again into the recess of the water-course, crossed the
road, took her by the arm and endeavored to persuade her into
the house. “Am I too late for the hanging?” said a man
stopping to take breath. “I havn't missed of one these thirty
year, and I wouldn't, any more than Sunday.” “Thee had better
go and see,” was the laconic reply. “Aristophanes, my
son! Holdup, knave, you graze the limbs of my dear daughter,”
was the hurried language of Mr. Adolphus Hadlock. “I
have been to cousin Sukeyanna's to bring down the children.
I am fearful we shall not be there in season.—Socrates, your
sister is slipping from the pillion. Triandaphelda Ada, my
daughter, how could you suffer your brother to do so. I would
not have you fail of this opportunity on any account. It has a
most happy effect on the mind of children. Your mother, dear,
is waiting for us; she says seeing a man hanged is the most
interesting sight she ever beheld.”—“I can't endure this,”
said Margaret. “Well, then, come into the house,” said the
woman. “Anthony will succor thee; he is sorely troubled
for thee.”

Leaving Margaret at the Quaker's, let us follow up this current
of general attraction. The bell tolled, and the prisoner,
supported by Sheriff Kingsland, was conducted to the Meeting-house,
under a guard of soldiers. Parson Welles preached a
discourse, a printed copy of which, with its broad black margin,
and vignette representing the gallows, now lies before us. The

following passage occurs, which illustrates the style of the Parson's
ordinary pulpit exercises.

“Let the improvement be lastly to the wretched man who is
now before us. God says, `Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by
man shall his blood be shed.' The just laws of Man and the
holy Law of Jehovah call aloud for the destruction of your
mortal life. Alas, miserable youth, you know by sad, by woeful
experience, the living truth of our text, that the wages of Sin
is Death. As we have shown under our third proposition, by
man's disobedience many were made sinners; and under our
fourth, Mankind are already under sentence of condemnation.
But there is a door of hope. As God demanded a perfect
obedience of the first Adam, the second fulfilled it. Jesus
Christ made a Propitiation. He endured on the cross the vengeance
of a broken law, he was punished by an insulted Divinity.
We can do nothing of ourselves. But take the Lord
Jesus by faith; trust to his merits, repent, Oh, repent. Lay
hold of the hope set before you. This is the last day of mercy
to your poor soul. But if you refuse these offers of grace,
your departed soul must take up its lodgings in sorrow, woe
and misery. You must be cast into the Lake that burneth
with fire and brimstone, where deformed Devils dwell, and the
damned ghosts of Adam's race.”

The religious solemnities being concluded, the procession
for the place of execution was formed. The prisoner with the
coffin was placed in a cart, having on either side the Sheriff
and his Deputy; while lines of bayonets bristled before and
behind. A band of music accompanied them, playing Roslin
Castle, the shrill piping of fifes pathetically blending with the
muffled and measured boom of drums—not Tony's, for he
declined serving on the occasion—and that which had been
Chilion's life now became his death-dirge. The multitude of
the people followed, in numbers rated at the time as high as
twenty thousand. The Gallows was erected on a plain in the
North Part of the Town, about three miles from the Green,
whither had already been removed stores of refreshment and
minor objects of interest. The spectators were kept in a ring
by the soldiers, prayer was offered by the Parson, and the prisoner
asked if he had any thing to say. He replied no. He
requested that the cap might not be drawn over his eyes, nor
his hands tied. “You will seize hold of the rope and hinder
the execution,” replied the Sheriff. “No, I will not,” said
Chilion, “I had rather die free.” “We understand it,” answered
the officer; “you are determined not to die.”

The drop fell, on the part of the spectators a gasp, a sudden
blink of the eye, a suffocating sensation in the throat, a sicker
one in the stomach, responded for a moment to the struggles
of the dying man, and, on both sides, all was over. The body
was decently laid in the coffin, and, under the superintendence
of Deacon Ramsdill, borne to its last resting-place, in the
grave-yard. The crowd dispersed to drink, to game, to riot,
to wrestle, to race horses, see the Lion, hear the hand-organ.

Margaret, unable to contain herself in the house, anxious if
possible to find her own family, plunged again into the woods.
She clambered up the rocks and steeps that threw such a
charm over her ride with Mr. Evelyn, in the direction of the
Pond. Night was coming on, she hastened through the Maples.
A light startled her, the fumes of smoke arrested her
senses. She crossed the Mowing towards her old home. In
the West, and over Mons Christi rolled up dark, cold clouds,
but in the North-east, beyond the forest that immediately
skirted the Pond, the heavens were distinctly illuminated. She
saw smoke rising and occasional sprits of flame. While she
was looking, a swarthy giant form stood before her. It was the
Indian and his grand-daughter. He seized her arm, and silently
and unresistingly led her forwards. He took her by an old and
familiar path up the Head. What had been a streak of light
in the horizon, they now beheld a boiling angry river of flame.
The woods on the North of the Village, an extensive range of old
forest, were on fire. The Indian, without speaking, slowly
raised his arm, and pointed steadily at the scene of the conflagration.
Each moment the effect increased, and the fire driven
by a brisk northerly wind seemed to be making rapid progress
towards the Green. Sheets of sluggish smoke were pierced
and dispersed by the nimble yellow flames which leaped to the
tops of the tallest trees, assaulted the clouds, and threw themselves
upon the solid ranks of the forest as in exterminating
battle. Beyond the fire, and up in the extreme heavens, was a
pitchy overshadowing blackness; the faces of the three shone
in a blood-red glare; behind them gathered clouds and darkness;
below, the water, the house, the Mowing, the road, were
immersed in impenetrable shade. Margaret gazed with a
mixed expression of anguish, surprise and uncertainty. The
Indian stood majestically erect, with one arm folding his mantle,
his countenance glowing with other than the fire of the
woods, his pursed and wrinkled features dilating and filling
with some great internal emotion. The girl looked quietly
and smilingly on. The wind shook the tall white feather in

the old man's head, threw Margaret's bonnet back from her
face, and quivered in the long black locks of the girl.

“Daughter!” said the Indian to Margaret, almost the first
words she ever heard him utter, as the flames seized and
crunched the gnarled top of an old dead tree, “Behold Pakanawket,
grandson of Pometacom, great-grandson of Massassoit,
the last of the Wampanoags! Ninety winters have passed over
him, he has stood the thunder-gust and the storm-shock—see,
the fires consume him!

Daughter, hear! The great Pometacom, called in your
tongue King Philip, who rose to be the liberator of his country,
was hacked in pieces by your people, his head exposed
twenty summers in one of your towns to insults of men, and
the laughter of women. His wife, Wootonekanuske, and his
son, my father, were sold for slaves. My grandmother pounded
corn for the whites, she bore on her breast the brand of her
master: but she whispered into Pakanawket's ear, the purpose
of his grandsire, she charmed him with the spell of the Great
Spirit. My father, escaping from slavery, and my mother,
perished with the Neridgewoks. Swift as a deer, still as the
flight of an owl, I have gone from the Kennebec to the Mississippi;
I have visited our people on the Great Lakes; I have
fought against French, English and Americans. Pakanawket
gave a belt to no tribes of the whites, he sat at no council-fire
but those of his own countrymen. His wife was murdered by
the French, his children scalped by the English. His old arm
grew weak, the strength of his people had perished. The Snowheron
came and built his lonely nest in the green Cedars of
Umkiddin; there he has dwelt with the little Wootonekanuske,
in your tongue Dove's Eye. I have put my ear to the ground,
I hear the tramping of horses and the noise of battle; he whose
eye never sleeps is on the trail of the red-man; Wyandot,
Seneca, Delaware, Shawanese, all have fallen. The white man
throws his arm about the Great Lakes, he gathers into his
bosom the Father of Waters. The red man drags his canoe
across the graves of his Fathers; the feet of his children are
sore with travelling in the long wilderness.

Daughter, listen! I saw your song-brother struggling in
death; pleasant has been his viol to me, pleasant the sound of
his voice. My heart wept for him, memories gushed forth.
Where are the brothers, fathers, sons, friends of Pakanawket?
Massassoit, the generous, the noble, died as the caged Eagle
dies. Jyanough, the fair and gentle, wasted in swamps where
your violence had driven him. Miantunnimoh was cast as a

bear to appease the wolf you had enraged. Mononotto, Nanunteenoo,
Annawon, Tispaquin, Paugus, Pumah, Chocorua, Logan,
Hendrick, Pontiac, Thayendanaga, Sagoyewatha, where
are they? Burnt, beheaded, hung, tortured, enslaved, exiled!

Daughter, listen! I was taught to read by a French Panisee;
I have read your books, I know what you say. The Bashaba
that lived in the East, that great Pirate of the seas, gave away
to his men our country. He made grants of our land and our
waters, our meadows and our fisheries, our woods and our
plains, our fowls and our beasts, our gardens and our houses,
our towns and our villages, our precious stones and our minerals.
You have called us savages, dogs, heathens, devils, monsters;
we welcomed the strange men to our shores; cold and
hungry, we nourished them in our houses. When their children
were lost in the woods we found them, when their poor
people wanted corn we gave it them. They stole our young
men away and sold them for slaves in unknown lands. They
built forts upon our grounds, they offered bounties for our
scalps. When our children were burning, they gave thanks-giving
to their God. They slept in our wigwams and defiled
our maidens. They asked us to their Council Fires, they
blinded us with rum. When we resisted, they declared war
upon us. There is no brother among the Indians, they have
turned our hearts against each other. When we were weak,
they subdued us.

Daughter, look! The fire goes on, the flames are consuming
their Church. The Spirit of Wrath scowls above their village.
I saw your elder brother asleep in the woods, his pipe had
kindled the leaves; these hands heaped together the faggots,
this mouth blew up the flames. Ha! Manitou fights with
Jehovah, Areouski strikes down their Holy Ghost! See, the
steeple burns. Men shall mourn to-night, children shall be
houseless. But where are the Pequods, the Narragansetts, the
Nipmucks, the Massachusetts? Prate they of Quaboag,
Pekomtuck, Cherry Valley and Wyoming? Where are Pakonoket,
Mystic, Mettapoiset, Monaheganic, Wessagusgus,
Knawaholee, Kanadaseega, Kendaia, Kaniandaque, Genessee?
Between sea and sea there is not a field, a hill, or a brook, we
can call our own. Pakanawket utters his voice, no Indian
answers. He looks over the homes of his fathers, he sees only
the faces of his enemies. The leaves have fallen from the
trees, his strength and hope have fallen too. Wootonekanuske
has no brother, no friend, no country, no people, no home.
The eyes of a Dove are red with weeping, she looks towards

the stars. Manitou calls, we go to the Spirit-land. In my
belt is a weight of gold, the bribe that sought for Arnolds
among the Indians. Let it do what it was designed for, finish
the Last of his race. In yonder woods Pometacom had sometime
his home, on these waters he sailed with his little son. I
have come hither to die. Daughter of the Beautiful, take this
Heron's Wreath, wear it for Wootonekanuske's sake; she
never forgets a kindness. Take this land, this hill, these
woods, these waters, they are yours. Sometimes in your love,
your happiness, your power, remember the poor Indian!”

The Chief, taking his grand-daughter in his arms, deliberately
advanced to the edge of the rock, balanced himself over
the abyss, leaped off into the dark waters, and borne down by
the weight of his girdle sank beyond recovery. We are told
of one, who, being broken on a wheel, after the first blow,
laughed in the face of the executioner, his nervous sensibility
becoming so far extinguished that subsequent inflictions created
no suffering. Our moral nature has its analogies in the physical;
and Margaret, already stricken by the events of the day,
heard the fearful resolution of the Indian, and witnessed his
appalling act without discomposure; she looked coolly for a
moment at the fire, she saw the tall spire of the Church totter
and fall, she folded carefully in her hand the feathered ornament
the Indian gave her, and descended the hill. Entering
the Via Salutaris, she was accosted by the voice of Sibyl
Radney, coming on horseback from the opposite direction.
“Is that you, Molly?” said Sibyl. “What in creation are
you about? We have hunted every where for you. Your
folks are up to our house; Rose is there too. Rufus Palmer
has come down, and you are all going to the Ledge. Rufus
and I rode down to the Green after you, we went to Deacon
Ramsdill's, but couldn't find you. Then I went up to the
Quaker's, somebody said they saw you going that way, Ruth
said you came off this way. Get up, we must hurry on.
There is a stump, now spring. Rufus staid helping Tony get
the things out of his shop. The fire took in Judge Morgridge's
woods down back of our house; it went through Aunt Dolphy's
piece, and so down to the Horse Sheds; then the Meeting
House caught, and the brands blew from that to the Crown
and Bowl—the Lord knows where it will stop. They are all
drunk as beasts, and wild as bedlamites, down there.” They
traversed the semi-luminous shadows of the wood, till they
came to the junction of the Via Salutaris with the West road
from the Village. Here Sibyl halted her horse; at this point

the scene of the devastation was frightfully distinct. The fire
was still at its work; before them was a long line of blazing,
crackling forest; down the road, beyond Mr. Adolphus Hadlock's,
the stream of brightness and ruin extended more than
a mile. They beheld the old Church, its huge oaken timbers
resisting to the last extremity, yet presenting a Laocoon-like
spectacle of serpent-flames coiled about it and stinging it to
death. The Tavern was fast sinking beneath the devouring
element, and the roofs of the buildings beyond were shooting
out flames. Multitudes of human forms, in dim red coloring,
they saw on the Green, some violently gesticulating, some
leaping wildly into the air, some running to and fro, some
standing in evident stock-still amazement. Whatever might
be the interest of the scene, it did not detain them long, and
they made the best of their way to the house of Sibyl. Here
Margaret found all her family, her mother the image of frozen
despair, Pluck trying to laugh, Nimrod trying to whistle, Hash
stupidly intoxicated; she and Rose buried themselves in each
other's embrace. Presently Rufus Palmer came up from the
Village. “There were a thousand people there, I should
think,” said he; “but three-quarters were drunk, and the rest
were so scared they didn't know what they were about. The
prisoners in the Jail yelled like Devils in burning hell. The
Jail-house was on fire, and we could not get in that way, and
we stove in the fence, ripped out the bars, and let the poor
dogs out through the windows. We saved Tony by the skin
of his teeth; the flakes lit on his shop, but we made out to
smother them. As I came along a drunken crew got hold of
the Stocks and threw them into the fire, then they tore up the
Whipping-post, pulled down the Pillory, and they followed, and
I left them blazing away among the Jail timbers. It hasn't
rained for six weeks, and the buildings were dry as tinder, and
burnt like a heap of shavings. The Court House and Tavern
were down, and the frame of the Meeting House fell just as I
got up the hill. Heaven save me from such another sight!
Rose ran away from our house yesterday. Father sent me
down, and said I must bring her back, and mother sent word
for Margaret and Nimrod to come right up there.”

“It is beginning to rain,” said Sibyl, “and you can't go
to-night.”

The storm, which had been threatening through the day and
evening, broke at last, it rained violently, and if it interrupted
the plans of this party, it also served to check the farther progress
of the fire. Regarding the origin of the last, it appeared

as the Indian intimated, that Hash, in the course of the afternoon,
saturated with liquor, went with his pipe into the woods.
Relapsing into stupor, his pipe fell from his mouth, and the
fire was set. The Indian, crossing the forest from the scene
of execution, supplied materials for its continuance and spread.
A long Autumnal drought, a blasted vegetation, a thick coat
of new fallen leaves, heaps of dry brush, a strong breeze, bore
forward the result to the final catastrophe. However the
action either of the Indian or of Hash shall be estimated, the
former was beyond the reach of inquisition; and the latter,
Sibyl had the strength to rescue from personal danger, and the
tact to preserve from detection by consigning the secret of the
affair to her own breast, and that of those whom she deemed
trustworthy to receive it.

They fared the night at Sibyl's as they best could, and the
next day Rufus and Rose, Nimrod and Margaret, rode to the
Ledge, a distance, as we have had occasion to observe, of six or
seven miles. At Mr. Palmer's Margaret with her friends was
received with a liberal hospitality and unaffected good will.
The family remembered the service she had done for them in
former years, and Mistress Palmer made a deliberate work of
endeavoring to divert her mind by sitting down, with her box
of snuff open in her left hand, and explaining with her right,
how they had been able to bring the water directly into the
house, and that Mr. Palmer had made a new marble sink, and
Rufus had carved a marble stem, with a sheep's head, from
the mouth of which a living stream perpetually flowed.
Roderick, her oldest son, had married Bethia Weeks, joined
the “Dunwich Genessee Company,” and gone to the West,
where also Alexander was about to follow Rufus, his mother
declared, was a good boy, and said she believed he had great
parts; in proof of which assertion as well as for the entertainment
of Margaret, he was ordered to show the toys he had
made, consisting of sundry vases, images, imitations of flowers
and trees, done in marble. At the same time Margaret could
not avoid associating and contrasting that first prosperous adventure
of her childhood with her present mournful condition.
In addition to any claims on their kindness which the family
of Mr. Palmer might have felt disposed to reimburse, there
existed other grounds for the friendliness of the parties.
Nimrod and Rhody, between whom an attachment and quasitroth-plight
had for a long time subsisted, were expecting to
marry; indeed, their nuptials were assigned to the present
season. In the absence of his other sons, Mr. Palmer proposed

to Nimrod, that if he would forswear his errant habits, and set
himself to steady labor, he should have a share in his farm,
and a home in his house. He himself was a good deal occupied
at the quarry, and Rufus, he said, was always dropping
the plough, and running after the mallet. But in the recent
calamity which had befallen his family, Nimrod said he had
given up all thoughts of marriage for the present, and avowed
a determination to wait at least until Spring; in addition, for
reasons which did not transpire, he declared that it had become
unexpectedly necessary for him to go to the Bay, before that
event, and take Margaret with him.

When Rose had Margaret alone, she recited her history
from the night of the Husking Bee. She said she and Nimrod
wandered in the woods one or two days, that they at last went
to Mr. Palmer's, where she was taken sick, and recovered on
the eve of Chilion's execution, and that only so far as enabled
her to adopt some desperate resolution for his delivery; that
she stole away from the house and made all haste to town,
Borne out from the prison by Nimrod, she was carried to
Sibyl's, where they kept her until the crisis was over.

Margaret divulged Chilion's last wishes, and was solicitous
for their accomplishment. In the prosecution of this object,
events fell out in a manner that she could not have anticipated.
Rufus volunteered to furnish the grave-stone; Mr. Palmer said
he would become surety to Mr. Smith for the liabilities of
Pluck, until Nimrod returned from his jaunt, so that the family
might again be gathered in their home. Nimrod was despatched
on the other errands. The lady's slipper he carried to Miss
Morgridge; Chilion's boat was bought by Sibyl Radney, who
seemed desirous to have it preserved for the use of the family.
What with the baskets and the money in the chest, all debts
were paid without disposing of the violin, which was retained
as a keep-sake. The duty at Mr. Smith's, Margaret found it
more difficult to perform; and what they told her of the state
of that family at length decided her to postpone her task, until
time should have moderated their grief, or give her sufficient
strength of spirit to encounter it.

Preparations for their intended journey were now all that
remained to be done, and these the advancing season, not less
than certain concealed motives of Nimrod, admonished them
to accelerate. Rose could not be detached from Margaret,
and she too must go, at whatever rate. But for this also a
means was provided, the nature of which we will disclose.
The Widow Wright, as perhaps is well known, had long

cherished extensive expectations of her son Obed, and not less
of her business, and, we might reasonably add, of Margaret.
Whether she aspired to riches or fame, let those answer who
can best judge; but of this we are certain, that she desired to
experiment with her commodities in a larger theatre than
Livingston and its neighborhood afforded; and when she
learned the plans of Margaret and the wishes of Rose, she
eagerly sought the privilege of joining with them Obed and
his horse Tim—an arrangement that could not but prove satisfactory
on all sides, since it provided a method of conveyance
for Rose without additional cost. Whether any other design
crept into the lady's mind than to make Obed acquainted with
the world, and the world acquainted with her art, one would
not hesitate to guess, when it is related that she gave her son
explicit and repeated instructions to watch with all diligence
and scrupulousness the movements of Margaret.

To the new object Margaret and Rose addressed themselves
with diligence, and we may imagine without reluctance.
They had no wish to remain on the hands of the Palmers,
however generous or well-affectioned might be the disposition
of that family. They were glad to escape the deep, and as it
would seem ineffaceable gloom that now not only shrouded the
Pond, but penetrated the whole town. In a fresh atmosphere
they could find a breathing place for their stifled hearts, and
among novel scenes they might be diverted from those associations
that were sapping the foundations of existence itself.