University of Virginia Library

THE MIDNIGHT ATTACK.

One hundred years ago!—How has New-England
changed with the passing by of a single century! At
first view, it would seem like the mysterious transformations
of a dream, or like the strange mutations of
sunset-clouds upon the face of the Summer Heavens.
One hundred years ago!—The Oak struck its roots
deeply in the Earth, and tossed its branches loftily in
the sunshine, where now the voice of industry and
enterprise rises in one perpetual murmur. The shadows
of the forest lay brown and heavily, where now
the village church-spire overtops the dwellings clustered
about it. Instead of the poor, dependent and feeble
colonists of Britain, we are now a nation of ourselves—a
people, great and prosperous and happy.

And those who battled with our fathers, or smoked
the pipe of peace in their dwellings, where are they?
Where is the mighty people which, but a little time
ago, held dominion over this fair land, from the great
lakes to the Ocean? Go to the hunting grounds of
Miantonimoh and Annawon—to the royal-homes of
Massasoit and Metacom and Sassacus, and ask for the
traces and the memorials of the iron race of warriors,
who wrestled with the pale Yengeese even unto death.
There will perhaps remain the ruin of their ancient
forts—the fragments of their ragged pottery—the
stone-heads of their scattered arrows; and, here and
there, on their old battle-fields, the white bones of
their slain. And these will be all—all that remain
to tell of the cherished race of hunters and warriors.
The Red Man has departed forever. The last gleam
of his Council-fire has gone up from amidst the great
oaks of the forest, and the last ripple of his canoe
vanished from the pleasant waters bosomed among
them. His children are hastening towards the setting
of the Sun; and the plough-share of the stranger is
busy among the bones of his fathers.

One hundred years ago!—The hunter, who ranged
the hills and the forests of New-England, fought
against other enemies, than the brown bear and the
panther. The husbandman, as he toiled in the plain.

or the narrow clearing, kept closely at his side a loaded
weapon; and wrought diligently and firmly in the
midst of peril. The frequent crack of the Indian's
rifle was heard in the still lepths of the forest—the
death-knell of the unwary hunter; and, ever and
anon, the flame of some devoted farm-house, whose
dwellers had been slaughtered by a merciless foe, rose
redly upon the darkness of the night-time. The wild,
and fierce eyes of the heathen gleamed through the
thick underwood of the forest, upon the passing by of
the worshippers of the only true God; and the war-whoop
rang shrill and loud under the very walls of
the sanctuary of prayer.

Perhaps no part of New-England affords a wider
field for the researches of the Legendary, than that
portion of Massachusetts Bay, formerly known as the
province of Maine. There, the ferocious Norridgewock
held his stern councils, and there the tribes of
the Penobscot went forth with song and dance to do
battle upon the white man. There, the romantic and
chivalrous Castine immured himself in the forest solitudes,
and there the high-hearted Ralle—the mild and
gifted Jesuit—gathered together the broken strength
of the Norridgewock, and built up in the great wilderness
a temple to the true God. There too, he perished
in the dark onslaught of the Colonists—perished

with many wounds, at the very foot of the Cross,
which his own hands had planted. And there, the
Norridgewocks fell—one after another—in stern and
uncomplaining pride—neither asking, nor giving quarter,
as they resisted the white spoiler upon the threshold
of their consecrated place of worship; and in view
of their wives and their children.

The following is one among many legends of the
strange rencounters of the While Man and the Indian,
which are yet preserved in the ancient records and traditions
of Maine. The simple and unvarnished narrative
is only given.

It was a sultry evening towards the last of June,
1722, that Capt. Harmon and his Eastern rangers,
urged their canoes up the Kennebeck River, in pursuit
of their savage enemies. For hours they toiled
diligently at the oar.—The last trace of civilization
was left behind, and the long shadows of the skirting
forests met and blended in the middle of the broad
stream, which wound darkly through them. At every
sound from the adjacent shores—the rustling wing of
some night-bird, or the quick footsteps of some wild
beast—the dash of the oar was suspended, and the
ranger's grasp tightened on his rifle. All knew the
peril of the enterprise; and that silence, which is natural
to men, who feel themselves in the extreme of

mortal jeopardy, settled like a cloud upon the midnight
adventurers.

“Hush—softly men!” said the watchful Harmon, in
a voice, which scarcely rose above a hoarse whisper,
as his canoe swept round a ragged promontory, “there
is a light ahead!”

All eyes were bent towards the shore. A tall Indian
fire gleamed up amidst the great oaks, casting a
red and strong light upon the dark waters. For a single
and breathless moment the operation of the oar
was suspended; and every ear listened with painful
earnestness to catch the well known sounds, which
seldom failed to indicate the propinquity of the savages.
But all was now silent. With slow and faint
movements of the oar, the canoes gradually approached
the suspected spot. The landing was effected in
silence. After moving cautiously for a considerable
distance in the dark shadow, the party at length ventured
within the broad circle of the light, which at first
attracted their attention. Harmon was at their head,
with an eye and a hand, quick as those of the savage
enemy whom he sought.

The body of a fallen tree lay across the path. As
the rangers were on the point of leaping over it, the
hoarse whisper of Harmon again broke the silence.

“God of Heaven!” he exclaimed, pointing to the

tree—“See here!—'tis the work of the cursed red
skins!”

A smothered curse growled on the lips of the rangers,
as they bent grimly forward in the direction
pointed out by their commander. Blood was sprinkled
on the rank grass, and a human hand—the hand of
a white man,—lay on the bloody log!

There was not a word spoken, but every countenance
worked with terrible emotion. Had the rangers
followed their own desperate inclination, they
would have hurried recklessly onward to the work of
vengeance; but the example of their leader, who had
regained his usual calmness and self-command, prepared
them for a less speedy, but more certain triumph.
Cautiously passing over the fearful obstacle in the
pathway, and closely followed by his companions, he
advanced stealthily and cautiously upon the light,
hiding himself and his party as much as possible behind
the thick trees. In a few moments they obtained
a full view of the object of their search. Stretched
at their length, around a huge fire, but at a convenient
distance from it, lay the painted and half naked
forms of twenty savages. It was evident from their
appearance, that they had passed the day in one of
their horrid revels, and that they were now suflering
under the effects of intoxication. Occasionally, a

grim warrior among them started half upright, grasping
his tomahawk, as if to combat some vision of his
disordered brain, but, unable to shake off the stupor
from his senses, uniformly fell back into his former
position.

The rangers crept nearer. As they bent their keen
eyes along their well-tried rifles, each felt perfectly
sure of his aim. They waited for the signal of Harmon,
who was endeavoring to bring his long musket
to bear upon the head of the most distant of the savages.

“Fire!” he at length exclaimed, as the sight of
his piece interposed full and distinct between his eye
and the wild scalp-lock of the Indian. “Fire, and
rush on!”

The sharp voice of thirty rifles thrilled through the
heart of the forest. There was a groan—a smothered
cry—a wild and convulsive movement among the
sleeping Indians; and all again was silent.

The rangers sprang forward with their clubbed
muskets and hunting knives; but their work was
done. The red men had gone to their last audit before
the Great Spirit; and no sound was heard among
them, save the gurgling of the hot blood from their
lifeless bosoms.

They were left unburied on the place of their revelling,—a
prey to the foul birds of the air, and the
revenous beasts of the wilderness. Their scalps
were borne homeward in triumph by the successful
rangers, whose children and grand-children shuddered,
long after, at the thrilling narration of the midnight
adventure.