MARY ROWLANDSON, of Lancaster, Massachusetts, was taken captive by the Indians and held for eleven weeks and five days. She was the wife of Lancaster’s first ordained minister, the Reverend Joseph Rowlandson, and their home also served as one of the town’s garrisons. While her husband was away in Boston, pleading for additional troops to protect Lancaster, the Indians struck the town at dawn on February 10, 1676. It is estimated that forty-eight English settlers were either killed or taken captive that day, Rowlandson being one of the lucky or unlucky (depending on your outlook) to be taken captive.
Rowlandson suffered incredible hardships (as did her captors) as they traveled across central Massachusetts and into southern Vermont and New Hampshire. While other captives complained, and were quickly killed with a “knock on the head,” Rowlandson survived by making herself useful to her captors, knitting shirts, caps, and stockings. Her inner fortitude, her faith, and innate survival skills allowed her to endure the ordeal of marching through winter’s snows with little food, clothing, or shelter.
Rowlandson’s narrative, which was quite popular when it first appeared in 1682, refers to each movement on her journey as a “remove.” She chronicles twenty removes before her eventual release at Redemption Rock, located in present-day Princeton, Massachusetts, on Route 140.
Her account is important not only for what it says about her ingenuity and courage, but also because it provides an inside look at what the Native Americans were thinking and experiencing. While captive she comes to know Indian leaders such as Weetamoe, Quannopin, and even King Philip.
On the tenth of February, 1676, came the Indians in great numbers upon Lancaster. Their first coming was about sun-rising. Hearing the noise of some guns, we looked out: several houses were burning, and the smoke ascending to heaven. There were five persons taken in one house: the father, the mother, and a suckling child they knocked on the head: the other two they took and carried away alive. There were two others, who being out of their garrison on some occasion, were set upon; one was knocked on the head, the other escaped. Another there was, who, running along, was shot and wounded, and fell down; he begged of them his life, promising them money, (as they told me,) but they would not hearken to him but knocked him in the head, and stripped him naked and split open his bowels. Another, seeing many of the Indians about his barn, ventured and went out, but was quickly shot down. There were three others belonging to the same garrison who were killed; the Indians getting up upon the roof of the barn, had advantage to shoot down upon them over their fortification. Thus these murderous wretches went on burning and destroying [all] before them.
At length they came and beset our own house, and quickly it was the dolefullest day that ever mine eyes saw. The house stood upon the edge of a hill. Some of the Indians got behind the hill, others into the barn, and others behind anything that would shelter them, from all which places they shot against the house, so that the bullets seemed to fly like hail. And quickly they wounded one man among us, then another, and then a third. About two hours (according to my observation in that amazing time) they had been about the house before they prevailed to fire it (which they did with flax and hemp which they brought out of the barn—and there being no defense about the house, only two flankers at the two opposite corners, and one of them not finished). They fired it once, and one ventured out and quenched it; but they quickly fired it again, and that took.
Now is that dreadful hour come that I have often heard of, but now mine eyes see it. Some in our house were fighting for their lives, others wallowing in their blood, the house on fire over our heads, and the bloodey heathen ready to knock us on the head if we stirred out. Now might we hear mothers and children crying out for themselves and one another, Lord, what shall we do?
Then I took my children (and one of my sisters her’s) to go forth and leave the house. But as soon as we came to the door and appeared, the Indians shot so thick that the bullets rattled against the house as if one had taken an handful of stones and threw them, so that we were fain to give back. We had six stout dogs belonging to our garrison, but none of them would stir, though another time if an Indian had come to the door, they were ready to fly upon him and tear him down. The Lord hereby would make us the more to acknowledge his hand, and to see that our help is always in him. But out we must go, the fire increasing, and coming along behind us, roaring, and the Indians gaping before us with their guns, spears, and hatchets, to devour us. No sooner were we out of the house, but my brother-in-law (being before wounded, in defending the house, in or near the throat) fell down dead, whereat the Indians scornfully shouted, hallooed, and were presently upon him, stripping off his clothes. The bullets flying thick, one went through my side, and the same through the bowels and hand of my dear child in my arms. One of my elder sister’s children, named William, had then his leg broken, which the Indians perceiving, they knocked him on the head. Thus were we butchered by those merciless heathens, standing amazed, with the blood running down to our heels. My eldest sister (Elizabeth) being yet in the house, and seeing those woeful sights, the infidels hauling mothers one way, and children another, and some wallowing in their blood, and her eldest son telling her that her son William was dead, and myself was wounded, she said, And, Lord let me die with them: which was no sooner said, but she was struck with a bullet, and fell down dead over the threshold. I hope she is reaping the fruit of her good labors, being faithful to the service of God in her place. In her younger years she lay under much trouble upon spiritual accounts, till it pleased God to make that precious scripture take hold of her heart, 2 Cor. xii. 9. And he said unto me, my grace is sufficient for thee. More than twenty years after, I have heard her tell how sweet and comfortable that place was to her. But to return: the Indians laid hold of us, pulling me one way, and the children another, and said, “Come, go along with us.” I told them they would kill me. They answered, if I were willing to go along with them, they would not hurt me.
Oh! the doleful sight that now was to behold at this house! “Come, behold the works of the Lord, what desolation He has made in the earth.” Of thirty-seven persons who were in this one house none escaped either present death or a bitter captivity save only one, who might say as he, Job 1:15, ‘And I only am escaped alone to tell the news.” There were twelve killed, some shot, some stabbed with their spears, some knocked down with their hatchets. When we are in prosperity, oh, the little that we think of such dreadful sights, and to see our dear friends and relations lie bleeding out their heart-blood upon the ground! There was one who was chopped into the head with a hatchet and stripped naked, and yet was crawling up and down. It is a solemn sight to see so many Christians lying in their blood, some here and some there, like a company of sheep torn by wolves, all of them stripped naked by a company of hell-hounds, roaring, singing, ranting and insulting, as if they would have torn our very hearts out. Yet the Lord by his almighty power preserved a number of us from death, for there were twenty-four of us taken alive and carried captive.
I had often before this said that if the Indians should come I should choose rather to be killed by them than taken alive, but when it came to the trial, my mind changed; their glittering weapons so daunted my spirit that I chose rather to go along with those (as I may say) ravenous beasts than that moment to end my days. And that I may the better declare what happened to me during that grievous captivity, I shall particularly speak of the several removes we had up and down the wilderness.
Rowlandson’s story now follows her days of captivity, most of which are in constant movement. The chapters in her book follow her “removes,” or the different locations of her captivity, from her first remove to her twentieth and final remove. Her first night of captivity is spent on a hill overlooking the burning town of Lancaster. While the natives celebrate and feast upon captured farm animals, Rowlandson, stiff from her own wound, tries to comfort her wounded child through the night. The next morning they all trudge westward. Rowlandson, with her daughter in her arms, is allowed to ride on a horse part of the way, but falls over the horse’s head because there is no saddle.
For the next three days they continue their trek, with no food and little water. Arriving at the Nipmuc village of Winimisset (along the Ware River in modern-day New Braintree), Rowlandson meets Robert Pepper, who was taken captive after being wounded during the ambush of Captain Beers’ troops in Northfield in August 1675. Pepper tells Rowlandson how the Indians helped heal his wound by making a compact of oak leaves. Rowlandson decides to try the same technique and writes that “it cured me also.”
On February 18 Rowlandson’s wounded child dies, and the Indians bury her daughter on a hill. Also in the Winimisset Camp are two of Rowlandson’s other children, and she is allowed briefly to see them. Rowlandson’s “master” during captivity was Quannopin, a Narragansett sagamore married to Weetamoe (formerly the wife of King Philip’s brother Wamsutta).
While still based at the Winimisset camp, warriors set out to attack Medfield, Massachusetts, on February 21, 1676. Rowlandson recounted the Indians’ return from the attack.
The next day, to this, the Indians returned from Medfield all the company, for those that belonged to the other small company came through the town that now we were at. But before they came to us, oh, the outrageous roaring and whooping that there was! They began their din about a mile before they came to us. By their noise and whooping they signified how many they had destroyed, which was at that-time twenty-three. Those that were with us at home were gathered together as soon as they heard the whooping, and every time that the other went over their number, these at home gave (such) a shout that the very earth rung again. And thus they continued till those that had been upon the expedition were come up to the sagamore’s wigwam. And then, oh, the hideous insulting and triumphing that there was over some Englishmen’s scalps that they had taken (as their manner is) and brought with them! . . .
Now the Indians began to talk of removing from this place, some one way and some another. There were now besides myself nine English captives in this place, all of them children except one woman . . . The woman, Goodwife Joslin, told me she should never see me again and that she could find in her heart to run away; I wished her not to run away by any means, for we were near thirty miles from any English town and she very big with child and had but one week to reckon and another child in her arms, two years old, and bad rivers there were to go over, and we were feeble with our poor and coarse entertainment.
This woman and her two-year-old child were later killed for complaining too much and begging to go home: They are tomahawked on the head and their bodies thrown into a fire; the Indians tell the other captive children that if they attempt to go home they “would serve them in a like manner.”
The next remove is to the Bacquag River (present-day Millers River in Orange, Massachusetts) and Rowlandson believes the reason for this “fifth remove” is because English soldiers are approaching. Rowlandson recounts how the soldiers stopped their approach when they reached a river, criticizing that “God did not give them courage or activity to go over after us.”
Food is scarce for both Rowlandson and her captors, and she writes how the Indians boiled an old horse’s leg, “and we drank of the broth as soon as it was ready.” The sixth remove finds her in Squakeag—present-day Northfield—at a huge camp where the “Indians were as thick as the trees.” After the eighth remove, to the west side of the Connecticut River, Rowlandson comes face-to-face with King Philip. Curiously, her writing on the subject is as much about the evils of smoking as it is about King Philip.
However, the reader sees an indication of King Philip’s kindness toward Rowlandson, and his concern for his own son.
Mary Rowlandson’s time with the Indians was marked by constant movement, a tactic they used throughout the war to avoid costly pitched battles with English colonial troops. (From History of King Philip, John S.C. Abbott, 1899)
Then I went to see King Philip. He bade me come in and sit down and asked me whether I would smoke it (a usual compliment nowadays among saints and sinners), but this no way suited me. For though I had formerly used tobacco, yet I had left it ever since I was first taken. It seems to be a bait the devil lays to make men lose their precious time. I remember with shame how formerly when I had taken two or three pipes I was presently ready for another, such a bewitching thing it is. But I thank God He has now given me power over it; surely there are many who may be better employed than to lie sucking a stinking tobacco pipe.
Now the Indians gather their forces to go against Northampton. Overnight one went about yelling and hooting to give notice of the design, whereupon they fell to boiling of groundnuts and parching of corn (as many as had it) for their provision, and in the morning away they went. During my abode in this place Philip spoke to me to make a shirt for his boy, which I did, for which he gave me a shilling. I offered the money to my master, but he bade me keep it, and with it I bought a piece of horseflesh. Afterwards he asked me to make a cap for his boy, for which he invited me to dinner. I went, and he gave me a pancake about as big as two fingers; it was made of parched wheat, beaten and fried in bear’s grease, but I thought I never tasted pleasanter meat in my life. There was a squaw who spoke to me to make a shirt for her sannup [husband], for which she gave me a piece of bear. Another asked me to knit a pair of stockings, for which she gave me a quart of peas. I boiled the peas and bear together and invited my master and mistress to dinner, but the proud gossip [i.e., companion], because I served them both in one dish, would eat nothing except one bit that he gave her upon the point of his knife.
While Rowlandson’s hardships were severe, she makes it clear she was never sexually molested by any Indian. Even while wandering about the camp or in the woods looking for her son, she “met with all sorts of Indians . . . and there being no Christian soul near me, yet not one of them offered the least imaginable miscarriage to me.” (In fact, rape by Indians was almost unheard of.) After the ninth remove, farther up the Connecticut River, probably in modern-day New Hampshire, Rowlandson tells of her trials and tribulations trying to gain enough food to live on.
But I was fain to go and look after something to satisfy my hunger, and going among the wigwams I went into one and there found a squaw who showed herself very kind to me and gave me a piece of bear. I put it into my pocket and came home but could not find an opportunity to broil it for fear they would get it from me, and there it lay all that day and night in my stinking pocket. In the morning I went to the same squaw who had a kettle of groundnuts boiling; I asked her to let me boil my piece of bear in her kettle, which she did and gave me some groundnuts to eat with it, and I cannot but think how pleasant it was to me. I have sometime seen bear baked very handsomely among the English, and some like it, but the thoughts that it was bear made me tremble, but now that was savory to me that one would think was enough to turn the stomach of a brute creature.
Rowlandson’s eleventh remove was still farther north up the Connecticut River. She notes how some Indians, while going to the French for powder, were ambushed by Mohawks, killing four of them, forcing the rest to turn back. Rowlandson believes this is a blessing, fearing her captive son might be sold to the French; “which might have been worse for him had he been sold to the French than it proved to be in remaining with the Indians.” (This attack by the Mohawks illustrates that King Philip was unsuccessful in allying his Algonquian warriors with their long time enemy. Had the Mohawks and the Mohegans joined King Philip, the result of the war might have been different.)
By Rowlandson’s fifteenth remove, the Indians had once again reentered Massachusetts. She writes how the Indians suffered from lack of food and shelter, often sleeping in the rain, while she found a wigwam to share: “Thus the Lord dealt mercifully with me many times, and I fared better than many of them.” But other times she was threatened with death for infractions such as violating Indian customs or begging. “Then I went home to my mistress’ wigwam, and they told me I disgraced my master with begging, and if I did so anymore they would knock me in the head. I told them they had as good knock me in the head as starve to death.”
Her first real glimmer of hope occurred while moving back toward modern-day Petersham, where she learned “I must go to Wachusett to my master, for there was a letter come from the council to the sagamores about redeeming the captives and that there would be another in fourteen days and that I must be ready.” During her trek to Wachusett (the nineteenth remove), she again had occasion to meet King Philip.
They said when we went out that we must travel to Wachusett this day. But a bitter weary day I had of it, traveling now three days together without resting any day between. At last, after many weary steps, I saw Wachusett Hills but many miles off. Then we came to a great swamp through which we traveled up to the knees in mud and water, which was heavy going to one tired before. Being almost spent, I thought I should have sunk down at last and never got out, but I may say, as in Psal. 94:18, “When my foot slipped, Thy mercy, O Lord, held me up.” Going along, having indeed my life but little spirit, Philip, who was in the company, came up and took me by the hand and said, “Two weeks more and you shall be mistress again.” I asked him if he spake true. He answered, “Yes, and quickly you shall come to your master again who has been gone from us three weeks.” After many weary steps we came to Wachusett where he was, and glad I was to see him. He asked me when I washed me. I told him not this month. Then he fetched me some water himself and bid me wash and gave me the glass to see how I looked and bid his squaw give me something to eat. So she gave me a mess of beans and meat and a little groundnut cake. I was wonderfully revived with this favor showed me, Psal. 106:46 “He made them also to be pitied, of all those that carried them captives.”
My master had three squaws, living sometimes with one and sometimes with another one. This old squaw at whose wigwam [now] I was, my master had been [with] those three weeks. Another was Wettimore [Weetamoe], with whom I had lived and served all this while. A severe and proud dame she was, bestowing every day in dressing herself neat as much time as any of the gentry of the land, powdering her hair and painting her face, going with necklaces, with jewels in her ears, and bracelets upon her hands. When she had dressed herself, her work was to make girdles of wampum and beads. The third squaw was a younger one by whom he had two papooses. By that time I was refreshed by the old squaw with whom my master was. Wettimore’s maid came to call me home, at which I fell a-weeping. Then the old squaw told me, to encourage me, that if I wanted victuals I should come to her, and that I should lie there in her wigwam. Then I went with the maid and quickly came again and lodged there. The squaw laid a mat under me and good rug over me; the first time I had any such kindness showed to me.
While at the Wachusett Camp, two Christian Indians bring news about a possible redemption of captives. Rowlandson is asked her advice about redemption pay, and she is wise enough to give a figure high enough to make the Indians want to complete the exchange, but still within her husband’s financial means.
When the letter was come, the sagamores met to consult about the captives and called me to them to inquire how much my husband would give to redeem me. When I came, I sat down among them as I was wont to do as their manner is. Then they bade me stand up and said they were the General Court. They bid me speak what I thought he would give. Now knowing that all we had was destroyed by the Indians, I was in a great strait. I thought if I should speak of but a little, it would be slighted and hinder the matter; if of a great sum, I knew not where it would be procured. Yet at a venture, I said twenty pounds yet desired them to take less, but they would not hear of that but sent that message to Boston that for twenty pounds I should be redeemed.
Shortly after this council, the Indians held a powwow to prepare themselves before attacking Sudbury, which they did on April 18. Rowlandson observes that the Indians came back victorious but without the usual rejoicing—perhaps the natives were beginning to realize that even with the victories, this war of attrition was wearing them down. Rowlandson described the aftermath of the Sudbury attack.
And they went out not so rejoicing, but they came home with as great a victory, for they said they had killed two captains and almost an hundred men. One Englishman they brought alive with them; and he said it was too true for they had made sad work at Sudbury, as indeed it proved. Yet they came home without that rejoicing and triumphing over their victory which they were wont to show at other times, but rather like dogs (as they say) which have lost their ears. Yet I could not perceive that it was for their own loss of men. They said they had not lost but above five or six, and I missed none, except in one wigwam. When they went, they acted as if the devil had told them that they should gain the victory; and now they acted as if the devil had told them that they should have a fall. Whither it were so or no, I cannot tell, but so it proved for quickly they began to fall and so held on that summer till they came to utter ruin.
They came home on a Sabbath day, and the powwow that kneeled upon the deerskin came home (I may say without abuse) as black as the devil. When my master came home, he came to me and bid me make a shirt for his papoose of a Holland lace pillowbeer. About that time there came an Indian to me and bid me come to his wigwam at night, and he would give me some pork, and groundnuts, which I did. And as I was eating, another Indian said to me, “He seems to be your good friend, but he killed two Englishmen at Sudbury, and there lie their clothes behind you.” I looked behind me, and there I saw bloody clothes with bullet holes in them, yet the Lord suffered not this wretch to do me any hurt. Yea, instead of that, he many times refreshed me; five or six times did he and his squaw refresh my feeble carcass. If I went to their wigwam at any time, they would always give me something, and yet they were strangers that I never saw before. Another squaw gave me a piece of fresh pork and a little salt with it and lent me her pan to fry it in, and I cannot but remember what a sweet, pleasant and delightful relish that bit had to me to this day. So little do we prize common mercies when we have them to the full.
Rowlandson and the Indians then complete the twentieth remove, traveling just three or four miles, still within the vicinity of Mount Wachusett. Now, negotiations proceed in earnest, and an Englishman, John Hoar, arrives in camp accompanied by two Christian Indians.
On Sabbath day, the sun being about an hour high in the afternoon, came Mr. John Hoar (the council permitting him and his own forward spirit inclining him) together with the two forementioned Indians, Tom and Peter, with their third letter from the council. When they came near, I was abroad; though I saw them not, they presently called me in and bade me sit down and not stir. Then they catched up their guns and away they ran as if an enemy had been at hand, and the guns went off apace. I manifested some great trouble, and they asked me what was the matter. I told them I thought they had killed the Englishman (for they had in the meantime informed me that an Englishman was come). They said, “No.” They shot over his horse and under, and before his horse, and they pushed him this way and that way at their pleasure, showing what they could do. Then they let them come to their wigwams. I begged of them to let me see the Englishman, but they would not; but there was I fain to sit their pleasure. When they had talked their fill with him, they suffered me to go to him. We asked each other of our welfare, and how my husband did and all my friends. He told me they were all well and would be glad to see me. Amongst other things which my husband sent me, there came a pound of tobacco which I sold for nine shillings in money, for many of the Indians for want of tobacco smoked hemlock and ground ivy. It was a great mistake in any who thought I sent for tobacco, for through the favor of God that desire was overcome.
I now asked them whether I should go home with Mr. Hoar. They answered, “No,” one and another of them. And it being night we lay down with that answer.
The next morning Hoar invites the sachems to dine with him even though most of his provisions had been stolen in the night. No further decisions are made that day, as the Indians were “getting ready for their dance.” That night, after the powwow, Hoar and Rowlandson meet with James the Printer, a Praying Indian who was taught to read and write by the Reverend John Eliot. Years earlier, Eliot had established the large Christian Indian community in South Natick.
When we were laid down, my master went out of the wigwam, and by and by sent in an Indian called James the Printer who told Mr. Hoar that my master would let me go home tomorrow if he would let him have one pint of liquors. Then Mr. Hoar called his own Indians, Tom and Peter, and bid them go and see whether he would promise it before them three, and if he would, he should have it, which he did, and he had it. Then Philip, smelling the business, called me to him and asked me what I would give him to tell me some good news and speak a good word for me. I told him I could not tell what to give him. I would anything I had and asked him what he would have. He said two coats and twenty shillings in money and half a bushel of seed corn and some tobacco. I thanked him for his love, but I knew the good news as well as the crafty fox.
My master, after he had his drink, quickly came ranting into the wigwam again and called for Mr. Hoar, drinking to him and saying he was a good man. And then again he would say, “Hang (the) rogue.” Being almost drunk, he would drink to him, and yet presently say he should be hanged. Then he called for me. I trembled to hear him, yet I was fain to go to him, and he drank to me, showing no incivility. He was the first Indian I saw drunk all the while that I was amongst them. At last his squaw ran out, and he after her round the wigwam with his money jingling at his knees, but she escaped him. But having an old squaw, he ran to her, and so through the Lord’s mercy, we were no more troubled that night.
Yet I had not a comfortable night’s rest, for I think I can say I did not sleep for three nights together. The night before the letter came from the council I could not rest, I was so full of fears and troubles, God many times leaving us most in the dark when deliverance is nearest. Yea, at this time I could not rest night nor day. The next night I was overjoyed, Mr. Hoar being come and that with such good tidings. The third night I was even swallowed up with the thoughts of things, that ever I should go home again and that I must go, leaving my children behind me in the wilderness so that sleep was now almost departed from mine eyes.
On Tuesday morning they called their General Court (as they call it) to consult and determine whether I should go home or no. And they all as one man did seemingly consent to it that I should go home except Philip who would not come among them . . .
. . . But to return again to my going home where we may see a remarkable change of providence. At first they were all against it except my husband would come for me, but afterwards they assented to it and seemed much to rejoice in it. Some asked me to send them some bread, others some tobacco, others shaking me by the hand, offering me a hood and scarf to ride in, not one moving hand or tongue against it. Thus hath the Lord answered my poor desire and the many earnest requests of others put up unto God for me.
Rowlandson, Hoar, and the two Christian Indians then leave the camp, traveling first to Lancaster. Because every building in the village has been destroyed they spend the night in an abandoned farmhouse just outside of town. The next morning they travel through Concord, where Rowlandson visited relatives and friends before pushing on to Boston to be reunited with her husband. (Months later she was reunited with a son and a daughter who were also released by the Indians.)
Mary Rowlandson ends her narrative with these final thoughts:
If trouble from smaller matters begin to arise in me, I have something at hand to check myself with and say, why am I troubled? It was but the other day that if I had had the world I would have given it for my freedom or to have been a servant to a Christian. I have learned to look beyond present and smaller troubles and to be quieted under them, as Moses said, Exod. 14:13, “Stand still and see the salvation of the Lord.”
