h a party of Pocasset warriors. Twenty of the inhabitants of
Taunton armed themselves and followed their Indian guide. He led them
to a spot now called Gardiner's Neck, in the town of Swanzey.

At the beginning of the war, Wetamoo, flushed with hope, had marched
to the conflict leading three hundred warriors in her train. She was
now hiding in thickets, swamps, and dens, with but twenty-six
followers, and they dejected and despairing. Next to King Philip,
Wetamoo had been the most energetic of the foes of the English. She
was inspired with much of his indomitable courage, and was never
wanting in resources. The English came upon them by surprise, and
captured every one but Wetamoo herself. The heroic queen, too proud to
be captured, instantly threw off all her clothing, seized a broken
piece of wood, and plunged into the stream. Worn down by exhaustion
and famine, her nerveless arm failed her, and she sank beneath the
waves. Her body, like a bronze statue of marvelous symmetry, was soon
after found washed upon the shore. As faithful chroniclers, we must
declare, though with a blush, that the English cut off her head, and
set it upon a pole in their streets, a trophy ghastly, bloody,
revolting. Many of her subjects were in Taunton as captives. When they
beheld the features of their beloved queen, they filled the air with
shrieks of lamentation.

The situation of Philip was now indescribably deplorable. All the
confederate tribes had abandoned him; the most faithful of his
followers had already perished. His only brother was dead; his wife
and only son were slaves in the hands of the English, doomed to
unending bondage; every other relative was cold in death. The few
followers who still, for their own protection, accompanied him in his
flight, were seeking in dismay to save their own lives. His domain,
which once spread over wide leagues of mountain and forest, was now
contracted to the dark recesses and dismal swamps where, as a hunted
beast, he sought his lair. There was no place of retreat for him. All
the Connecticut Indians had become his bitter foes, because he had
embroiled them in a war which had secured their ruin. The Mohawks,
upon the Hudson, were thirsting for his blood.

Still, this indomitable man would not think of yielding. He
determined, with a resolution which seemed never to give way, to fight
till a bullet from the foe should pierce his brain. In this hour of
utter hopelessness, one of Philip's warr