The errand of this horde was to murder the inhabitants and burn the dwellings of an unprotected town; its ultimate purpose was to please the Abenaki Indians of Maine. These Indians had complained to the governor of Canada about some fancied or real wrong done them by the English, and begged for redress. The prayer of the savages, and the policy of the French, were in full accord, and this expedition was sent out to prove to the Indians that the French were their friends and avengers. Its object was accomplished.
Leaving the dogs, sledges, and such baggage as suited his purpose, at the mouth of West River, under the shadow of Wantastiquet, De Rouville, with scouts well advanced, pushed forward his eager army on its last day's march with caution and celerity, and reached the bluff overlooking our valley on the night of Feb. 28, 1703-4. Here, behind a low ridge, the packs were unstrapped, the war-paint put on, and final preparations made. Not long before dawn, at the darkest hour of the night, the attack was made on the sleeping town with fire and sword.
Many attempts have been made to depict the shocking tragedies of this dreadful morning, but no pen or pencil ever has succeeded in fitly portraying the terrible reality, the ghastly horrors of this crowning event in the life of a frontier town.
There's a lesson ever hiding Deep within the floweret's cell, Of an endless trust abiding Safe with Him who guideth well.
As the flowers are ever gazing To the land above the stars, We, our earnest life upraising, Look beyond life's sunset bars,
With our eager footsteps wending, Strive to reach the summits grand, Where, the past and future blending, His own guardian angels stand.
BY FRANCES C. SPARHAWK, Author of "A Lazy Man's Work."
It was the fifteenth of June. The expected ships had joined Commodore Warren, and his fleet of eleven men-of-war bore into the harbor. Signals had been agreed upon between the two commanders. The brush was piled upon Green Hill ready to send its columns of flame into the air when the Dutch flag at the mast-head of Warren's ship should announce that he was ready.
Under the inspiring promise of this flag, and in the blaze of the answering signals, the troops, with drums beating and colors flying, were to rush to the assault. Archdale's opinion, that heavy guns at the lighthouse would be disastrous to their old enemy the Island Battery, had been confirmed by two Swiss deserters, and that place was now almost untenable under a galling fire. The Circular Battery, built to protect the entrance to the city, was little better than a mass of ruins, while the fire that morning from Pepperell's fascine batteries was so hot that the enemy could not stand to their guns. Land and sea trembled with the shock of the cannonade. In the midst of all this Warren came ashore. The troops were drawn up as if for parade, and the Commodore addressed them in a few spirited words which stirred their devotion to the flag under which they were fighting. Then Pepperell stepped forward and swept his keen eyes along the ranks of the men. He had a knowledge of them and an interest in them that Warren could not even understand. To the Englishman they were so many soldiers eager to uphold the honor of the British nation, and he was proud of them. But Pepperell saw the forests to be hewn, the fields to be reclaimed from the wilderness, the cities yet unbuilded. He saw the life, great, though half its greatness was not dreamed of, that was to pour in through this gate which to-day's work was to open. For, not only that fear and hatred of Popery which marked his age, but, already, that American love of liberty, to which priestcraft is so inimical, burned within him. A touch of Winkelried's fervor kindled his eye. If into his breast, and into the breasts of his comrades, the bayonets of the enemy were to be planted, yet should a way be made for his countrymen.