"They carried these foresters into fair Nottingham,
As many there did know,
They digged them graves in their churchyard,
And they buried them all a-row."
Nottingham is only the other side of the river, and they were not
exactly all a-row. You may read in the churchyard at Dunstable,
under the "Memento Mori," and the name of one of them, how they
"departed this life," and
"This man with seven more that lies in
this grave was slew all in a day by
the Indians."
The stones of some others of the company stand around the common
grave with their separate inscriptions. Eight were buried here,
but nine were killed, according to the best authorities.
"Gentle river, gentle river,
Lo, thy streams are stained with gore,
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willowed shore.
"All beside thy limpid waters,
All beside thy sands so bright,
_Indian_ Chiefs and Christian warriors
Joined in fierce and mortal fight."
It is related in the History of Dunstable, that on the return of
Farwell the Indians were engaged by a fresh party which they
compelled to retreat, and pursued as far as the Nashua, where
they fought across the stream at its mouth. After the departure
of the Indians, the figure of an Indian's head was found carved
by them on a large tree by the shore, which circumstance has
given its name to this part of the village of Nashville, - the
"Indian Head." "It was observed by some judicious," says Gookin,
referring to Philip's war, "that at the beginning of the war the
English soldiers made a nothing of the Indians, and many spake
words to this effect: that one Englishman was sufficient to chase
ten Indians; many reckoned it was no other but _Veni, vidi,
vici._" But we may conclude that the judicious would by this time
have made a different observation.
Farwell appears to have been the only one who had studied his
profession, and understood the business of hunting Indians. He
lived to fight another day, for the next year he was Lovewell's
lieutenant at Pequawket, but that time, as we have related, he
left his bones in the wilderness. His name still reminds us of
twilight days and forest scouts on Indian trails, with an uneasy
scalp; - an indispensable hero to New England. As the more recent
poet of Lovewell's fight has sung, halting a little but bravely
still: -
"Then did the crimson streams that flowed
Seem like the waters of the brook,
That brightly shine, that loudly dash,
Far down the cliffs of Agiochook."
These battles sound incredible to us. I think that posterity
will doubt if such things ever were; if our bold ancestors who
settled this land were not struggling rather with the forest
shadows, and not with a copper-colored race of men. They were
vapors, fever and ague of the unsettled woods. Now, only a few
arrow-heads are turned up by the plough.
