f 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.

THE FIRST REMOVE

Now away we must go with those barbarous creatures, with our bodies
wounded and bleeding, and our hearts no less than our bodies. About a
mile we went that night, up upon a hill within sight of the town, where
they intended to lodge. There was hard by a vacant house (deserted by
the English before, for fear of the Indians). I asked them whether I
might not lodge in the house that night, to which they answered, "What,
will you love English men still?" This was the dolefulest night that
ever my eyes saw. Oh the roaring, and singing and dancing, and yelling
of those black creatures in the night, which made the place a lively
resemblance of hell. And as miserable was the waste that was there made
of horses, cattle, sheep, swine, calves, lambs, roasting pigs, and fowl
(which they had plundered in the town), some roasting, some lying and
burning, and some boiling to feed our merciless enemies; who were joyful
enough, though we were disconsolate. To add to the dolefulness of the
former day, and the dismalness of the present night, my thoughts ran
upon my losses and sad bereaved condition. All was gone, my husband
gone (at least separated from me, he being in the Bay; and to add to my
grief, the Indians told me they would kill him as he came homeward), my
children gone, my relations and friends gone, our house and home and all
our comforts--within door and without--all was gone (except my life),
and I knew not but the next moment that might go too. There remained
nothing to me but one poor wounded babe, and it seemed at present
worse than death that it was in such a pitiful condition, bespeaking
compassion, and I had no refreshing for it, nor suitable things to
revive it. Little do many think what is the savageness and brutishness
of this barbarous enemy, Ay, even those that seem to profess more than
others among them, when the En