The English, unwilling that Philip should be sheltered among the Nipmucks, whom they regarded as their allies, sent a force into their territory to remonstrate with them; but the Indians, lying in ambush, fell upon them near the appointed place, and killed most of them. The remainder fled to the village of Brookfield, where a house was hastily fortified, and they stood a siege for two days, when the Indians set fire to the house; but the flames were extinguished by violent and sudden rain, and soon after a party coming to the relief of the besieged the Indians fled. A few days later the village of Deerfield was burned; and on the same day, “it being Sunday, the town of Hadley was attacked at the time of public worship, and the people thrown into the utmost confusion, when on a sudden there appeared in the midst of the affrighted inhabitants a man of venerable aspect, who put himself at their head, and led them to the onset.” The army was completely routed, but the stranger, who was almost supposed to be an angel from heaven, had disappeared. It was the regicide General Goffe, who was at that time concealed in the town. About the same time, Captain Beers and his company were cut off at Deerfield by a brook, which, running red with their blood, is called to this day “the Bloody Brook.” Deerfield was a devoted place; the harvests were gathered in under force of arms, and, says the old narrative, “on September 18th, that most fatal day, the saddest that ever befell New England, as the company under Captain Lathrop were marching along with the carts, they were suddenly set upon, and ninety of them killed, not above seven or eight escaping;” and thus fell “that choice company of young men, the very flower of the county of Essex; all culled out of the towns belonging to that county; their dear relations at home mourning for them, like Rachel for her children.” The village of Springfield was burned; the more distant settlements were deserted, and all “the pleasant residences which had been won by hard toil in the desert, the stations of civilisation in the wilderness, were laid waste.” A quick alarm ran through those sylvan bowers, All the wild tumult of approaching war: And in the deep hush of the midnight hours The dismal war-whoop sounded from afar, Rousing the slumberers up with its unearthly jar. And with the morning’s light was sadly traced, Where those wild dwellers of the woods had gone; Behind them lay a black and smoking waste, As carrying fire and terror they went on.