April 13, 1676 In the Year of Our Lord

I hate these...creatures. I cannot find it in my heart at this moment to love them, as Christ calls us to. I cannot even identify with them as of this moment. The past few days have rendered me numb toward them. They are surpassing the legends that are told from town to town. The stories of Indian tribes and their devilish activity do not give justice to their fiendish nature.

I lay by the fire on a cold night and a large branch was in the way of the fire, keeping some of the heat from me. I moved it, to warm up. My mistress saw this and moved it back into place. At this, I looked up at her and she threw a handful of ashes into my eyes. I have never felt a burning like I did that night. I couldn't even open my eyes, but had to lay the whole night through with them closed. My tears slowly cleaned out my eyes and with the morning I could see again.

Later, King Philip's maid cam in and asked for a piece of my apron, to make a pouch for her child. I told her no, and my mistress bade me give it. I told her no still and she said that if I did not, she would tear it off of my apron. I responded by saying if that happened, I would tear her coat. At that, my mistress took a stick big enough to kill me and raised it threateningly. She swung, but I moved just in time and gave up the apron in attempt to save my life.

Even later, and most tragically, I came across a boy taken from Springfield who was lying outside a wigwam with dysentery from eating so much blood. They had turned him out on a bitter cold day without food or fire. The boy had nothing on but a shirt and waistcoat. It would melt a heart of stone to see him.

It seems that these people have no souls.