University of Virginia Library

THE MURDERER'S GRAVE.

A few hundred yards from the small stream which,
known by the whites under the appellation of `Line
Creek,' divides the territory of the Muscogees or Creek
confederacy from the state of Alabama, stands, or rather
stood, a ruined cottage of logs. Travelling through the
wilderness several years ago, I passed this desolate
spot. The walls, blackened by the smoke of many fires
and in part already decayed, stood tottering to their fall;
the roof was entirely gone; a part only of the chimney
was left, built in the custom of that country, of split
sticks, and thickly plastered on the inside with mud.
The fences had fallen around a small field which showed
traces of former cultivation, and was now fast filling up
with briars, plumb bushes, and sedge grass, where the
still evident marks of the hoe and the cornfield gave
proof that human beings had once found there a home.
The mists of night were closing around us, the dark
magnolia forest which frowned on the secluded spot,
and the thick and gloomy swamp of the Line Creek,
which stretched its unhealthful morass almost to the
door, gave to the whole scene the stillness and horror of
death. Although habituated during a journey of many
days to the solitude and gloom of the wilderness, I
was struck with the peculiarly lugubrious aspect of the
scene, and with an undefinable feeling of melancholy.
I stopped my horse to survey it more at leisure. My
companion who had ridden a few yards in advance, not
hearing the accustomed sound of my horse's tramp,
turned his head to learn the cause of my lingering, and
rode back to the spot where I had halted.

`Here,' said he, `is Riley's grave. Remark that small
mound of earth resembling the heap of soil accumulated
from a fallen tree, and which is, in truth, the effect of
the trunk to which those decaying pinknots once belonged;
there the murderer fell, and there he lies buried.'

Not being so familiar with the legends of this wild
region as to remember the story of the man whose crime
and death had given a name to this lonely scene of desolation,
I inquired into his history, and listened in deep
and silent interest to a tale of revenge and remorse,
strongly illustrative of the aboriginal character.

Barney Riley, as he was termed by the whites—his
Indian appellation is now forgotten—was a petty chieftain
belonging to the confederacy of the Upper Creeks.
Being a `half breed,' and, like most of the mixed race,
more intelligent than the full blooded Indians, he acquired
a strong influence among his native tribe. Regarding
the people of his father as allied to him in blood and
friendship, he took very early a decided part in favor of
the United States in the dissensions among the Creek
nation, and, after the breaking out of war in 1812, joined
the American forces with his small band of warriors.
Brave and hardy, accustomed to confront danger and
conquer difficulties, he led his men to battle, and in
many instances proved by his activity of material service
to the army. His gallantry and abilities attracted
the notice of the commander in chief, and Riley's name
was coupled with applause in many of the despatches
during the campaign. On the restoration of peace, he
returned to his people honored with the thanks of his
`Great Father,' and sat down to cultivate his fields
and pursue the chase as in times gone by. Although
distinguished in war and in council, he was still young,
and devoting himself to his one wife, a lovely Indian girl,
he seemed contented and happy.

About this time the restoration of tranquillity, and the
opening of the rich lands just ceded to the United States
on the upper waters of the Alabama, began to attract
numerous emigrants from the Atlantic settlements, and
the military road was soon thronged with caravans hastening
to these fertile countries at the West. The country
from the Oakmulgee to the settlements on the Mississippi,
was still one howling wilderness, and many discontented
spirits among the conquered tribes still meditated
a hostile stroke against their white oppressors. Travelling
was of course hazardous and insecure, and persons
who were not able to associate in parties strong enough
for mutual defence, were fain to procure the guidance
and protection of some well known warrior or chief,
whose name and presence might ensure a safe passage
through those troubled countries.

Of this class was L—. I knew him formerly and
had heard some remote allusion to his fate. Though his
misfortunes and embarrassments had driven him to seek
a distant asylum, a warmer heart beat not in a human
bosom. Frank and manly, open to kindness and prompt
to meet friendship, he was loved by all who knew him,
and `eyes unused to weep' glistened in bidding `God
speed!' to their old associate. L—, had been a companion
in arms with Riley, and knew his sagacity, his
courage, and fidelity. Under his direction he led his
small family of slaves towards the spot upon which he had
fixed for his future home, and traversed the wild and
dangerous path in safety and peace. Like most men of
his eager and sanguine temperament, L— was easily
excited to anger, and though ready to atone for the injury
done in the warmth of feeling, did not always control
his passions before their out-burst. Some slight
cause of altercation produced a quarrel with his guide,
and a blow from the hand of L—, was treasured up by

Riley, with deep threats of vengeance. On the banks
of yonder creek he watched his time, and the bullet too
truly aimed, closed the career of one who little dreamed
of death at the moment. His slaves, terrified at the
death of their master, fled in various directions and carried
the news of his murder to the nearest settlements.

The story of L—'s unhappy end soon reached his
family, and his nearest relatives took immediate measures
to bring the murderer to justice. Riley knew that
punishment would speedily follow his crime, but took no
steps to evade or prevent his doom. The laws of retaliation
among his countrymen are severe but simple—
`blood for blood'—and he `might run who read them.'
On the first notice of a demand, he boldly avowed his
deed and gave himself up for trial. No thought seemed
to enter his mind of denial or escape. A deep and settled
remorse had possessed his thoughts, and influenced
his conduct. He had no wish to shun the retribution
which he knew was required. When his judges were
assembled in the council at the public square, he stood
up and addressed them.

`Fathers!' said he, `I have killed my brother—my
friend. He struck me, and I slew him. That honor
which forbade me to suffer a blow without inflicting
vengeance, forbids me to deny the deed or to attempt to
escape the punishment you may decree. Fathers! I
have no wish to live. My life is forfeited to your law,
and I offer it as the sole return for the life I have taken.
All I ask for is to die a warrior's death. Let me not
die the death of a dog, but boldly confront it like a brave
man who fears it not. I have braved death in battle.
I do not fear it. I shall not shrink from it now.
Fathers! bury me where I fall, and let no one mourn
for the man who murdered his friend. He had fought
by my side—he trusted me. I loved him, and had sworn
to protect him.'

Arrayed in his splendid dress of ceremony, he walked
slowly and gravely to the place of execution, chanting
in a steady voice his death song, and recounting his
deeds of prowess. Seating himself in front of the
assembled tribe upon yonder fallen tree, and facing the
declining sun, he opened the ruffle of his embroidered
shirt, and, crossing his hands upon his breast, gave with
his own voice the signal of death, unmoved and unappalled.
Six balls passed through both his hands and his
bosom, and he fell backward so composedly as not to
lift his feet from the grass on which they rested. He
was buried where he fell, and that small mound marks
the scene of his punishment; that hillock is the murderer's
grave; that hovel, whose ruins now mark the
spot, was erected for his widow, who lingered a few
seasons in sorrow, supporting a wretched existence by
cultivating yonder little field. She was never seen to
smile, or to mingle with her tribe; she held no more
intercourse with her fellows than was unavoidable and
accidental, and now sleeps by the side of her husband.
The Indian shuns the spot, for he deems that the spirit
of the murderer inhabits it. The traveller views the
scene with curiosity and horror, on account of its story,
and, pausing for a few moments to survey this lonely and
desolate glade, hastens on to more cheerful and happy
regions. With this short narrative we put spurs to our
horses, and, hurrying along the road, in a few moments
found ourselves beyond the gloomy and tangled forests
of the creek.