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12

THE BURNING OF JAMESTOWN.

BACON'S REBELLION.

Not an hour's ride from Williamsburg, the seat of the venerable William and Mary College, lie the ruins of Jamestown—part of the tower of the old brick church, piles of bricks, and a number of tombstones with quaint inscriptions, all half overgrown by copse and brambles, being all that remains of the first town of Virginia. At the time of its destruction it could not have been a considerable place. It had the church, a state-house, and a few dwellings built of imported bricks, not more than eighteen in number, if so many. The other houses were probably framed, with some log-huts. Our accounts of the place are meagre, and derived from different sources.

Nor have we a very full account of the circumstances attending its destruction. So far as they are gathered they amount to this: Sir William Berkeley, who at the outset of his administration had been a good governor, was displaced during the troubles at home, and when he returned, had been soured, and proved to be exacting and tyrannical. Refusing to allow a force to be led against the Indian enemy, the people took it in their own hands. Berkeley had a show of right in the matter. Indian chiefs had come to John Washington, the great-grandfather of George Washington, to treat of peace. Washington was colonel of Westmoreland County, and

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he had these messengers killed. Berkeley was indignant. “They came in peace,” said he, “and I would have sent them in peace if they had killed my father and mother.” The bloody act aroused the vengeance of the Indians, and they fell on the frontier and massacred men, women, and children. The governor considered it a just retribution, and refused authority for reprisals. The people, who had no notion that innocent parties should suffer for one man's barbarous deed, organized. They chose Nathaniel Bacon, who was a popular young lawyer, for their leader, and asked Berkeley to confirm him. This request was refused. When some new murders by the Indians occurred, Bacon marched against the enemy, and the governor proclaimed him and his men rebels. When Bacon returned in triumph he was elected a member of the assembly from Henrico Country, and that assembly passed laws of such a popular nature that Berkeley, in alarm, left Jamestown. Bacon raised a force of five hundred men, and Berkeley, who possessed high personal courage, met them alone. He uncovered his breast and said, “A fair mark. Shoot!” But when Bacon explained that he merely asked a commission, the people being in peril from the enemy, this was granted; but no sooner had Bacon departed to attack the Indians than Berkeley withdrew to the Eastern Shore, where he collected a force of a thousand men from Accomac, to whom he offered pay and plunder. With these he returned to Jamestown, and proclaimed Bacon and his adherents rebels and traitors.

Bacon, having severely chastised the Indians, returned; but only a few of his followers remained. This was in September, 1676. He laid regular siege to Jamestown; but, as his force was so weak, he feared a sortie by overwhelming numbers. To avert this, and gain time to complete his works, he resorted to stratagem. By means of a picked party, sent at night, he captured the wives of the leading inhabitants. These, the next day, he placed on the summit of a small work in sight of the town, and kept them thus exposed until he had completed his lines, when he released them. Berkeley sallied out, and was repulsed. He could not depend on his own men, and that night he retired in his vessels. Bacon entered the town next morning, and after consultation, it was agreed to destroy the place. At seven o'clock in the evening, the torch was applied, and in the morning the tower of the church and a few chimneys were all that were left standing.

A number of Berkeley's men now joined Bacon, who was undisputed master of the colony; but dying shortly after, his party dispersed. Berkeley, reinstated, took signal vengeance and executed about twenty of the most prominent of Bacon's friends. He was only stopped by the positive orders of the King, by whom he was removed, and Lord Culpepper, almost as great a tyrant, sent in his room.

Mad Berkeley believed, with his gay cavaliers,
And the ruffians he brought from the Accomac shore,
He could ruffle our spirit by rousing our fears,
And lord it again as he lorded before:
It was—“Traitors, be dumb!”
And—“Surrender, ye scum!”
And that Bacon, our leader, was rebel, he swore.
A rebel? Not he! He was true to the throne;
For the King, at a word, he would lay down his life;
But to listen unmoved to the piteous moan
When the redskin was plying the hatchet and knife,
And shrink from the fray,
Was not the man's way—
It was Berkeley, not Bacon, who stirred up the strife.
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On the outer plantations the savages burst,
And scattered around desolation and woe;
And Berkeley, possessed by some spirit accurst,
Forbade us to deal for our kinsfolk a blow;
Though when, weapons in hand,
We made our demand,
He sullenly suffered our forces to go.
Then while we were doing our work for the crown,
And risking our lives in the perilous fight,
He sent lying messengers out, up and down,
To denounce us as outlaws—mere malice and spite;
Then from Accomac's shore
Brought a thousand or more,
Who swaggered the country around, day and night.
Returning in triumph, instead of reward
For the marches we made and the battles we won,
There were threats of the fetters or bullet or sword—
Were these a fair guerdon for what we had done?
When this madman abhorred
Appealed to the sword,
And our leader said—“fight!” did he think we would run?
Battle-scarred, and a handful of men as we were,
We feared not to combat with lord or with lown,
So we took the old wretch at his word—that was fair;
But he dared not come out from his hold in the town,
Where he lay with his men,
Like a wolf in his den;
And in siege of the place we sat steadily down.
He made a fierce sally—his force was so strong
He thought the mere numbers would put us to flight—
But we met in close column his ruffianly throng,
And smote it so sore that we filled him with fright;
Then while ready we lay
For the storming next day,
He embarked in his ships, and escaped in the night.
The place was our own; could we hold it? why, no!
Not if Berkeley should gather more force and return;
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But one course was left us to baffle the foe—
The birds would not come if the nest we should burn;
So the red, crackling fire
Climbed to roof-top and spire,
A lesson for black-hearted Berkeley to learn.
That our torches destroyed what our fathers had raised
On that beautiful isle, is it matter of blame?
That the houses we dwelt in, the church where they praised
The God of our Fathers, we gave to the flame?
That we smiled when there lay
Smoking ruins next day,
And nothing was left of the town but its name?
We won; but we lost when brave Nicholas died;
The spirit that nerved us was gone from us then;
And Berkeley came back in his arrogant pride
To give to the gallows the best of our men;
But while the grass grows
And the clear water flows,
The town shall not rise from its ashes again.
So, you come for your victim! I'm ready; but, pray,
Ere I go, some good fellow a full goblet bring.
Thanks, comrade! Now hear the last words I shall say
With the last drink I take. Here's a health to the King,
Who reigns o'er a land
Where, against his command,
The rogues rule and ruin, and honest men swing.
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