 | The wigwam and the cabin |  |
OAKATIBBE,
OR THE CHOCTAW SAMPSON.
1. CHAPTER I.
It was in the year 182—, that I first travelled in the vallies of
the great south-west. Circumstances, influenced in no slight degree
by an “errant disposition,” beguiled me to the Choctaw nation,
which, at that time, occupied the greater part of the space
below the Tennessee line, lying between the rivers Tombeckbe
and Mississippi, as low, nearly, as the town of Jackson, then, as
now, the capital of the State of Mississippi. I loitered for several
weeks in and about this region, without feeling the loss or the
weight of time. Yet, the reader is not to suppose that travelling
at that day was so simple a matter, or possessed many, if any of
the pleasant facilities of the present. Au contraire: It was then
a serious business. It meant travail rather than travel. The
roads were few and very hard to find. Indian foot-paths—with
the single exception of the great military traces laid out by General
Jackson, and extending from Tennessee to Lake Ponchar-train—formed
almost the only arteries known to the “Nation;”
and the portions of settled country in the neighbourhood, nominally
civilized only, were nearly in the same condition. Some
of the Indian paths, as I experienced, seemed only to be made for
the perplexity of the stranger. Like Gray's passages which
“led to nothing,” they constantly brought me to a stand. Sometimes
they were swallowed up in swamps, and, in such cases,
your future route upon the earth was to be discovered only by a
deliberate and careful survey of the skies above. The openings
in the trees over head alone instructed you in the course you
progress was as little pleasant as edifying, yet, in some respects,
it was not wanting in its attractions, also. To the young and
ardent mind, obstacles of this nature tend rather to excite than to
depress. They contain the picturesque in themselves, at times,
and always bring out the moral in the man. “To learn to rough
it,” is an educational phrase, in the dialect of the new countries,
which would be of great service, adopted as a rule of government
for the young in all. To “coon a log”—a mysterious process
to the uninitiated—swim a river—experiment, at a guess, upon
the properties of one, and the proprieties of another route—parley
with an Indian after his own fashion—not to speak of a hundred
other incidents which the civilized world does not often present—
will reconcile a lad of sanguine temperament to a number of annoyances
much more serious than will attend him on an expedition
through our frontier countries.
It was at the close of a cloudy day in November, that I came
within hail of the new but rude plantation settlements of Colonel
Harris. He had but lately transferred his interests to Mississippi,
from one of the “maternal thirteen”—had bought largely in the
immediate neighbourhood of the Choctaw nation, and had also
acquired, by purchase from the natives, certain reserves within
it, to which he chiefly owes that large wealth, which, at this day,
he has the reputation of possessing. In place of the stately residence
which now adorns his homestead, there was then but a
miserable log-house, one of the most ordinary of the country, in
which, unaccompanied by his family, he held his temporary
abiding place. His plantation was barely rescued from the dominions
of nature. The trees were girdled only the previous
winter, for his first crop, which was then upon the ground, and
an excellent crop it was for that immature condition of his fields.
There is no describing the melancholy aspect of such a settlement,
seen in winter, on a cloudy day, and in the heart of an immense
forest, through which you have travelled for miles, without glimpse
of human form or habitation. The worm-fence is itself a gloomy
spectacle, and the girdled trees, erect but dead, the perishing
skeletons of recent life, impress you with sensations not entirely
unlike those which you would experience in going over some
have not yet been removed. The fences of Col. Harris were low
in height, though of great extent. They were simply sufficient
to protect the fields from the random assaults of cattle. Of his
out-houses, the most respectable in size, solidity and security, was
the corn crib. His negro-houses, like the log-house in which he
himself dwelt, were only so many temporary shanties, covered
with poles and thatched with bark and pine-straw. In short,
every thing that met my eye only tended the more to frown upon
my anticipations of a cheerful fireside and a pleasant arrangement
of the creature-comforts. But my doubts and apprehensions
all vanished at the moment of my reception. I was met by
the proprietor with that ease and warmth of manner which does
not seem to be conscious of any deficiencies of preparation, and
is resolved that there shall be none which sincere hospitality can
remedy. I was soon prepared to forget that there were deficiencies.
I felt myself very soon at home. I had letters to Col. Harris,
which made me particularly welcome, and in ten minutes we
were both in full sail amongst all the shallows and deeps of ordinary
conversation.
Not that we confined ourselves to these. Our discourse, after
a little while, turned upon a circumstance which I had witnessed
on riding through his fields and while approaching his dwelling,
which struck me with considerable surprise, and disturbed, in
some degree, certain pre-conceived opinions in my mind. I had
seen, interspersed with his negro labourers, a goodly number of
Indians of both sexes, but chiefly young persons, all equally and
busily employed in cotton picking. The season had been a protracted
one, and favourable, accordingly, to the maturing of great
numbers of the bolls which an early and severe winter must have
otherwise destroyed. The crop, in consequence, had been so
great as to be beyond the ability, to gather in and harvest, of the
“force” by which it was made. This, in the new and fertile
vallies of the south-west, is an usual event. In ordinary cases,
when this happens, it is the custom to buy other negroes from less
productive regions, to consummate and secure the avails of labour
of the original “force.” The whole of these, united, are then
addressed to the task of opening additional lands, which, should
extra number to secure and harvest, in season, the surplus fruits
of their industry. The planter is very readily persuaded to make
this purchase so long as the seeming necessity shall re-occur;
and in this manner has he continued expanding his interests, increasing
the volume of his lands, and incurring debt for these and
for his slaves, at exorbitant prices, in order to the production of a
commodity, every additional bag of which, disparages its own
value, and depreciates the productive power, in an estimate of
profit, of the industry by which it is produced. It will not be
difficult, keeping this fact in mind as a sample of the profligacy
of western adventure—to account, in part, for the insolvency and
desperate condition of a people in possession of a country naturally
the most fertile of any in the world.
The crop of Col. Harris was one of this description. It far
exceeded the ability of his “force” to pick it in; but instead of
buying additional slaves for the purpose, he conceived the idea
of turning to account the lazy Choctaws by whom he was surrounded.
He proposed to hire them at a moderate compensation,
which was to be paid them weekly. The temptation of gain was
greedily caught at by these hungering outcasts, and, for a few
dollars, or an equivalent in goods, groceries, and so forth, some
forty-five of them were soon to be seen, as busy as might be, in
the prosecution of their unusual labours. The work was light
and easy—none could be more so—and though not such adepts
as the negro, the Indian women soon contrived to fill their bags
and baskets, in the course of the day. At dark, you might behold
them trudging forward under their burdens to the log-house,
where the proprietor stood ready to receive them. Here he
weighed their burdens, and gave them credit, nightly, for the
number of pounds which they each brought in. The night of my
arrival was Saturday, and the value of the whole week's labour
was then to be summed up and accounted for. This necessarily
made them all punctual in attendance, and nothing could be
more amusing than the interest which they severally displayed as
Col. Harris took out his memorandum book, and proceeded to
make his entries. Every eye was fixed upon him, and an old Indian,
who, though he did not work himself, represented the interests
behind this gentleman, and watched, with looks of growing sagacity,
every stroke that was made in this—to him—volume of
more than Egyptian mystery and hieroglyphics. Meanwhile, the
squaws stood about their baskets with looks expressive of similar
interest, but at the same time of laudable patience. The negroes in
the rear, were scarcely less moved by curiosity, though a contemptuous
grin might be seen on nearly all their countenances,
as they felt their superiority in nearly every physical and intellectual
respect, over the untutored savages. Many Indians were
present who neither had nor sought employment. Of those employed,
few or none were of middle age. But these were not
wanting to the assemblage. They might be seen prowling about
the rest—watchful of the concerns of their wives, sons and
daughters, with just that sort and degree of interest, which the
eagle may be supposed to feel, who, from his perch on the tree-top
or the rock, beholds the fish-hawk dart into the water in pursuit
of that prey which he meditates to rend from his jaws as soon
as he shall re-ascend into the air. Their interest was decidedly
greater than that of the poor labourer. It was in this manner that
these vultures appropriated the fruits of his industry, and there
was no remedy. They commonly interfered, the moment it was
declared what was due to the employée, to resolve the pay into a
certain number of gallons of whiskey; so many pounds of tobacco;
so much gunpowder and lead. If the employer, as was
the case with Col. Harris, refused to furnish them with whiskey,
they required him to pay in money. With this, they soon made
their way to one of those moral sinks, called a grog-shop, which
English civilization is always ready to plant, as its first, most familiar,
and most imposing standard, among the hills and forests
of the savage.
It may be supposed that this experiment upon the inflexibility
of Indian character and habit—for it was an experiment which
had been in trial only a single week—was a subject of no little
curiosity to me, as it would most probably be to almost every
person at all impressed with the humiliating moral and social deterioration
which has marked this fast decaying people. Could it
possibly be successful? Could a race, proud, sullen, incommunicative,
the hope of certain compensation, to renounce the wild satisfaction
afforded by their desultory and unconstrained modes of life?
Could they be beguiled for a season into employments which,
though they did not demand any severe labours, at least required
pains-taking, regular industry, and that habitual attention to daily
recurring tasks, which, to their roving nature, would make life
a most monotonous and unattractive possession? How far the
lightness of the labour and the simplicity of the employment, with
the corresponding recompense, would reconcile them to its tasks,
was the natural subject of my inquiry. On this head, my friend,
Col. Harris, could only conjecture and speculate like myself. His
experiment had been in progress but a few days. But our speculations
led us to very different conclusions. He was a person of
very ardent character, and sanguine, to the last degree, of the
success of his project. He had no question but that the Indian,
even at his present stage, might be brought under the influence
of a judicious civilization. We both agreed that the first process
was in procuring their labour—that this was the preliminary step,
without taking which, no other could be made; but how to bring
them to this was the question.
“They can be persuaded to this,” was his conclusion. “Money,
the popular god, is as potent with them as with our own people.
They will do any thing for money. You see these now in
the field. They have been there, and just as busy, and in the
same number, from Monday last.”
“How long will they continue?”
“As long as I can employ and pay them.”
“Impossible! They will soon be dissatisfied. The men will
consume and squander all the earnings of the females and the
feeble. The very motive of their industry, money, to which you
refer, will be lost to them after the first payment. I am convinced
that a savage people, not as yet familiar with the elements of
moral prudence, can only be brought to habitual labour, by the
one process of coercion.”
“We shall see. There is no coercion upon them now, yet they
work with wonderful regularity.”
“This week will end it. Savages are children in all but physical
in that position of responsibility, and teach them that law, without
the due employment of which, any attempt to educate a child,
must be an absurdity—you must teach them obedience. They
must he made to know, at the outset, that they know nothing—
that they must implicitly defer to the superior. This lesson they
will never learn, so long as they possess the power, at any moment,
to withdraw from his control.”
“Yet, even were this to be allowed, there must be a limit.
There must come a time when you will be required to emancipate
them. In what circumstances will you find that time? You
cannot keep them under this coercion always; when will you set
them free?”
“When they are fit for freedom.”
“How is that to be determined? Who shall decide their fitness?”
“Themselves; as in the case of the children of Israel. The
children of Israel went out from bondage as soon as their own
intellectual advancement had been such as to enable them to
produce from their own ranks a leader like Moses:—one whose
genius was equal to that of the people by whom they had been
educated, and sufficient for their own proper government thereafter.”
“But has not an experiment of this sort already been tried in
our country?”
“Nay, I think not—I know of none.”
“Yes: an Indian boy was taken in infancy from his parents,
carried to one of the Northern States, trained in all the learning
and habits of a Northern college and society, associated only with
whites, beheld no manners, and heard no morals, but those which
are known to Christian communities. His progress was satisfactory—he
learned rapidly—was considered something of a prodigy,
and graduated with eclât. He was then left, with the same option
as the rest enjoyed, to the choice of a profession. And what
was his choice? Do you not remember the beautiful little poem
of Freneau on this subject? He chose the buck-skin leggins, the
moccasins, bow and arrows, and the wide, wild forests, where his
people dwelt.”
“Freneau's poem tells the story somewhat differently. The
as you tell them. But what an experiment it was! How very
silly! They take a copper-coloured boy from his people, and carry
him, while yet an infant, to a remote region. Suppose, in order
that the experiment may be fairly tried, that they withhold
from him all knowledge of his origin. He is brought up precisely
as the other lads around him. But what is the first discovery
which he makes? That he is a copper-coloured boy—that he is,
alone, the only copper-coloured boy—that wherever he turns he
sees no likeness to himself. This begets his wonder, then his curiosity,
and finally his suspicion. He soon understands—for his
suspicion sharpens every faculty of observation—that he is an
object of experiment. Nay, the most cautious policy in the world
could never entirely keep this from a keen-thoughted urchin.
His fellow pupils teach him this. He sees that, to them, he is an
object of curiosity and study. They regard him, and he soon
regards himself, as a creature set apart, and separated, for some
peculiar purposes, from all the rest. A stern and singular sense
of individuality and isolation is thus forced upon him. He asks
—Am I, indeed, alone?—Who am I?—What am I?—These inquiries
naturally occasion others. Does he read? Books give
him the history of his race. Nay, his own story probably meets
his eye in the newspapers. He learns that he is descended from
a nation dwelling among the secret sources of the Susquehannah.
He pries in all corners for information. The more secret his
search, the more keenly does he pursue it. It becomes the great
passion of his mind. He learns that his people are fierce warriors
and famous hunters. He hears of their strifes with the
white man—their successful strifes, when the nation could send
forth its thousand bow-men, and the whites were few and feeble.
Perhaps, the young pale faces around him, speak of his people,
even now, as enemies; at least, as objects of suspicion, and perhaps
antipathy. All these things tend to elevate and idealize, in
his mind, the history of his people. He cherishes a sympathy, even
beyond the natural desires of the heart, for the perishing race
from which he feels himself, “like a limb, cast bleeding and
torn.” The curiosity to see his ancestry—the people of his tribe
and country—would be the most natural feeling of the white boy,
passion in the bosom of the Indian, whose very complexion
forces him away from any connection with the rest! My
idea of the experiment—if such a proceeding may be called an
experiment—is soon spoken. As a statement of facts, I see nothing
to provoke wonder. The result was the most natural thing
in the world, and a man of ordinary powers of reflection might
easily have predicted it, precisely as it happened. The only
wonder is, that there should be found, among persons of common
education and sagacity, men who should have undertaken such
an experiment, and fancied that they were busy in a moral and
philosophical problem.”
“Why, how would you have the experiment tried?”
“As it was tried upon the Hebrews, upon the Saxons—upon
every savage people who ever became civilized. It cannot be
tried upon an individual: it must be tried upon a nation—at least
upon a community, sustained by no succour from without—having
no forests or foreign shores upon which to turn their eyes for
sympathy—having no mode or hope of escape—under the full
control of an already civilized people—and sufficiently numerous
among themselves, to find sympathy, against those necessary
rigours which at first will seem oppressive, but which will be the
only hopeful process by which to enforce the work of improvement.
They must find this sympathy from beholding others, like
themselves in aspect, form, feature and condition, subject to the
same unusual restraints. In this contemplation they will be
content to pursue their labours under a restraint which they
cannot displace. But the natural law must be satisfied. There
must be opportunities yielded for the indulgence of the legitimate
passions. The young of both sexes among the subjected people,
must commune and form ties in obedience to the requisitions of
nature and according to their national customs. What, if the
Indian student, on whom the “experiment” was tried, had paid
his addresses to a white maiden! What a revulsion of the moral
and social sense would have followed his proposition in the mind
of the Saxon damsel;—and, were she to consent, what a commotion
in the community in which she lived. And this revulsion
and commotion would have been perfectly natural, and, accordingly,
between certain races of men, setting them apart, and requiring
them to be kept so, by subjecting them to the resistance and
rebuke of one of the most jealous sentinels of sense which we
possess—the eye. The prejudices of this sense, require that the
natural barriers should be maintained, and hence it becomes
necessary that the race in subjection, should be sufficiently numerous
to enable it to carry out the great object of every distinct
community, though, perchance, it may happen to be an inferior one.
In process of time, the beneficial and blessing effects of labour
would be felt and understood by the most ignorant and savage of
the race. Perhaps, not in one generation, or in two, but after the
fifth and seventh, as it is written, “of those who keep my commandments.”
They would soon discover that, though compelled
to toil, their toils neither enfeebled their strength nor impaired
their happiness—that, on the contrary, they still resulted in their
increasing strength, health, and comfort;—that their food, which
before was precarious, depending on the caprices of the seasons,
or the uncertainties of the chase, was now equally plentiful,
wholesome and certain. They would also perceive that, instead
of the sterility which is usually the destiny of all wandering
tribes, and one of the processes by which they perish—the fecundity
of their people was wonderfully increased. These discoveries—if
time be allowed to make them—would tacitly reconcile
them to that inferior position of their race, which is proper and
inevitable, so long as their intellectual inferiority shall continue.
And what would have been the effect upon our Indians—decidedly
the noblest race of aborigines that the world has ever known—if,
instead of buying their scalps at prices varying from five to fifty
pounds each, we had conquered and subjected them? Will any
one pretend to say that they would not have increased with the
restraints and enforced toils of our superior genius?—that they
would not, by this time, have formed a highly valuable and noble
integral in the formation of our national strength and character?
Perhaps their civilization would have been comparatively easy—
the Hebrews required four hundred years—the Britons and
Saxons, possibly,. half that time after the Norman Conquest.
Differing in colour from their conquerors, though I suspect, with a
of the Roman invasion under Julius Cæsar, the struggle between
the two races must have continued for some longer time, but the
union would have been finally effected, and then, as in the case
of the Englishman, we should have possessed a race, in their
progeny, which, in moral and physical structure, might have
challenged competition with the world.”
“Ay, but the difficulty would have been in the conquest.”
“True, that would have been the difficulty. The American
colonists were few in number and feeble in resource. The nations
from which they emerged put forth none of their strength in
sending them forth. Never were colonies so inadequately provided—so
completely left to themselves; and hence the peculiar
injustice and insolence of the subsequent exactions of the British,
by which they required their colonies to support their schemes of
aggrandizement and expenditure by submitting to extreme taxation.
Do you suppose, if the early colonists had been powerful,
that they would have ever deigned to treat for lands with the roving
hordes of savages whom they found on the continent? Never!
Their purchases and treaties were not for lands, but tolerance.
They bought permission to remain without molestation. The
amount professedly given for land, was simply a tribute paid to
the superior strength of the Indian, precisely as we paid it to Algiers
and the Musselmens, until we grew strong enough to whip
them into respect. If, instead of a few ships and a few hundred
men, timidly making their approaches along the shores of Manhattan,
Penobscot and Ocracocke, some famous leader, like
Æneas, had brought his entire people—suppose them to be the
persecuted Irish—what a wondrous difference would have taken
place. The Indians would have been subjected—would have
sunk into their proper position of humility and dependence; and,
by this time, might have united with their conquerors, producing,
perhaps, along the great ridge of the Alleghany, the very noblest
specimens of humanity, in mental and bodily stature, that the
world has ever witnessed. The Indians were taught to be insolent
by the fears and feebleness of the whites. They were flattered
by fine words, by rich presents, and abundance of deference,
until the ignorant savage, but a single degree above the
more than a day ahead—took airs upon himself, and became one
of the most conceited and arrogant lords in creation. The colonists
grew wiser as they grew stronger; but the evil was already
done, and we are reaping some of the bitter fruits, at this day, of
seed unwisely sown in that. It may be that we shall yet see the
experiment tried fairly.”
“Ah, indeed—where?”
“In Mexico—by the Texians. Let the vain, capricious, ignorant,
and dastardly wretches who now occupy and spoil the
face and fortunes of the former country, persevere in pressing
war upon those sturdy adventurers, and their doom is written. I
fear it may be the sword—I hope it may be the milder fate of
bondage and subjection. Such a fate would save, and raise them
finally to a far higher condition than they have ever before enjoyed.
Thirty thousand Texians, each with his horse and rifle,
would soon make themselves masters of the city of Montezuma,
and then may you see the experiment tried upon a scale sufficiently
extensive to make it a fair one. But your Indian student,
drawn from
“Susquehannah's farthest springs,”
picture as that of the prisoner described by Sterne. His chief
employment, day by day, would consist in notching upon his stick,
the undeviating record of his daily suffering. It would be to him
an experiment almost as full of torture, as that of the Scottish
Boot, the Spanish Thumb-screw—or any of those happy devices
of ancient days, for impressing pleasant principles upon the mind,
by impressing unpleasant feelings upon the thews, joints and sinews.
I wish that some one of our writers, familiar with mental analysis,
would make this poem of Freneau, the subject of a story. I think
it would yield admirable material. To develope the thoughts and
feelings of an Indian boy, taken from his people, ere yet he has
formed such a knowledge of them, or of others, as to have begun
to discuss or to compare their differences—follow him to a college
such as that of Princeton or Cambridge—watch him within its
walls—amid the crowd, but not of it—looking only within himself,
by active, sharp-witted lads of the Anglo-Norman race;
undergoing an hourly repeated series of moral spasms, as he hears
them wantonly or thoughtlessly dwell upon the wild and ignorant
people from whom he is chosen;—listening, though without
seeming to listen, to their crude speculations upon the great problem
which is to be solved only by seeing how well he can endure
his spasms, and what use he will make of his philosophy if
he survives it—then, when the toils of study and the tedious restraints
and troubles of prayer and recitation are got over, to behold
and describe the joy with which the happy wretch flings by
his fetters, when he is dismissed from those walls which have witnessed
his tortures—even supposing him to remain (which is very
unlikely,) until his course of study is pronounced to be complete!
With what curious pleasure will he stop in the shadow of the first
deep forest, to tear from his limbs those garments which make
him seem unlike his people! How quick will be the beating at
his heart as he endeavours to dispose about his shoulders the
blanket robe in the manner in which it is worn by the chief warrior
of his tribe! With what keen effort—should he have had
any previous knowledge of his kindred—will he seek to compel
his memory to restore every, the slightest, custom or peculiarity
which distinguished them when his eyes were first withdrawn
from the parental tribe; and how closely will he imitate their indomitable
pride and lofty, cold, superiority of look and gesture,
as, at evening, he enters the native hamlet, and takes his seat in
silence at the door of the Council House, waiting, without a word,
for the summons of the Elders!”
“Quite a picture. I think with you, that, in good hands, such
a subject would prove a very noble one.”
“But the story would not finish here. Supposing all this to
have taken place, just as we are told it did—supposing the boy to
have graduated at college, and to have flung away the distinction
—to have returned, as has been described, to his savage costume
—to the homes and habits of his people;—it is not so clear that he
will fling away all the lessons of wisdom, all the knowledge of facts,
which he will have acquired from the tuition of the superior race.
A natural instinct, which is above all lessons, must be complied
have subsided, which led him to defeat the more immediate object
of his social training—there will be a gradual resumption
of the educational influence in his mind, and his intellectual
habits will begin to exercise themselves anew. They will be
provoked necessarily to this exercise by what he beholds around
him. He will begin to perceive, in its true aspects, the wretchedness
of that hunter-state, which, surveyed at a distance, appeared
only the embodiment of stoical heroism and the most elevated
pride. He will see and lament the squalid poverty of his people;
which, his first lessons in civilization must have shown him, is
due only to the mode of life and pursuits in which they are engaged.
Their beastly intoxication will offend his tastes—their
superstition and ignorance—the circumscribed limits of their capacity
for judging of things and relations beyond the life of the
bird or beast of prey—will awaken in him a sense of shame
when he feels that they are his kindred. The insecurity of their
liberties will awaken his fears, for he will instantly see that the
great body of the people in every aboriginal nation are the veriest
slaves in the world; and the degrading exhibitions which they
make in their filth and drunkenness, which reduce the man to a
loathesomeness of aspect which is never reached by the vilest
beast which he hunts or scourges, will be beheld by the Indian
student in very lively contrast with all that has met his eyes
during that novitiate among the white sages, the processes
of which have been to him so humiliating and painful. His
memory reverts to that period with feelings of reconciliation.
The torture is over, and the remembrance of former pain, endured
with manly fortitude, is comparatively a pleasure. A necessary
reaction in his mind takes place; and, agreeably to the laws of
nature, what will, and what should follow, but that he will seek
to become the tutor and the reformer of his people? They themselves
will tacitly raise him to this position, for the man of the
forest will defer even to the negro who has been educated by the
white man. He will try to teach them habits of greater method
and industry—he will overthrow the altars of their false gods—
he will seek to bind the wandering tribes together under one head
and in one nation—he will prescribe uniform laws of government.
offend the pride of the self-conceited and the mulish—the priesthood
will be the first to declare against him—and he will be murdered
most probably, as was Romulus, and afterwards deified.
If he escapes this fate, he will yet, most likely, perish from mortification
under failure, or, in consequence of those mental strifes
which spring from that divided allegiance between the feelings
belonging to his savage, and those which have had their origin in
his christian schools—those natural strifes between the acquisitions
of civilization on the one hand, and those instinct tendencies
of the blood which distinguish his connection with the inferior
race. In this conflict, he will, at length, when the enthusiasm
of his youthful zeal has become chilled by frequent and unexpected
defeat, falter, and finally fail. But will there be nothing
done for his people? Who can say? I believe that no seed
falls without profit by the wayside. Even if the truth produces
no immediate fruits, it forms a moral manure which fertilizes the
otherwise barren heart, in preparation for the more favourable
season. The Indian student may fail, as his teachers did, in
realizing the object for which he has striven; and this sort of
failure, is, by the way, one of the most ordinary of human allotment.
The desires of man's heart, by an especial Providence,
that always wills him to act for the future, generally aim at
something far beyond his own powers of performance. But the
labour has not been taken in vain, in the progress of successive
ages, which has achieved even a small part of its legitimate purposes.
The Indian student has done for his people much more
than the white man achieves ordinarily for his generation, if he
has only secured to their use a single truth which they knew not
before—if he has overthrown only one of their false gods—if he
has smitten off the snaky head of only one of their superstitious
prejudices. If he has added to their fields of corn a field of millet,
he has induced one farther physical step towards moral improvement.
Nay, if there be no other result, the very deference
which they will have paid him, as the elèvé of the white man,
will be a something gained of no little importance, towards inducing
their more ready, though still tardy, adoption of the laws
and guidance of the superior race.”
2. CHAPTER II.
I am afraid that my reader will suffer quite as much under
this long discussion, as did my excellent companion, Col. Harris.
But he is not to suppose that all the views here expressed, were
uttered consecutively, as they are above set down. I have simply
condensed, for more easy comprehension, the amount of a
conversation which lasted some two hours. I may add, that, at the
close, we discovered, as is very often the case among disputants,
there was very little substantial difference between us. Our dispute,
if any, was rather verbal than philosophical. On the subject
of his experiment, however, Col. Harris fancied, that, in employing
some forty or fifty of the Indians, of both sexes, he had
brought together a community sufficiently large for the purposes
of a fair experiment. Still, I thought that the argument remained
untouched. They were not subordinate; they were not subdued;
they could still exercise a free and absolute will, in despite of
authority and reason. He could resort to no method for compelling
their obedience; and we know pretty well what will result
—even among white men—from the option of vagrancy.
“But,” I urged, “even if the objections which I have stated,
fail of defeating your scheme, there is yet another agent of defeat
working against it, in the presence of these elderly Indians,
who do not join in the labour, and yet, according to your own
showing, still prowl in waiting to snatch from the hands of the
industrious all the fruits of their toil. The natural effect of this
will be to discourage the industry of those who work; for, unless
the labourer is permitted to enjoy a fair proportion of the fruits of
his labour, it is morally impossible that he should long continue it.”
Our conference was interrupted by the appearance of the labourers,
Indians and Negroes, who now began to come in, bringing
with them the cotton which they had severally gathered during the
day. This was accumulated in the court-yard, before the dwelling;
each Indian, man or woman, standing beside the bag or basket
suppose, that, after the dialogue and discussion which is partially
reported above, I felt no little interest in observing the proceedings.
The parties present were quite numerous. I put the negroes
out of the question, though they were still to be seen, lingering
in the background, grinning spectators of the scene. The
number of Indians, men and women, who had that day been engaged
in picking, was thirty-nine. Of these, twenty-six were
females; three, only, might be accounted men, and ten were boys
—none over sixteen. Of the females the number of elderly and
young women was nearly equal. Of the men, one was very old
and infirm; a second of middle age, who appeared to be something
of an idiot; while the third, whom I regarded for this reason with
more consideration and interest than all the party beside, was
one of the most noble specimens of physical manhood that my
eyes had ever beheld. He was fully six feet three inches in
height, slender but muscular in the extreme. He possessed a
clear, upright, open, generous cast of countenance, as utterly
unlike that sullen, suspicious expression of the ordinary Indian
face, as you can possibly imagine. Good nature and good sense
were the predominant characteristics of his features, and—which
is quite as unusual with Indians when in the presence of strangers
—he laughed and jested with all the merry, unrestrainable vivacity
of a youth of Anglo-Saxon breed. How was it that so
noble a specimen of manhood consented to herd with the women
and the weak of his tribe, in descending to the mean labours
which the warriors were accustomed to despise?
“He must either be a fellow of great sense, or he must be a
coward. He is degraded.”
Such was my conclusion. The answer of Col. Harris was
immediate.
“He is a fellow of good sense, and very far from being a coward.
He is one of the best Choctaws that I know.”
“A man, then, to be a leader of his people. It is a singular
proof of good sense and great mental flexibility, to find an Indian,
who is courageous, voluntarily assuming tasks which are held to
be degrading among the hunters. I should like to talk with this
fellow when you are done. What is his name?”
“His proper name is Oakatibbé; but that by which he is generally
known among us—his English name—is Slim Sampson, a
name which he gets on the score of his superior strength and
great slenderness. The latter name, in ordinary use, has completely
superseded the former, even among his own people. It
may be remarked, by the way, as another proof of the tacit deference
of the inferior to the superior people, that most Indians
prefer to use the names given by the whites to those of their own
language. There are very few among them who will not contrive,
after a short intimacy with white men, to get some epithet
—which is not always a complimentary one—but which they
cling to as tenaciously as they would to some far more valuable
possession.”
This little dialogue was whispered during the stir which followed
the first arrival of the labourers. We had no opportunity
for more.
The rest of the Indians were in no respect remarkable. There
were some eight or ten women, and perhaps as many men, who
did not engage in the toils of their companions, though they did
not seem the less interested in the result. These, I noted, were
all, in greater or less degree, elderly persons. One was full
eighty years old, and a strange fact for one so venerable, was the
most confirmed drunkard of the tribe. When the cotton pickers
advanced with their baskets, the hangers-on drew nigh also, deeply
engrossed with the prospect of reaping the gains from that industry
which they had no mood to emulate. These, however, were
very moderate, in most cases. Where a negro woman picked
from one to two hundred weight of cotton, per diem, the Indian
woman, at the utmost, gathered sixty-five; and the general average
among them, did not much exceed forty-five. Slim Sampson's
basket weighed eighty-six pounds—an amount considerably
greater than any of the rest—and Col. Harris assured me, that
his average during the week had been, at no time, much below
this quantity.
The proceedings had gone on without interruption or annoyance
for the space of half an hour. Col. Harris had himself
weighed every basket, with scrupulous nicety, and recorded the
several weights opposite to the name of the picker, in a little memorandum
was amusing to see with what pleasurable curiosity, the Indians,
men and women, watched the record which stated their several
accounts. The whole labour of the week was to be settled for
that night (Saturday), and hence the unusual gathering of those
whose only purpose in being present, was to grasp at the spoils.
Among these hawks was one middle-aged Indian—a stern,
sulky fellow, of considerable size and strength—whose skin was
even then full of liquor, which contributing to the usual insolence
of his character, made him at times very troublesome. He had
more than once, during the proceedings, interfered between Col.
Harris and his employées, in such a manner as to provoke, in the
mind of that gentleman, no small degree of irritation. The English
name of this Indian, was Loblolly Jack. Loblolly Jack had
a treble motive for being present and conspicuous. He had
among the labourers, a wife and two daughters. When the baskets
of these were brought forward to be weighed, he could no
longer be kept in the background, but, resolutely thrusting himself
before the rest, he handled basket, book and steelyards in
turn, uttered his suspicions of foul play, and insisted upon a close
examination of every movement which was made by the proprietor.
In this manner, he made it very difficult for him to proceed
in his duties; and his conduct, to do the Indians justice, seemed
quite as annoying to them as to Col. Harris. The wife frequently
expostulated with him, in rather bolder language than an Indian
squaw is apt to use to her liege lord; while Slim Sampson, after
a few words of reproach, expressed in Choctaw, concluded by
telling him in plain English, that he was “a rascal dog.” He
seemed the only one among them who had no fear of the intruder.
Loblolly Jack answered in similar terms, and Slim Sampson,
clearing the baskets at a single bound, confronted him with a
show of fight, and a direct challenge to it, on the spot where they
stood. The other seemed no ways loth. He recoiled a pace,
drew his knife—a sufficient signal for Slim Sampson to get his
own in readiness—and, thus opposed, they stood, glaring upon
each other with eyes of the most determined expression of malignity.
A moment more—an additional word of provocation from
either—and blows must have taken place. But Col. Harris, a
one of his negroes, bade him bring out from the house his double-barreled
gun.
“Now,” said he, “my good fellows, the first man of you that
lifts his hand to strike, I'll shoot him down; so look to it. Slim
Sampson, go back to your basket, and don't meddle in this business.
Don't you suppose that I'm man enough to keep Loblolly
Jack in order? You shall see.”
It is not difficult for a determined white man to keep an Indian
in subordination, so long as both of them are sober. A few
words more convinced Loblolly Jack, who had not yet reached
the reckless stage in drunkenness, that his wiser course was to
give back and keep quiet, which he did. The storm subsided
almost as suddenly as it had been raised, and Col. Harris resumed
his occupation. Still, the Indian who had proved so troublesome
before, continued his annoyances, though in a manner somewhat
less audacious. His last proceeding was to get as nigh as he
could to the basket which was about to be weighed—his wife's
basket—and, with the end of a stick, adroitly introduced into some
little hole, he contrived to press the basket downwards, and thus
to add so much to the weight of the cotton, that his squaw promised
to bear off the palm of victory in that day's picking. Nobody
saw the use to which the stick was put, and for a few moments no
one suspected it. Had the cunning fellow been more moderate,
he might have succeeded in his attempt upon the steelyards; but
his pressure increased with every approach which was made to a
determination of the weight, and while all were wondering that so
small a basket should be so heavy, Slim Sampson discovered and
pointed out the trick to Col. Harris, who suddenly snatching the stick
from the grasp of the Indian, was about to lay it over his head.
But this my expostulation prevented; and, after some delay, the
proceedings were finally ended; but in such a manner as to make
my friend somewhat more doubtful than he had been before, on
the subject of his experiment. He paid off their accounts, some
in cloths and calicoes, of which he had provided a small supply
for this purpose; but the greater number, under the evil influence
of the idle and the elder, demanded and received their pay in
money.
3. CHAPTER III.
It was probably about ten o'clock that evening. We had finished
supper, and Col. H. and myself had resumed the subject
upon which we had been previously engaged. But the discussion
was languid, and both of us were unquestionably lapsing into
that state, when each readily receives an apology for retiring for
the night, when we were startled from our drowsy tendencies by
a wild and terrible cry, such as made me thrill instinctively with
the conviction that something terrible had taken place. We started
instantly to our feet, and threw open the door. The cry was
more distinct and piercing, and its painful character could not be
mistaken. It was a cry of death—of sudden terror, and great
and angry excitement. Many voices were mingled together—some
expressive of fury, some of fear, and many of lamentation. The
tones which finally prevailed over, and continued long after all
others had subsided, were those of women.
“These sounds come from the shop of that trader. Those rascally
Choctaws are drunk and fighting, and ten to one but somebody
is killed among them!” was the exclamation of Col. H.
“These sounds are familiar to me. I have heard them once before.
They signify murder. It is a peculiar whoop which the
Indians have, to denote the shedding of blood—to show that a crime
has been committed.”
The words had scarcely been uttered, before Slim Sampson
came suddenly out into the road, and joined us at the door. Col.
H. instantly asked him to enter, which he did. When he came
fully into the light, we discovered that he had been drinking.
His eyes bore sufficient testimony to the fact, though his drunkenness
seemed to have subsided into something like stupor. His
looks were heavy, rather than calm. He said nothing, but drew
nigh to the fireplace, and seated himself upon one corner of the
hearth. I now discovered that his hands and hunting shirt were
stained with blood. His eyes beheld the bloody tokens at the same
the fire-light.
“Kurnel,” said he, in broken English, “me is one dog fool!”
“How, Sampson?”
“Me drunk—me fight—me kill Loblolly Jack! Look ya!
Dis blood 'pon my hands. 'Tis Loblolly Jack blood! He dead!
I stick him wid de knife!”
“Impossible! What made you do it?”
“Me drunk! Me dog fool!—Drink whiskey at liquor shop—
hab money—buy whiskey—drunk come, and Loblolly Jack
dead!”
This was the substance of the story, which was confirmed a
few moments after, by the appearance of several other Indians,
the friends of the two parties. From these it appeared that all of
them had been drinking, at the shop of Ligon, the white man;
that, when heated with liquor, both Loblolly Jack and Slim Sampson
had, as with one accord, resumed the strife which had been
arrested by the prompt interference of Col. H.; that, from words
they had got to blows, and the former had fallen, fatally hurt, by
a single stroke from the other's hand and knife.
The Indian law, like that of the Hebrews, is eye for eye, tooth
for tooth, life for life. The fate of Slim Sampson was ordained.
He was to die on the morrow. This was well understood by himself
as by all the rest. The wound of Loblolly Jack had proved
mortal. He was already dead; and it was arranged among the
parties that Slim Sampson was to remain that night, if permitted,
at the house of Col. H., and to come forth at early sunrise to execution.
Col. H. declared his willingness that the criminal should
remain in his house; but, at the same time, disclaimed all responsibility
in the business; and assured the old chief, whose name
was “Rising Smoke,” that he would not be answerable for his
appearance.
“He won't run,” said the other, indifferently.
“But you will not put a watch over him—I will not suffer
more than the one to sleep in my house.”
The old chief repeated his assurance that Slim Sampson would
not seek to fly. No guard was to be placed over him. He was
appointed.
“He got for dead,” continued Rising Smoke—“he know the
law. He will come and dead like a man. Oakatibbé got big
heart.” Every word which the old fellow uttered went to mine.
What an eulogy was this upon Indian inflexibility! What confidence
in the passive obedience of the warrior! After a little
farther dialogue, they departed,—friends and enemies—and the
unfortunate criminal was left with us alone. He still maintained
his seat upon the hearth. His muscles were composed and calm
—not rigid. His thoughts, however, were evidently busy; and,
once or twice, I could see that his head was moved slowly from
side to side, with an expression of mournful self-abandonment. I
watched every movement and look with the deepest interest, while
Col. H. with a concern necessarily deeper than my own, spoke with
him freely, on the subject of his crime. It was, in fact, because
of the affair of Col. H. that the unlucky deed was committed. It
was true, that, for this, the latter gentleman was in no wise responsible;
but that did not lessen, materially, the pain which he felt
at having, however unwittingly, occasioned it. He spoke with
the Indian in such terms of condolence as conventional usage
among us has determined to be the most proper. He proffered to
buy off the friends and relatives of the deceased, if the offence
could be commuted for money. The poor fellow was very grateful,
but, at the same time, told him that the attempt was useless.
—The tribe had never been known to permit such a thing, and
the friends of Loblolly Jack were too much his enemies, to consent
to any commutation of the penalty.
Col. H., however, was unsatisfied, and determined to try the
experiment. The notion had only suggested itself to him after
the departure of the Indians. He readily conjectured where he
should find them, and we immediately set off for the grogshop of
Ligon. This was little more than a quarter of a mile from the
plantation. When we reached it, we found the Indians, generally,
in the worst possible condition to be treated with. They
were, most of them, in the last stages of intoxication. The dead
body of the murdered man was stretched out in the piazza, or
gallery, half covered with a bear-skin. The breast was bare—
around which the blood stood, clotted, in thick, frothy masses.
The nearer relations of the deceased, were perhaps the most
drunk of the assembly. Their grief necessarily entitled them to
the greatest share of consolation, and this took the form of whiskey.
Their love of excess, and the means of indulgence,
encouraged us with the hope that their vengeance might be bought
off without much difficulty, but we soon found ourselves very
much deceived. Every effort, every offer, proved fruitless; and
after vainly exhausting every art and argument, old Rising
Smoke drew us aside to tell us that the thing was impossible.
“Oakatibbé hab for die, and no use for talk. De law is make
for Oakatibbé, and Loblolly Jack, and me, Rising Smoke, and all,
just the same. Oakatibbé will dead to-morrow.”
With sad hearts, we left the maudlin and miserable assembly.
When we returned, we found Slim Sampson employed in carving
with his knife upon the handle of his tomahawk. In the space
thus made, he introduced a small bit of flattened silver, which
seemed to have been used for a like purpose on some previous
occasion. It was rudely shaped like a bird, and was probably
one of those trifling ornaments which usually decorate the stocks
of rifle and shot-gun. I looked with increasing concern upon
his countenance. What could a spectator—one unacquainted
with the circumstances—have met with there? Nothing, surely,
of that awful event which had just taken place, and of that doom
which now seemed so certainly to await him. He betrayed no
sort of interest in our mission. His look and manner denoted his
own perfect conviction of its inutility; and when we told him
what had taken place, he neither answered nor looked up.
It would be difficult to describe my feelings and those of my
companion. The more we reflected upon the affair, the more
painful and oppressive did our thoughts become. A pain, little
short of horror, coupled itself with every emotion. We left the
Indian still beside the fire. He had begun a low chanting song
just before we retired, in his own language, which was meant as a
narrative of the chief events of his life. The death song—for such
it was—is neither more nor less than a recital of those deeds
which it will be creditable to a son or a relative to remember.
in their history, are transmitted through successive ages. He
was evidently refreshing his own memory in preparation for the
morrow. He was arranging the narrative of the past, in proper
form for the acceptance of the future.
We did not choose to disturb him in this vocation, and retired.
When we had got to our chamber, H. who already had one boot
off, exclaimed suddenly—“ Look you, S., this fellow ought not
to perish in this manner. We should make an effort to save him.
We must save him!”
“What will you do?”
“Come—let us go back and try and urge him to flight. He
can escape easily while all these fellows are drunk. He shall
have my best horse for the purpose.”
We returned to the apartment.
“Slim Sampson.”
“Kurnel!” was the calm reply.
“There's no sense in your staying here to be shot.”
“Ugh!” was the only answer, but in an assenting tone.
“You're not a bad fellow—you didn't mean to kill Loblolly
Jack—it's very hard that you should die for what you didn't wish
to do. You're too young to die. You've got a great many years
to live. You ought to live to be an old man and have sons like
yourself; and there's a great deal of happiness in this world, if
a man only knows where to look for it. But a man that's dead
is of no use to himself, or to his friends, or his enemies. Why
should you die—why should you be shot?”
“Eh?”
“Hear me; your people are all drunk at Ligon's—blind drunk
—deaf drunk—they can neither see nor hear. They won't get
sober till morning—perhaps not then. You've been across the
Mississippi, hav'nt you? You know the way?”
The reply was affirmative.
“Many Choctaws live over the Mississippi now—on the Red
River, and far beyond, to the Red Hills. Go to them—they will
take you by the hand—they will give you one of their daughters
to wife—they will love you—they will make you a chief. Fly,
Sampson, fly to them—you shall have one of my horses, and before
and far from your enemies—Go, my good fellow, it would be
a great pity that so brave a man should die.”
This was the substance of my friend's exhortation. It was put
into every shape, and addressed to every fear, hope, or passion
which might possibly have influence over the human bosom. A
strong conflict took place in the mind of the Indian, the outward
signs of which were not wholly suppressible. He started to his
feet, trod the floor hurriedly, and there was a tremulous quickness
in the movement of his eyes, and a dilation of their orbs, which
amply denoted the extent of his emotion. He turned suddenly
upon us, when H. had finished speaking, and replied in language
very nearly like the following.
“I love the whites—I was always a friend to the whites. I
believe I love their laws better than my own. Loblolly Jack
laughed at me because I loved the whites, and wanted our people
to live like them. But I am of no use now. I can love them no
more. My people say that I must die. How can I live?”
Such was the purport of his answer. The meaning of it was
simple. He was not unwilling to avail himself of the suggestions
of my friend—to fly—to live—but he could not divest himself of
that habitual deference to those laws to which he had given implicit
reverence from the beginning. Custom is the superior tyrant
of all savage nations.
To embolden him on this subject, was now the joint object of
Col. H. and myself. We spared no argument to convince him
that he ought to fly. It was something in favour of our object, that
the Indian regards the white man as so infinitely his superior;
and, in the case of Slim Sampson, we were assisted by his own
inclinations in favour of those customs of the whites, which he had
already in part begun to adopt. We discussed for his benefit
that which may be considered one of the leading elements in
civilization—the duty of saving and keeping life as long as we
can—insisted upon the morality of flying from any punishment
which would deprive us of it; and at length had the satisfaction
of seeing him convinced. He yielded to our arguments and solicitations,
accepted the horse, which he promised voluntarily to find
some early means to return, and, with a sigh—perhaps one of the
had just shown, he declared his intention to take the road instantly.
“Go to bed, Kurnel. Your horse will come back.” We retired,
and a few moments after heard him leave the house. I
am sure that both of us felt a degree of light-heartedness which
scarcely any other event could have produced. We could not
sleep, however. For myself I answer—it was almost dawn before
I fell into an uncertain slumber, filled with visions of scuffling
Indians—the stark corse of Loblolly Jack, being the conspicuous
object, and Slim Sampson standing up for execution.
4. CHAPTER IV.
Neither Col. H. nor myself arose at a very early hour. Our
first thoughts and feelings at waking were those of exultation.
We rejoiced that we had been instrumental in saving from an ignominious
death, a fellow creature, and one who seemed so worthy,
in so many respects. Our exultation was not a little increased,
as we reflected on the disappointment of his enemies; and we
enjoyed a hearty laugh together, as we talked over the matter
while putting on our clothes. When we looked from the window
the area in front of the house was covered with Indians. They
sat, or stood, or walked, all around the dwelling. The hour appointed
for the delivery of Slim Sampson had passed, yet they
betrayed no emotion. We fancied, however, that we could discern
in the countenances of most among them, the sentiment of
friendship or hostility for the criminal, by which they were severally
governed. A dark, fiery look of exultation—a grim anticipation
of delight—was evident in the faces of his enemies;
while, among his friends, men and women, a subdued concern and
humbling sadness, were the prevailing traits of expression.
But when we went below to meet them—when it became
known that the murderer had fled, taking with him the best horse
of the proprietor, the outbreak was tremendous. A terrible yell
went up from the party devoted to Loblolly Jack; while the
friends and relatives of Slim Sampson at once sprang to their
weapons, and put themselves in an attitude of defence. We had
not foreseen the effects of our interposition and advice. We did
not know, or recollect, that the nearest connection of the criminal,
among the Indian tribes, in the event of his escape, would be required
to suffer in his place; and this, by the way, is the grand
source of that security which they felt the night before, that flight
would not be attempted by the destined victim. The aspect of
affairs looked squally. Already was the bow bent and the tomahawk
lifted. Already had the parties separated, each going to
The women sunk rapidly into the rear, and provided themselves
with billets or fence-rails, as they occurred to their hands; while
little brats of boys, ten and twelve years old, kept up a continual
shrill clamour, brandishing aloft their tiny bows and blow-guns,
which were only powerful against the lapwing and the sparrow.
In political phrase, “a great crisis was at hand.” The stealthier
chiefs and leaders of both sides, had sunk from sight, behind the
trees or houses, in order to avail themselves of all the arts of Indian
strategy. Every thing promised a sudden and stern conflict.
At the first show of commotion, Col. H. had armed himself. I
had been well provided with pistols and bowie knife, before leaving
home; and, apprehending the worst, we yet took our places
as peace-makers, between the contending parties.
It is highly probable that all our interposition would have been
fruitless to prevent their collision; and, though our position certainly
delayed the progress of the quarrel, yet all we could have
hoped to effect by our interference would have been the removal
of the combatants to a more remote battle ground. But a circumstance
that surprised and disappointed us all, took place, to settle
the strife forever, and to reconcile the parties without any resort to
blows. While the turmoil was at the highest, and we had despaired
of doing any thing to prevent bloodshed, the tramp of a
fast galloping horse was heard in the woods, and the next moment
the steed of Col. H. made his appearance, covered with foam,
Slim Sampson on his back, and still driven by the lash of his rider
at the top of his speed. He leaped the enclosure, and was drawn
up still quivering in every limb, in the area between the opposing
Indians. The countenance of the noble fellow told his story. His
heart had smitten him by continual reproaches, at the adoption of
a conduct unknown in his nation; and which all its hereditary
opinions had made cowardly and infamous. Besides, he
remembered the penalties which, in consequence of his flight, must
fall heavily upon his people. Life was sweet to him—very sweet!
He had the promise of many bright years before him. His mind
was full of honourable and—speaking in comparative phrase—
lofty purposes, for the improvement of himself and nation. We
have already sought to show that, by his conduct, he had taken
order to introduce the elements of civilization among his people.
But he could not withstand the reproaches of a conscience formed
upon principles which his own genius was not equal to overthrow.
His thoughts, during his flight, must have been of a very humbling
character; but his features now denoted only pride, exultation
and a spirit strengthened by resignation against the worst. By
his flight and subsequent return, he had, in fact, exhibited a more
lively spectacle of moral firmness, than would have been displayed
by his simple submission in remaining. He seemed to feel
this. It looked out from his soul in every movement of his body.
He leaped from his horse, exclaiming, while he slapped his breast
with his open palm:
“Oakatibbé heard the voice of a chief, that said he must die.
Let the chief look here—Oakatibbé is come!”
A shout went up from both parties. The signs of strife disappeared.
The language of the crowd was no longer that of threatening
and violence. It was understood that there would be no resistance
in behalf of the condemned. Col. H. and myself, were
both mortified and disappointed. Though the return of Slim
Sampson, had obviously prevented a combat à outrance, in which
a dozen or more might have been slain, still we could not but regret
the event. The life of such a fellow seemed to both of us, to
be worth the lives of any hundred of his people.
Never did man carry with himself more simple nobleness. He
was at once surrounded by his friends and relatives. The hostile
party, from whom the executioners were to be drawn, stood looking
on at some little distance, the very pictures of patience. There
was no sort of disposition manifested among them, to hurry the
proceedings. Though exulting in the prospect of soon shedding
the blood of one whom they esteemed an enemy, yet all was dignified
composure and forbearance. The signs of exultation were
no where to be seen. Meanwhile, a conversation was carried on
in low, soft accents, unmarked by physical action of any kind,
between the condemned and two other Indians. One of these was
the unhappy mother of the criminal—the other was his uncle.
They rather listened to his remarks, than made any of their own.
The dialogue was conducted in their own language. After a
rather than understood, by all the Indians, friends and enemies.
All of them started into instant intelligence. It was a sign that he
was ready for the final proceedings. He rose to his feet and they
surrounded him. The groans of the old woman, his mother, were
now distinctly audible, and she was led away by the uncle, who,
placing her among the other women, returned to the condemned,
beside whom he now took his place. Col. H. and myself, also
drew nigh. Seeing us, Oakatibbé simply said, with a smile:
“Ah, kurnel, you see, Injun man ain't strong like white man!”
Col. H. answered with emotion.
“I would have saved you, Sampson.”
“Oakatibbé hab for dead!” said the worthy fellow, with another,
but a very wretched smile.
His firmness was unabated. A procession was formed, which
was headed by three sturdy fellows, carrying their rifles conspicuously
upon their shoulders. These were the appointed executioners,
and were all near relatives of the man who had been slain.
There was no mercy in their looks. Oakatibbé followed immediately
after these. He seemed pleased that we should accompany
him to the place of execution. Our way lay through a long
avenue of stunted pines, which conducted us to a spot where an
elevated ridge on either hand produced a broad and very prettily
defined valley. My eyes, in all this progress, were scarcely ever
drawn off from the person of him who was to be the principal actor
in the approaching scene. Never, on any occasion, did I behold
a man with a step more firm—a head so unbent—a countenance
so sweetly calm, though grave—and of such quiet unconcern, at
the obvious fate in view. Yet there was nothing in his deportment
of that effort which would be the case with most white men
on a similar occasion, who seek to wear the aspect of heroism.
He walked as to a victory, but he walked with a staid, even dignity,
calmly, and without the flush of any excitement on his cheek.
In his eye there was none of that feverish curiosity, which seeks
for the presence of his executioner, and cannot be averted from
the contemplation of the mournful paraphernalia of death. His
look was like that of the strong man, conscious of his inevitable
indifference.
The grave was now before us. It must have been prepared at
the first dawn of the morning. The executioners paused, when
they had reached a spot within thirty steps of it. But the condemned
passed on, and stopped only on the edge of its open jaws.
The last trial was at hand with all its terrors. The curtain was
about to drop, and the scene of life, with all its hopes and promises
and golden joys—even to an Indian golden—was to be shut
forever. I felt a painful and numbing chill pass through my
frame, but I could behold no sign of change in him. He now
beckoned his friends around him. His enemies drew nigh also,
but in a remoter circle. He was about to commence his song of
death—the narrative of his performances, his purposes, all his
living experience. He began a low chant, slow, measured and
composed, the words seeming to consist of monosyllables only.
As he proceeded, his eyes kindled, and his arms were extended.
His action became impassioned, his utterance more rapid, and the
tones were distinguished by increasing warmth. I could not understand
a single word which he uttered, but the cadences were
true and full of significance. The rise and fall of his voice, truly
proportioned to the links of sound by which they were connected,
would have yielded a fine lesson to the European teacher
of school eloquence. His action was as graceful as that of a
mighty tree yielding to and gradually rising from the pressure
of a sudden gust. I felt the eloquence which I could not understand.
I fancied, from his tones and gestures, the play of the
muscles of his mouth, and the dilation of his eyes, that I could
detect the instances of daring valour, or good conduct, which his
narrative comprised. One portion of it, as he approached the
close, I certainly could not fail to comprehend. He evidently
spoke of his last unhappy affray with the man whom he had
slain. His head was bowed—the light passed from his eyes, his
hands were folded upon his heart, and his voice grew thick and
husky. Then came the narrative of his flight. His glance was
turned upon Col. H. and myself, and, at the close, he extended his
hand to us both. We grasped it earnestly, and with a degree of
emotion which I would not now seek to describe. He paused.
place himself at the very verge of the grave—he then threw open
his breast—a broad, manly, muscular bosom, that would have
sufficed for a Hercules—one hand he struck upon the spot above
the heart, where it remained—the other was raised above his
head. This was the signal. I turned away with a strange sickness.
I could look no longer. In the next instant I heard the
simultaneous report, as one, of the three rifles, and when I again
looked, they were shoveling in the fresh mould, upon the noble
form of one, who, under other more favouring circumstances,
might have been a father to his nation.
| The wigwam and the cabin | |