 | CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin |  |
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.
| CHAPTER III. The wigwam and the cabin | |