University of Virginia Library

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

his own side, and ranging himself in front of some one opponent.
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

one large step in resistance to the tyrannous usages of custom, in
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

while this ceased, and he made a signal which seemed to be felt,
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

doom, and prepared, as it is inevitable, to meet it with corresponding
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.

The catastrophe was at hand. I saw him step back, so as to
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.