University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The martial sounds of drums and trumpets had
scarcely died away over the distant hills, when
Sir William Berkley despatched couriers to the
various military outposts of the colony, peremptorily
ordering the commanders to march forthwith
to Jamestown with the forces under their command.
To these couriers also were given secret
instructions for the private ears of such of his
loyal friends among the Cavaliers living on their
routes, as he knew would adhere to him under any
circumstances, urgently soliciting their immediate
presence at the capital. After these were despatched,
he summoned a secret conclave of such friends,
equally worthy of his trust, as were yet to be
found in the city.

Thus were they engaged, as General Bacon,
habited in the rich military fashion of the day,
rode along the north western skirt of the city, his
own gay attire, and the splendid trappings of his
horse wretchedly mocking the desolation within.
He drew up at the back court of the Berkley
Arms, dismounted, and passed immediately into
a private room. Having despatched a servant for
the landlord, he employed the time before he

made his appearance, in meditations upon the
singular and protracted absence of Brian O'Reily,
the new responsibilities which he had just assumed,
and the present condition and future destinies of
the fair invalid at the gubernatorial mansion.

When the landlord entered he quickly demanded
if Doctor Roland had inquired for him during
the forenoon, and was answered that he had not.
A servant was despatched with a note to the Doctor
repeating his request for an interview of five
minutes at the Arms. After he had waited some
time in the most intense impatience, the servant
returned with a verbal message stating that the
doctor would wait on Gen. Bacon immediately.

“From whom did you obtain this answer?”

“From the porter at the door, sir.”

“Very well, you may retire!”

As he sat impatiently listening for the heavy
footsteps of the doctor, he heard a light fairy foot
tripping up the stairs toward his room, and in the
next instant a gentle tap at the door. His heart
almost leaped to his mouth as he indistinctly bade
the applicant to come in. “Can it be possible,”
said he to himself, “that Virginia has escaped from
her jailers? Was the story of her illness but an
invention of the Governor's?”

Before he had answered these questions to his
own satisfaction, the door was suddenly thrust
backward and Harriel Harrison stood before him.

She was pale, agitated, and gasping for breath,
as she threw herself unasked into a seat. Bacon

was from his previous emotions scarcely more
composed, and his heart beat tumultuously against
his doublet, as he endeavoured vainly to offer the
courtesies due to her sex and standing.

“Oh, Mr. Bacon!” (gasped the agitated girl)
“fly for your life.”

“On what account, my dear young lady?”

“I'll tell you as quick as I can. I had just obtained
admission to-day to Virginia's room for
the first time, when, after having spent the time,
and more, allotted to me by the doctor, as I was
coming down the stairs I had to pass the door of
Sir William's library, and I accidentally overheard
him giving orders to an officer to collect some
soldiers from the barracks and make you a prisoner
in this house. How he knew you were here
I know not; but I was no sooner out of the door
than I flew to the back court below, demanded of
the servant holding your horse to point out your
room, and rushed in in this strange manner to put
you on your guard. Now, fly for your life—you
have not a moment to lose!”

“One word of Virginia, your fair friend, and I
am gone. Will she survive? Is her reason unsettled?
Does she believe the strange story of the
Recluse?”

“In a word then, she is better—of sound mind,
and in her heart does not believe one word of that
story, though sober reason is strangely perplexed.”

“One word more, and I have done. Does she
inquire for me?”

“The very first word she said to me was, `Does
Nathaniel believe it?' Now go, while yet you may.
Should any new emergency arise in your absence
I will despatch a courier after you.”

“Yet one message to Virginia. Tell her that
I have accidentally discovered in the trinket preserved
by her father, and worn by me in the days
of my infancy, the likeness of her whom I have
every reason to believe my mother. Tell her not
to hope too sanguinely, but to give that circumstance
its weight, and trust to the developments of
time; and now I commit you both, my dearest
friends, to the protection of an overruling Providence;
farewell.”

With these parting words he rushed down stairs,
mounted his fleet charger, and swiftly left the court
just as the Governor's emissaries entered the front
porch of the house to arrest him.

Harriet drew her veil closely over her face, and
almost as fleetly sought her father's dwelling.

Our hero in a very few minutes placed the river
which separates the island from the main land between
him and his pursuers. The sun was yet
above the western horizon, and the clouds which
spread in fleecy and stationary masses, were tinted
with the softest hues of the violet and the rose,
filling the mind with pleasing images of repose,
cheerfulness, and hope. These soothing and delightful
influences of the summer evening were in
a great measure lost however upon our hero as he

pursued his solitary way through the unbroken forest
in the immediate footsteps of the army.

Besides the inevitable suspense attending the
developments of his own origin and destiny—there
were immediate anticipations before him of no
pleasing character. He had just assumed the responsibilities
of an office, which at the very outset
was attended with the most painful embarrassments.
His keen military eye ran over the ground occupied
by the enemies of his country, and perceived
at once that to make his enterprise completely and
permanently successful, the savages must be driven
entirely from the peninsula.

The very first on the list of these nations was
the Chickahominy, at the head of which was the
youthful queen, who had so lately perilled her
life and her authority for his own salvation from
the tortures of her countrymen. His decisive and
energetic mind perceived the stern necessity
which existed of driving these melancholy relies
of once powerful nations far distant from the
haunts of the white man. The question was not
now presented to his mind, whether a foreign nation
should land upon the shores of these aboriginal
possessors. That question had long since been
decided. It was now a matter of life or death
with the European settlers and their descendants
—a question of existence or no existence—permanent
peace or continual murders. The whites
had tried all the conciliatory measures of which
they supposed themselves possessed. Peace after

peace had succeeded to the frequent fires and
bloodshed of the savages. The calumet had been
smoked time after time, and hostage after hostage
had been exchanged, yet there was no peace
and security for the white man. The right of
the aboriginals to the soil was indeed plain and
indisputable; yet now that the Europeans were in
possession, whether by purchase or conquest, the
absolute necessity of offensive warfare against them
was equally plain and unquestioned in his mind.
These views had been hastily communicated to the
council of officers held on the banks of the river, at
the commencement of the march, and unanimously
concurred in by them. Notwithstanding this
unanimity of opinion among his associates in command,
the very first duty which presented itself
in accordance with these views, harrowed his feelings
in the most painful manner. His imagination
carried him forward to the succeeding morning,
when his followers would in all probability be carrying
fire and sword into the heart of the settlement
ruled by his preserver. As the refined and
feeling surgeon weeps in secret over the necessity
of a painful and dangerous operation upon a delicate
female friend, yet subdues his feelings and
steels his nerves for the approaching trial, so our
youthful commander silenced the rising weakness
in his heart, and urged his steed still deeper into
the forest. He determined to temper and soften
stern necessity with humanity.

A few hours' ride brought him up with the

baggage and artillery of the army. The sun had
already gone down, but a brilliant starlight, and
a balmy and serene air revived his drooping spirits,
as he swiftly passed these lumbering appendages.

Scarcely had he placed himself at the head of the
marching column, and perceived that the flower
and chivalry of his command—the mounted Cavaliers,
were still in advance of him, before the
sharp quick report of their firearms was heard at
some three quarters of a mile distance in advance.
These were quickly succeeded by the savage warwhoop,
and in a few moments a bright red column
of fire and smoke shot up towards the heavens
immediately in front. His spurs were dashed into
his charger's flanks, and he flew through the fitfully
illuminated forest toward a gently swelling
hill from beyond which the light seemed to proceed.

When he had gained this eminence, a sight
greeted his eyes which awakened all the tenderest
sympathies of his nature. Orapacs, the sole remaining
village of the Chickahominies—the scene
of his late tortures—as well as his preservation,
was wrapped in flames. Ever and anon a terrified
or wounded savage came darting through the forest
heedless alike of him and of the martial sounds
in his rear. He reined up his courser on the
summit and sadly viewed the scene.

His commands were no longer necessary for the
existing emergency. The deed, for which he had
been so laboriously and studiously preparing his

mind was done. The royal wigwam, the very
scene of his shelter, and of Wyanokee's hospitality,
was already enveloped by the devouring element.
A few struggling and desperate warriors still kept
up the unequal contest, but in a few moments, even
the despairing yells of these were hushed in the
cold and everlasting silence of death. Painfully
and intently he gazed upon the crumbling walls of
the once peaceful home of his Indian friend. He
could perceive no appearance of the unfortunate
queen. His imagination immediately conjured
up the image of the heroic maiden, her form bleeding
and mutilated as it lay among the last defenders
of the land of her fathers. By a singular
sophistry of the mind, he consoled himself by the
reflection, that the orders had not proceeded from
his lips—that his hand had no part in the matter,
although he had himself laid down the plan of the
campaign, of which the scene before him was the
first result. True, he had mentioned no exact
time for the accomplishment of this measure, and
the ardour of his young companions in arms had
outstripped his own intentions; nevertheless, the
design was his, however much he might soothe his
own feelings by the want of personal participation.

By the time that the infantry and heavy artillery
had arrived upon the spot occupied by their
General, the village of Orapacs was a heap of
smouldering ruins. The scene was again covered
with darkness, save when it was illuminated at

intervals by a fitful gleam, as some quivering ruin
fell tardily among the smouldering embers of the
walls which had already fallen. He assumed the
command of his troops, and marched them into
the plain between the place they then occupied,
and the site of the melancholy scene we have described.
By his orders also, the trumpets were
ordered to command the return of the impetuous
Cavaliers. Dudley and his compatriots soon
came bounding over the plain, exhilarated with
the first flush of success, and not a little surprised
at the cold and respectful salutations which greeted
them from their commander. Most of them, however,
were acquainted with his late sufferings and
feeble bodily health, and to this cause they were
willing to attribute his present want of euthusiasm.

Bacon had no sooner issued the necessary orders
for the night than, taking Dudley by the arm, he
walked forth into the forest beyond the sentinels
already posted.

“Tell me, Dudley,” (said he in a hurried and
agitated voice,) “was she slain?”

“Was who slain?”

“The queen of these dominions!”

“No, I believe not. I think she was borne
from the scene early in the conflict, by some of
her tribe.”

“Thank God!” he fervently ejaculated, and
then addressing himself to his aid, he continued,
“Return, Dudley, to the camp—superintend the
execution of the orders I have issued for our security,

in person, but follow me not, and suffer no
one, either officer or soldier, to approach the ruins.
I will return in the course of a couple of hours.”

Having thus spoken, he suddenly disappeared
through the forest, and his companion returned to
the camp.

With slow and melancholy steps our hero approached
the late busy and animated scene. The
beasts of prey were sending up their savage, but
plaintive notes in horrible unison with his own
feelings. The cool evening breeze fanned the
dying embers, and occasionally loaded the atmosphere
with brilliant showers of sparks and flakes
of fire. As these rolled over his person and fell
dead upon his garments, he folded his arms, and
contemplated the ruins of the wigwam in which
he had found protection.

“There,” said he, “was perhaps the birth-place
of a hundred monarchs of these forests. Until
civilized man intruded upon these dominions, they
were in their own, and nature's way, joyous,
prosperous, and happy. They have resided amidst
the shades of these venerable trees, perhaps since
time began! The very waters of the stream bubbling
joyously over yonder pebbles, have borrowed
their name. Where are they all now? The last
male youth of their kingly line was slain by these
hands, and the last habitations of his race fired
and plundered by soldiers owing obedience to my
commands. The plough and the harrow will soon
break down alike their hearth-stones and the

scene of their council fires. Yea, and the very
monuments of their dead must be levelled to
meet the ever craving demands of civilized existence.
But pshaw! is this the preparation to
steel a soldier's heart, and fire it with military
ardour and enthusiasm? Let me rather ponder
upon my own sufferings on this spot. Let me
remember the groans of dying old men, women,
and children, which rent the air twelve hours
since. And above all, let me bear in mind the
despairing shrieks of her, who was more than a
mother to me, of her who clothed and fed and
protected me in infancy. Where is she now?”

“She is alive and well!” answered a feeble and
plaintive voice from the wild flowers and shrubbery
which grew upon an earthen monument erected
to the savage dead.

“Who is it that speaks?”

“One that had better have slept with those who
sleep beneath!”

“Wyanokee?”

“Ay, who is left but Wyanokee and these
mouldering bones beneath, of all the proud race
that once trod these plains unchallenged, and free
as the water that bubbles at your feet.”

He approached the rude monument as she spoke.
It consisted of a grass-grown mount some thirty
feet in length, by ten in height and breadth, and
was surmounted by thick clustering briers and
wild flowers. The youthful queen was sitting
upon the margin of the tumulus, her head resting

upon her hand, and it in its turn supported on her
knee. As the officer approached, she stood erect
upon the mount. Her person was clad and ornamented
much as when he had last seen her, except
that above one shoulder protruded a richly carved
unstrung bow, and from the other, a quiver of
feather-tipped arrows crossing the bow near her
waist. The soldier replied,

“It is almost useless for me to profess now, how
wholly, how profoundly, I sympathize with you
in witnessing this scene of desolation. Naught
but the dictates of inevitable necessity could have
induced the army under my command to perpetrate
this melancholy devastation. But I trust
that the soothing influences of time, your own
good sense, and the ministrations of your kind
white friends, will reconcile you to these stern
decrees of fate.”

“Kind indeed is the white man's sympathy—
very kind. He applies the torch to the wigwam
of his red friend, shoots at his women and children
as they run from the destruction within, and then
he weeps over the ruins which his own hands
have made.”

“It is even so, Wyanokee. I do not expect
you to understand or appreciate my feelings upon
the instant; but when you are once again peacefully
settled at Jamestown with your sorrowing
young friend, and will cast your eyes over this
vast and fertile country, and see to what little
ends its resources are wasted, and on the other

hand, what countless multitudes are driven hither
by the crowded state of other parts of the world,
you will begin to see the necessity which is driving
your red brethren to the far west. You can
then form some conception of the now unseen
power behind, which is urging them forward. You
will see the great comprehension and sublime spectacle
of God's political economy! you will see it
in its beauty and its justice. You feel the partial
and limited effects of these swelling waves of the
great creation now upon yourself and your nation.
I grant they are hard to be borne, but once place
yourself above these personal considerations, and
compare the demands of a world with the handful
of warriors lying dead around those ruins, and you
will bow to the justice of the decree which has
gone forth against your people!”

“Does your Great Spirit then only care for the
good of his white children? You taught me to
believe that he too created the red men, and
placed them upon these hunting grounds, that he
eared as much for them as he did for their white
brethren—but now it seems he is angry with the
poor red man, because he lives and hunts as he
was taught, by the Great Spirit himself. These
hunting grounds are now wanted for his other
children, and those to whom he first gave them,
must not only yield them up, but they must be
driven by the fire and the thunder, and the long
knives of those who have been professing themselves
our brethren.”

“Your view of the case is a very natural and
plausible one, yet it seems to me you have over-looked
that point in it, upon which the whole
matter turns. Let us for one moment grant the
necessity of making room on your hunting grounds
for your white brethren, who are crowded out of
the older countries. There seemed at first no
need to disturb the red men, there was room
enough here for all, we were content to live upon
this kind and neighbourly footing. Had your
brethren been equally content, the great purposes
of the Creator would have been answered without
any destruction of his red or white children.
Have the red men so demeaned themselves toward
the whites that we could all dwell here together?
Let the massacre of last night speak!
You point to yonder smouldering ruins and bloody
corpses. I point to the bleeding bodies of my
countrymen and friends, and their demolished
dwellings as the cause—the direct cause of the
desolation you behold.”

“The white man talks very fast—and very well
—he talks for the Great Spirit and himself too; but
who talks for the poor red man, but Wyanokee.
All you say is very good for the white men
upon our hunting grounds, and the white men
driven from over the great waters, and for the
white men left behind. It leaves room to hunt and
plant corn there for the white men, and finds room
here to hunt and plant corn, but you do not give
the poor red man any hunting ground. You say

we must go to the far west, but how long will it
be the far west? How many of your white friends
are coming over the big waters? How far is this
place, where the red man will not be driven from
his new hunting ground? If we cannot live and
smoke the calumet of peace together, we must have
separate hunting grounds. Where are our hunting
grounds? Ah, I see your eye reaches where the
clouds and the blue mountains come together—to
the end of the world, we must go, like those beneath
us to the hunting grounds of the Great Spirit.”

“Not so, Wyanokee, we would willingly spare
the effusion of blood, and when our arms have
taught the men who assembled here two days ago,
our firm determination always to avenge the murder
of our friends and the plunder of their property,
it is our intention to propose a fair and permanent
peace. We will endeavour to convince them of
the necessity of abandoning for ever the country
between these two great rivers, and moving their
hunting grounds where the interests of the two
races cannot come in conflict.”

“O yes, you will run the long knives through
their bodies, and then smoke the calumet! You
will drive us from our homes, and then you will
persuade us to give them up to the white man.”

“You are not now in a proper mood to reason
upon this subject calmly, my gentle friend, nor do
I wonder at it; but the time will come when your
views of this matter will be similar to my own.”

“No, Wyanokee cannot see through the white

man's eyes; she has not yet learned to forget her
kindred and her country. She came here to-night
to sit upon the graves of the great hunters and
warriors who slept here with their calumets and
tomahawks beside them, long before the long
knives came among us. She will carry away from
this place to night, this little flower planted by
her own hands over the graves of her fathers and
brothers. She would leave it here to spread its
flowers over their ancient war paths and their
graves, but even these silent and peaceful bones,
and these harmless flowers must share the fate of
them who buried the one and planted the other.
Wyanokee will never see this place more—never
again be near the bones of her fathers, until she
meets them all at the hunting ground of the Great
Spirit. Farewell, home and country and friends,
and fare thee well, ungrateful man; when next the
Indian maiden steps between thee and the tomahawk
of her countrymen repay not her kindness
with the torch to her wigwam and the long knife
to her heart.”

With these bitter words of parting, she descended
from the mound with dignity, and disappeared
through the forest, notwithstanding the urgent entreaties
of Bacon, that she would return. She
gave no other evidence of heeding him than turning
back the palm of her hand toward him, and
leaning her head in the opposite direction, as if
she were exorcising an evil spirit. He made no

other attempt to stay her progress; once indeed
the thought occurred to him to hail the sentinel
and arrest her for her own sake, but the idea was
as speedily abandoned. He determined to leave
her destiny wholly in the hands of him who first
decreed it. For a moment he ascended the mount
and cast his eye over the wide-spread and melancholy
desolation, and then rapidly retraced his
steps to the camp. When there, his first orders
were to have the slain warriors of the expatriated
tribes, buried in the tomb of their forefathers,
while his own personal attention was bestowed
upon the condition of the prisoners taken during
the demolition of the village.

They sat round the tents appropriated to their
use, in stern and sullen dignity. Wounded or
whole, no sound escaped their lips; and their
food and drink remained untouched before them.
They noticed the entrance of the commander in
chief no more than if he had been an insignificant
creeping reptile of the earth; no signs of
recognition lighted up their features, though most
or all of them must have been present at the
scene of his own tortures. While Bacon stood no
unmoved spectator of the calm unshaken fortitude
with which they bore their misfortunes, an
incident occurred that served to exhibit the stern
qualities of their pride in still bolder relief. One
of the old warriors had been taken while attempting
to escape with one of his children, after having

fought until there was not a vestige of hope
remaining for the preservation of his people and
their homes. He was brought into the camp,
together with his child. While the prisoners
were all sitting round in sullen dignity, and the
general of the invading army stood surveying
them as we have mentioned, this little child came
entreatingly to its father's knees, and begged for
the food which stood untouched before his face.
He made no verbal reply—a momentary weakness
softened his countenance as he gazed into the face
of the tender petitioner, but in the next, he raised
his tomahawk and sank it deep into the brain of
his child before any one could arrest his arm. The
innocent and unconscious victim fell without a
groan or struggle, and the stern old warrior reinserted
the handle of his weapon in his belt, crossed
his arms upon his breast, and resumed his former
attitude of immobility. Bacon gazed at him in
astonishment and horror for an instant, and then
wheeled suddenly round to retire from an exhibition
of humanity, so rude, ferocious, and appalling.
But as he was about to emerge from the portal
of the tent, Wyanokee was rudely thrust into the
door, and they stood face to face.

His first impulse was to draw his sword, and
rush upon the two soldiers who had guarded the
prisoner, but a moment's reflection served to remind
him that they had but obeyed his own general
orders. He returned the half drawn weapon therefore,

and stood an embarrassed spectator of the
captive maiden's searching glances, as her eyes
wandered around the room, first resting upon her
unfortunate companions in captivity, next upon
the corpse of the slain infant, and lastly upon the
commander himself. He had seen her previously
when her subdued manners and lady-like deportment,
inclined him in communing with her to forget
her Indian origin, but he saw her now with all
her native impulses roused to their highest tension.
Her eye flashed fire as it rested upon him after
completing her survey, and she thus addressed him,
stepping a few paces backward, while her person
was drawn up to its utmost height, and her bosom
heaved with struggling emotions.

“Are you the same person who sometime since
undertook to inspire noble sentiments into the
mind of the purest being that ever honoured a
white skin? Are you the same youth who aspired
to her hand and renounced it on the marriage
night, because of kindred blood? Are you the
youth whose fair and deceitful form, and apparently
noble nature, once made Wyanokee look with
contempt upon this heroic race of warriors? If
the form, the person be the same, the Great Spirit
of evil has poisoned the fountains of your heart,
and turned your goodness and your honour to
cruelty and cunning. How far has the great light
gone down behind the sea, since you stood upon
the ruins of all that Wyanokee loved, and professed

sorrow for their destruction, and sympathy in
her misfortunes? When you stood before her,
and dared not lay your own hands upon her person!—you
could leave her untouched upon the
grave of her great warriors—you dared not seek
to injure her, lest their spirits should return from
the happy hunting ground and kill you on the
spot. But you could deceitfully order these poor
long knives to stand in her path and prevent her
from taking the last look, and heaving the last
sigh that should ever be looked and uttered in
these forests.”

“I gave no orders for your arrest, Wyanokee;
I have not spoken to the sentinels since I saw
you!”

“But you could stand and mourn with Wyanokee
over the ashes of her fathers' wigwam,
when you had just come from ordering these to
carry her into captivity. They told me themselves
that they acted by your orders. Oh how
cruel, how deceitful is the white man! He gladdens
the poor Indian's eyes with his glittering toys,
till he cheats him of all the corn laid up for his
squaws during the winter. He smokes the calumet
with the chiefs, while his own followers are
burning down the houses of their nation. You,
sir, redeemed Wyanokee from captivity, to carry
her into a more galling bondage. You taught her
the knowledge of the white man, only that she
might multiply her sorrows, when this long fore-seen
night should come. Was it for this that she

redeemed you from the red hot tortures of these
chiefs? Did you come upon their hunting ground
to learn how to torture in preparation for this occasion,
and trusting to Wyanokee's soft and foolish
heart for your safe return? Lead them and her
to the stake! we will show the white warrior how
to endure the tortures of our enemies without
fainting like women.”

“You will not listen to me, Wyanokee, else I
could have told you long ago, that I had given no
orders to the sentinels. We do not desire your
captivity? you are free to go now whithersoever
you choose, provided you keep beyond the range
of our sentinels. What our race has done against
yours, has only been done to protect their own
lives and property, and to make that protection
secure and permanent. You know that we never
torture prisoners; when the war is ended and peace
obtained, these warriors shall go free and unharmed.
I see that they have refused to touch their
food, under the belief that they are to suffer, but
I will leave you to undeceive them, after which you
are free to go or to remain. If the latter be your
choice, a tent shall be provided for your sole accommodation.”

Having thus spoken, he hastily left the tent and
sought the marquée occupied by the higher grade
of officers and the more aristocratic of the Cavaliers.
Gay sounds of song and minstrelsy greeted his ears
as he approached the spot—Bacchanalian scraps
promiscuously chimed in chorus with more sentimental

ditties, and all occasionally drowned in
boisterous shouts of laughter. These evidences
of the mood in which he should find his associates
deterred him from entering, under his present feelings,
and he therefore passed on to his own solitary
quarters. In a few moments he was extended
upon such a bed as a camp affords, with no external
source of interruption to his repose, save the
distant cries of the wild beasts, and the more monotonous
tread of the sentinel, as he paced his
narrow limits in the performance of his duty.

The sun rose the next morning over the ruins
of Orapacs and the scene of the late strife in unclouded
splendour. The enlivening notes of drums
and trumpets had long since roused the soldiers
from their slumbers, and having despatched their
morning meal, they were speedily forming into
marching order. The commander of this imposing
little army mounted his charger, and galloped
along the forming battalions; his eye bright and
serene, his spirits, in comparison with the previous
night, bounding and elastic. Having detailed to
his council of officers his intention of next attacking
the king of Pamunky, the orders for the
march were given, and the lines wheeled into
columns, headed by the gay and brilliant cortége
of youthful Cavaliers.

The prisoners were marched into the centre of
the column, and as they assumed their station, the
general ran his anxious eye eagerly over their

persons, to ascertain whether his former pupil had
availed herself of the accommodations provided by
his orders. But no such graceful form greeted
his sight, and he learned from the Captain of the
guard that she had departed soon after he had
himself left the prisoners—entirely alone. A momentary
sadness shaded his brow, as he reflected
upon the desolate condition of the Indian maiden,
but it was soon lost in the absorbing duties of his
station.

Toward evening, of the ensuing day, as the army
pursued their route between the Chickahominy and
Pamunky Rivers, the vanguard discovered several
of the Pamunky tribe, skulking among the trees of
the forest immediately in advance of them. The
general, apprehending an ambuscade, immediately
ordered the Cavaliers to fall back upon the main
body of the army, while a practised band of rangers
were ordered to examine the cover of the wood.
Scarcely had these orders been transmitted to their
various destinations, before a bright beacon fire shot
its spiral column of smoke and flame high above
the surrounding trees. What this new device portended
the commander could not divine, nor could
the council, which was immediately summoned,
give to it a satisfactory interpretation. The Rangers
returned without discovering any signs of an
ambuscade, though they had penetrated to the
huge fire which lighted up the forest. Not an
Indian was to be seen there or beyond. Bacon

and his staff rode forward to the scene in person
—but the aid of a glass enabled him to discover
nothing more.

The army was again put in motion, and every
precaution used which some experience in Indian
warfare had taught the general was so necessary.
For miles they proceeded with the most watchful
caution, until the absence of the undergrowth in
the forest taught them that it had been fired, and
thereby disclosed the probability of their being in
the near neighbourhood of the town of the Pamunkies.
The verdant glades were lighted up at
intervals by broad masses of red light from the
setting sun, as they fell between the natural interstices
of the trees. The appearance of the woodland
vista before them was romantic and picturesque
in the extreme. The forest had the aspect
of a country which had been settled for ages. The
venerable trees, surmounted with green and brown
moss, were now occasionally richly bronzed with
the rays of the sun as they fell horizontally upon
their hoary trunks, and the whole more resembled
an ancient and venerable park, which some wealthy
gentleman had inherited from careful and provident
ancestors, than a wild woodland, fresh from
the hands of nature, in which the woodman's axe
had never been heard, and upon which no other
care or culture had been bestowed than the occasional
torch of the savage.

They were not left long to revel in these wild
beauties—a more appalling scene awaited them.

The sun was fast declining behind the river hills of
the Chickahominy and darkness encireling the sombre
groves in which they rode, when suddenly a
hundred fires cast a lurid glare across their path,
and the army instinctively halted on beholding the
town of the Pamunkies wrapped in flames. Again
they were put in motion, and cautiously approached
the spot. Bacon fearing that some treachery lurked
beneath these unexpected measures of the Indians,
could scarcely restrain the impetuosity of
his mounted force, spurred on by curiosity to see
in what new device of savage warfare they would
terminate.

They arrived upon the skirts of the town, however,
and within the influence of the heat, without
hindrance or adventure; and what no less
surprised them, not a living creature was perceptible,
around or near the conflagration.

The first idea that suggested itself to the mind
of Bacon was, that the savages had, in despair,
thrown themselves into the burning ruins of their
own dwellings. He now understood the meaning
of the beacon light on their route; “it was the
signal for commencing the tragedy,” he muttered
to himself as he reined up his steed and ordering
his troops to halt, brought them into line along the
outskirts of the burning village, which, like the one
they had themselves fired, was constructed upon the
banks of the Pamunky river. While the troops
thus stood upon their arms, some of the officers
rode through the blazing wigwams, very much

against the will of their rearing and plunging chargers.
It was completely deserted; but while they
were consulting upon the measures to be taken, a tumultuous
and astounding yell burst suddenly upon
their startled ears. The intense light of the burning
village rendered the twilight gloom around as
dark as midnight by the contrast, and not a savage
could anywhere be seen. The mounted troop
made a wide sweep round the alignment, but
with no better success. Another astounding shout
of savage voices ascended to the clouds. Many
of the frail and tottering wigwams tumbled in at
the same moment—throwing the light in a lower
line of vision over the water, so that they were
enabled to discover a large body of mounted Pamunkies
drawn up like themselves on the opposite
bank of the river. Their grim and painted visages,
close shaven crowns, scalp locks, and gaudy
feathers, appeared through the medium of the red
and flickering light reflected from the water, in
horrible distinctness. A legion of devils from the
infernal regions, clothed in all the horrors of German
poetry, never startled the senses and aroused
the imagination more than did this spectacle its
amazed beholders. With another yell and a flourish
of their tomahawks above their heads, the
Indians simultaneously wheeled their horses and
flew over the plain towards the source of the river.
In a few moments all was silent as death, save the
crackling of the burning wigwams. The squaws
and children seemed to have been long since removed.
Again the colonial army—or to speak
more properly, the army of the people, encamped
before the ruins of an ancient and venerable settlement.

Here were no painful reminiscences for the sensitive
but energetic commander. The savages
were flying before his as yet scarcely tried army,
in the very direction in which it was his purpose
to drive them. He knew them too well to believe
that the whole peninsula would be thus tamely
abandoned, and he issued his orders, before lying
down to rest, for redoubled vigilance through the
night, and an early march in the morning toward
the falls of the Powhatan, where he had every
reason to believe that the tribes of the former confederacy
were again drawing to a head.