 | THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN. The book of my lady |  |
THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN.
In the year sixteen hundred and —, a conspiracy
was entered into by several of the Indian tribes inhabiting
South Carolina, instigated thereto by the Spanish
government of St. Augustine, against the inhabitants of
that province. Among these, were the Yamassees and
Huspahs, or rather the Yamassees; for the Huspahs
were but a portion of the same government and nation,
assuming to themselves the name of a local governor or
prince. They occupied a large and well watered territory,
lying backward from Port-Royal Island, on the
northeast side of Savannah river, which, to this day,
goes by the name of Indian land. It is now included
in the parish of St. Peter, in the present local divisions
of the state above mentioned.
The conspiracy became known to the Carolinians,
through the means of a white trader, before it was sufficiently
matured to be carried into execution. Declaration
of war was the immediate consequence; and,
unsupported by the faithless allies, who, after inciting
them to insurrection, refused them all succour; the
tribes were, one by one, defeated by the whites, and
either wholly exterminated or driven from their possessions.
The war was now drawing to a close. The resources
of the Indians had been almost entirely exhausted;
and deserted by the few tribes with which
or had submitted to the clemency of the conquerors,
the Yamassees, under their king Huspah, prepared
to risk the fate and fortunes of their nation on a
single battle, at their own town of Cayanoga, near
the site now occupied by the whites, called Purysburgh.
They had encamped outside the limits of the
town, which they had partly barricadoed with logs,
closely jointed one in another, according with the mode
of defence among the whites during their primitive
struggles against the rude and commonly ill-directed
assaults of the Indians. But what had been a sufficient
obstacle to the advance of a band of savages,
proved no defence against the whites; and, whilst
lying upon their arms, the bulwarks were stormed, and
their dwellings in flames, before they were apprised or
conscious of the attack. Nothing could exceed the
confusion and disorder among the miserable wretches
upon this occasion. The women and children rushed
through their blazing habitations, naked and howling
with affright. The men seized their defences, and although
the struggle was hopeless, it afforded the assailed
some opportunities for revenge. Many of the
whites were slain; and, in one instance, a warrior, who
was kept off by his enemy's sword, resolutely rushed
upon it, in order to glut his vengeance by strangling
his foe, which he did with all the fury of a wild beast.
They neither gave nor asked for quarter; and in the
confusion and darkness of the night, they were enabled
to maintain the struggle against the assailants, with the
courage of men fighting for the homes of their fathers,
and that conduct, which, in a midnight affray, is as much
globe. But when the day broke, the struggle was over.
The first gray of morning found the bayonet at the
breasts of the retreating savages, and themselves at the
mercy of those, to whom, in all their successes, they had
granted no mercy. Few escaped. Men, women, and
children, alike fell victims to the sword of devastation;
and, before mid-day, the fight was ended, and the Yamassee
nation ceased to have an existence.
On the morning after this fatal termination of the
war, a warrior might have been seen standing upon a
small hillock, within a few miles of the scene. His
appearance was indicative of recent fight, and much
weariness. The hunting-shirt which he wore, made of
finely dressed buckskins, inwrought fantastically with
beads and decorations of shells, was torn, and stained
in many places with blood and dirt; and, while his
features evinced nothing less than manly determination
and firmness, it would require no close observation to
perceive that he was one of those with whom the
strong principle of grief had become a settled companion.
His eye had the look of the exile, but not of
despair. He gazed anxiously around him: seemed to
strain his sight upon the far groves, as if expecting
some one to emerge from their gloomy intricacies;
then turning away disappointed, glided down into the
hollow, and bending to the small brook that slowly
wound its way beside him, he drank long and deeply
from its cool, refreshing waters. Having done this, he
again rose to the hillock he had left, and seemed to renew
the search he had made in vain before, and with
similar success. He sung, at length, in a low and unrepressed,
lament which follows, over the fortunes of his people:
“They are gone—all gone—the morning finds them
not; the night covers them. My feet have no companion
in the chase; the hollow rocks give me back only
their echoes. Washattee! where art thou? On the far
hills—thou hast found the valley of joy, and the plum-groves
that are for ever in bloom. Who shall find thy
bones, my brother; who take care of thy spoils? Thou
art all untended in the valley of joy, and the ghosts of
the slain bend about thee with many frowns. Where is
the maid of thy bosom? Comes she with the smoking
venison; does she dress thy food at the board, where
the hunter sits down at evening? Thou art slain in
thy morning, Washattee, and thy sun forgot to rise. I
sing for thee thy hymn of death—thy war-song for
many victories. Thou wert mighty in the chase—the
high hills did not overcome thee. Thy boyhood was
like the manhood of other men; thou didst not sleep in
thy childhood. Well did they name thee the young panther—the
might and the eye of the young panther's
mother was thine. Sickness fled from thee affrighted, and
thou laughed'st in scorn at the black drinks of Estutee.
The strong tide, when thou swammest, bore thee not
with it; thou didst put it aside as an infant. Thou
wert a long arrow in the chase, and thy flight was on
the strong winds. Who shall mate thee, my brother?
What chieftain stood up like Washattee? And the day
of thy glory is gone, O Huspah! the father of many
kings. Yamassee, where wert thou sleeping when thy
name and thy nation expired? When the belt was
burned, thou didst weave them, and the temple of thy
darkness, and the strong night is over thee. Canst
thou wake up the brave who are sleeping? Canst
thou undo the eye which is sealed up, and kindle the
sharp light that is hidden therein? What shall restore
thee, Yamassee; and where shall the brave men of
Huspah now find their abode? The wild grass has
taken root in their dwelling-place, and the hill-fox burrows
under the hearth of the hunter. The spirit has
no place in the wigwams of many fathers; silence has
made a home of their ruins, and lives lonely among
them. Oh, spirit of many ages, thou art vanished!
Thy voice is sunk into an echo, and thy name is whispered
on the hill-tops. Thy glories are the graves of
many enemies; thy own grave is unknown. Thou art
scattered to the broad winds, and hast fallen upon the
waters. They have carried thee down with them
away, and the hunters of the hill find thee not. A
curse is gone forth upon thee, and thou art smitten
with death!”
Thus mourned the Indian warrior over the graves of
his fathers, and the recollections and affections of his
youth. No single trace, however, of those emotions,
which might be supposed to have been exhibited as
accompaniments to his uttered sorrows, appeared either
in his look or his actions. To one who witnessed their
expression, they might be compared to the language of
sorrow falling from a statue. His was the majesty of
grief, without its weaknesses.
A something stirred the leaves, and the quick and
watchful sense of the chief recognised it as the object
of his search. His eye rested upon the deep and shadowing
Indians, of both sexes, belonging to his own tribe—the
all that was now left of their nation. With downcast
looks and no words, they struck a light, and in a few
moments kindled a fire, around which they sat down in
silence to a repast of parched corn, flour and sugar—
called among them sugamité;—with a small portion of
dried venison.
Here they remained not long. They wished to divest
themselves of all recollections of their misfortune,
yet were quite too near the spot at which it occurred,
easily to effect their object. Without a word they stepped,
one by one, into the order of march, which is called
the Indian file; and at equal intervals of ten or fifteen
feet they followed the chief; and, avoiding all beaten
tracks of human form, they took their way through the
close and pathless wastes of the forest.
Many years had now elapsed, and men ceased to
remember the noble tribe of the Yamassees; once
the most terrible, and at the same time, the most accomplished
of all the Indian nations of the south.
They had even gone out of the memories of their ancient
enemies the Creeks; and the Carolinians, while
possessing, and in full enjoyment of the rich lands of
their spacious territory, had almost forgotten the hard
toil and extreme peril by which alone they had been
acquired.
It was in the midst of a bright October month, that
a small canoe was seen ascending the river, now known
as the St. Mary's, having its source in a vast lake and
marsh, called Okefanokee, and lying between the
Flint and Ockmulgé rivers, in the state of Georgia.
hunters of the Creek nation; a gallant race, well known
for high courage among the tribes, and distinguished
not less by their wild magnanimity and adventure,
than by their daring ferocity. The warriors were both
young, and were numbered, and with strict justice,
among the élite of their people. At peace, for the
first time for many seasons, with all around them, they
gave themselves up to the pleasures of the chase, and,
sought, in the hardy trials of the hunt for the bear and
the buffalo, to relieve the inglorious and unwelcome
ease which this novel condition of things had imposed
upon them. Our two adventurers, forsaking the
beaten track, and with a spirit tending something more
than customary to that which distinguishes civilisation,
had undertaken an exploring expedition into the recesses
of this vast lake and marsh, which, occupying
a space of nearly three hundred miles in extent, and
in very rainy seasons almost completely inundated, presented
amidst the thousand islands which its bosom
conceals, fruitful and inviting materials for enquiry and
and adventure. Girt in with interminable forests, the
space of which was completely filled up with umbrageous
vines and a thick underwood, the trial was one of
no little peril, and called for the exercise of stout
heart, strong hand, and a world of fortitude and
patience. It was also the abiding-place of the wild
boar and the panther—the southern crocodile howled
nightly in its recesses; and the coiled snake, ever and
anon, thrust out its venomous fangs from the verdant
bush. With words of cheer and mutual encouragement,
the young hunters made their way. They were
did they anticipate the delight which they would
entertain, on relating their numerous adventures and
achievements, by field and flood, to the assembled nation,
on the return of the ensuing spring. They took
with them no unnecessary incumbrances. The well
tempered bow, the chosen and barbed arrows, the
curved knife, suited to a transition the most abrupt,
from the scalping of the enemy to the carving of the
repast, and the hatchet, fitted to the adroit hand of the
hunter and ready at his back for all emergencies, were
the principal accountrements of the warriors. They
troubled themselves not much about provisions. A
little parched corn supplied all wants, and the dried
venison in their pouches was a luxury, taken on occasions
only. They knew that, for an Indian, the woods
had always a pregnant store, and they did not doubt
that their own address in such matters, would at all
times enable them to come at it.
Dreary, indeed, was their progress. An European
would have despaired entirely, and given up what must
have appeared, not merely a visionary and hopeless, but
a desperate and dangerous pursuit. But the determination
of an Indian, once made, is unchangeable. His
mind clothes itself in a seemingly habitual stubbornness,
and he is inflexible and unyielding. Though young,
scarcely arrived at manhood, our warriors had been too
well taught in the national habitude, to have done any
thing half so womanlike as to turn their backs upon an
adventure, devised coolly, and commenced with all due
preparation. They resolutely pursued their way, unfearing,
unswerving, unshrinking. The river narrowed
having run their canoe upon the sands, they were compelled
to desert it and pursue their further way on foot.
They did not pause, but entered at once upon the new
labour; and now climbing from tree to bank—now
wading along the haunts of the plunging alligator,
through pond and mire—now hewing with their hatchets
a pathway through the thickest branches, they found
enough to retard, but nothing to deter them. For days
did they pursue this species of toil, passing from island
to island—alternately wading and swimming—until at
length, all unexpectedly, the prospect opened in strange
brightness and beauty before them. They came to a
broad and lovely lake, surrounded on all sides by the
forest—through a portion of which they had passed with
so much difficulty—to which the storms never came. It
lay sleeping before them with the calm of an infant, and
sheltered by the wood, the wild vine, and a thousand
flowers. In the centre rose a beautiful island, whose
shores were crowned with trees bearing all species of
fruit, and emitting a most grateful fragrance. The land
was elevated and inviting, and, as they looked, the young
warriors conceived it the most blissful and lovely spot
of earth. Afar in the distance, they beheld the white
habitations of the people of the strange land, but in
vain did they endeavour to reach them. They did not
seek to adventure into the broad and otherwise inviting
waters; for occasionally they could behold the crocodiles,
of the largest and fiercest class, rising to the surface,
and seeming to threaten them with their unclasped
jaws, thickly studded with their white sharp teeth.
While in this difficulty, they beheld a young maiden
youngest of the two hunters, attracted by the incomparable
beauty of her person, would have leapt without
scruple into the lake, and swam to the side on which
she stood, but that his more grave and cautious companion,
Sanuté, restrained him. They observed her motions,
and perceived that she directed their attention to
some object in the distance. Following her guidance,
they found a small canoe tied to a tree, and sheltered
in a little bay. Into this they entered fearlessly, and
putting out their paddles, passed in a short time to the
opposite shore, the beauty of which, now that they had
reached it, was even more surpassingly great than when
seen afar off. Nor did the young Indian maiden, in
the eye of the brave Onea, lose any of those charms,
the influence of which had already penetrated his inmost
spirit. But now she stood not alone. A bright young
maiden like herself appeared beside her, and, taking
the warriors by the hand, they sung sweet songs of
pleasure in their ears, and brought them the milk of
the cocoa to refresh them, and plucked for them many
of the rich and delightful fruits which hung over their
heads. There were oranges and dates, and cakes
made of corn and sugar, baked with their own hands,
which they cordially set before them. Many were the
sweet glances and precious sentences which they gave
to the young warriors, and soon did the gallant Creeks
understand, and gladly did they respond to their kindness.
Long would they have lingered with these
maidens, but, when their repast had ended, they enjoined
them to begone—to fly as quickly as possible,
for that their people were cruel to strangers, and the
savage tortures, were they to return from the distant
chase upon which they had gone, and find the intruders.
“But will they not give you,” said the fearless Onea,
“to be the bride of a brave warrior? I shame not to
speak the name of my nation. They are men, and
they beg not for life. I, myself, am a man among my
people, who are all men. They will give you to fill
my wigwam. I will do battle for you, Anyta, with the
knife and the spear; I will win you by the strong arm,
if the strange warriors stand in the path.” “Alas,”
said the young girl, “you know not my people. They
are tall like the pine trees, which rise above other
trees; they look down upon your tribe as the prairie
grass that the buffalo tramples down, and the flames
wither. The sun is their father—the earth their mother—and
we are called the daughters of the sun.
They would dash you into the flames, if you told them
of a lodge in the Creek wigwam for a maiden of our
tribe.”
“The Creek is a warrior and a chief, Anyta, and he
will not die like a woman. He can pluck out the
heart of his foe while he begs upon the ground. I fear
not for your people's anger, but I love the young maid
of the bright eye and sunny face, and would take her
as a singing bird into the lodge of a great warrior. I
will stay in your cabin till the warriors come back from
the hunt. I am no fox to burrow in the hill side.”
“You will stay to see me perish then, Onea,” said
the girl—a gleam of melancholy shining from her large
dark eyes—“for my people will not let me live, when
I speak for your life.”
“See you not my bow and arrows, Anyta? Is not
the tomahawk at my shoulder? Look, my knife is
keen—the sapling may speak.”
“Your arm is strong, and your heart true, you could
say to Onea; but what is one arm, and what are thy
weapons to a thousand? You must not linger, Onea;
we will put forth in the little canoe. I will steer to a
quiet hollow, and when thou art in safety I shall leave
thee and return to thee again.”
It was with difficulty the hot-headed Onea was persuaded
to comply with the suggestions of prudence,
and nothing but a consideration for the safety of the
maiden had power to restrain his impetuosity. But assured
that, in the unequal contest of which she spoke,
his own individual zeal and valour would prove unavailing,
he submitted, though with an evident ill grace, to
her directions. A like scene had, in the meanwhile,
taken place between Sanuté and Henamarsa, Anyta's
lovely companion, and attended with pretty nearly the
same results. A mutual understanding had the effect
of providing for the two warriors in the same manner.
Entering once more the canoe in company with, and
under the guidance of their mistresses, they took their
way down the lake, until they lost sight of the island on
which they had first met. They kept on until, far away
from the main route to the habitations of the tribe, they
came to a beautiful knoll of green, thickly covered with
shrubbery and trees, and so wrapt from the passing
glance of the wayfarer, by the circuitous bendings of
the stream, as to afford them the safety and secresy
they desired. The maidens informed them that they alone
were in possession of the fact of its existence, having
over the rippling waters in their birchen canoe.
They found it a pleasant dwelling-place. The wild
fruits and scented flowers seemed to have purposely
embellished it for the habitation of content and love,
and the singing birds were perpetually caroling from
the branches. The vines, thickly interwoven above
their heads, and covered with leaves, afforded them the
desired shelter; and gladly did they appropriate, and
sweetly did they enjoy its pleasures and its privacies.
But the day began to wane, and the approaching evening
indicated the return of the fierce warriors from the
chase. With many vows, and a tender and sweet sorrow,
the maidens took their departure for the dwellings
of their people; leaving the young chiefs to contemplate
their new ties, and the novel situation in which they
had found themselves. Nor did the maidens forget
their pledges, or prove false to their vows. Day after
day did they take their way in the birchen bark, and
linger till the evening in the society of their beloved.
The hours passed fleetly in such enjoyments, and happy
months of felicity had only taught them the beauty of
flowers and their scents, and the delights of an attachment
before utterly unknown. But the wing of the
halcyon ceased to rest on the blessed island. Impatient
of inactivity, the warrior Sanuté came one
day to the vine-covered cabin of Onea; his looks
were sullen, and his language desponding. He spoke
thus:
“It is not meet, Onea, that the hawk should be
clipped of his wings, and the young panther be caged
like a deer; let us go home to our people. I am growing
my knees grow weak.”
“I would go home to my people,” replied Onea,
“but cannot leave the young fawn who has taken shelter
under my protection. And will Sanuté depart from
Henamarsa?”
“Sanuté will depart from Henamarsa, but Sanuté
has the cunning of the serpent, and can burrow like
the hill-fox. Sanuté will no longer take the dove to
his heart, dreading an enemy. He will go home to
his people—he will gather the young men of the nation,
and do battle for Henamarsa, Onea is a brave warrior—will
he not fight for Anyta?”
“Onea would die for Anyta, but he would not that
Anyta should perish too. Onea would not destroy the
people of his wife.”
“Would they not destroy Onea? They would hang
his scalp in the smoke of their wigwams, they would
shout and dance about the stake when his death-song
is singing. If Onea will not depart with Sanuté, he
will go alone. He will bring the young warriors; and
the dogs who would keep Henamarsa from his wigwam—they
shall perish by his knife, and the wild
boar shall grow fat upon their carcasses.”
Thus spoke the elder of the two warriors, and vain
were the entreaties and arguments employed by Onea
to dissuade him from his purpose. The Indian habit
was too strong for love, and his sense of national, not
less than individual pride, together with the supineness
of his present life, contrasted with that restless activity
to which he had been brought up and habituated,
rendered all persuasion fruitless, and destroyed the
of Henamarsa, when she learned the departure
of her lover. A settled fear, however, took possession
of the bosom of the gentle Anyta, and she sobbed
upon the breast of the brave Onea. She felt that their
happiness was at an end—that the hope of her people
was insecure—that the home of her fathers was about
to suffer violation. She saw at once all the dangers,
and did not hesitate to whisper it in the ear of Onea.
All her hope rested in the belief, that Sanuté would
never succeed in tracing his way back, from the intricacies
of the swamp to his own people; or if he did,
that he would not succeed in guiding them to the
precise point in its recesses, in which her tribe had
found its abode. But Onea knew better the capacities
of a warrior among his people. He seized his
bow and equipments, and would have taken the path
after Sanuté, determined to quiet the fears of his beloved,
even by the death of his late friend and companion;
but the maiden restrained him. She uttered
a prayer to the Great Spirit, for the safety of herself
and people, and gave herself up to the wonted happiness
of that society, for which she was willing to
sacrifice every thing.
A new trial awaited Onea. One day Anyta came
not. The canoe was paddled by Henamarsa alone.
She sought him in his wigwam. She sought to take
the place of his beloved in his affections; and loaded
him with caresses.
“Where is Anyta?” asked the young warrior.
“She is no longer the bride of Onea,” was the
reply. “She has gone into the wigwam of a warrior
of Anyta.”
“Onea will love none but Anyta,” was the reply.
“But she is now the wife of Echotee, the chief.
She can no longer be yours. You will never see her
more.”
“I will tear her from the cabin of the dog—I will
drive my hatchet into his skull,”—said the infuriated
warrior. He rejected all the blandishments of Henamarsa,
and taunted her with her infidelity to Sanuté.
She departed in anger from his presence, and he lay
troubled with his meditations as to the course he
should pursue with regard to Anyta. His determination
was adopted, and at midnight, in a birchen canoe
prepared through the day, he took his way over the
broad lake to the island. It lay, but not in quiet,
stretched out beautifully under the twinkling stars that
shone down sweetly upon it. These, however, were
not its only lights. Countless blazes illuminated the
shores in every direction—and the sound of merry
music came upon his ear, with an influence that chafed
still more fiercely the raging spirit in his heart. There
were shouts and songs of merriment—and the whirling
tread of the impetuous dancers bespoke a feast and a
frolic such as are due among the Indians to occasions
of the highest festivity.
Drawing his bark quietly upon the shore without interruption,
he proceeded among the revellers. No one
seemed to observe—no one questioned him. Dressed
in habiliments the most fantastic and irregular, his warlike
semblance did not strike the gaze of the spectators
as at all inconsistent with the sports they were pursuing,
great hall, from whence the sounds of most extravagant
merriment proceeded. He entered with the throng, in
time to witness a solemn ceremonial. There came, at
one side, a gallant chief, richly dressed in furs of native
production—youthful, handsome, and gracefully erect,
at the head of a choice procession of youth of his own
age, attired in like habits. Each of them bore a white
wand, the symbol of marriage.
On the other side came a like procession of maidens,
dressed in robes of the whitest cotton, and bearing
wands like the men. What bright creature is it that
leads this beautiful array? Why does the young chief
start—wherefore the red spot on the brow of Onea?
The maiden who leads the procession is his own, the
gentle Anyta. Grief was in her face; her eyes were
dewy and sad, and her limbs so trembled that those
around gathered to her support. The first impulse of
Onea was to rush forward and challenge the array—to
seize upon the maiden in the presence of the assembly;
and, on the strength of his arm, and the sharp stroke of
his hatchet, to assert his claims to the bride in the teeth
of every competitor. But the warrior was not less
wise than daring. He saw that the maiden was sick at
heart, and a fond hope sprung into his own. He determined
to witness the progress of the ceremony, trusting
something to events. They dragged her forward to
the rite, passive rather than unresisting. The white
wands of the two processions, males and females, were
linked above the heads of Echotee and Anyta—the bridal
dance was performed around them in circles, and,
agreeable to the ritual of the tribe to which they belonged,
now came on the banqueting. The repast, fruitful of
animation, proceeded, and the warriors gathered around
the board, disposed alternately among the maidens,
Echotee and Anyta presiding. Onea stood apart.
“Who is he who despises our festival—why does
the young man stand away from the board? The brave
man may fight and rejoice—he wears not always the
war paint—he cries not for ever the war-whoop—he
will come where the singing birds gather, and join in
the merriment of the feast.”
Thus cried a strong voice from the company, and all
eyes were turned upon Onea. The youth did not
shrink from reply,
“The warrior says what is true. It is not for the
brave man to scorn the festival—he rejoices at the
feast. But the stranger comes of a far tribe, and she
who carries the wand must bid him welcome, or he sits
not at the board with the warriors.”
Anyta slowly rose to perform the duty imposed upon
her. She had already recognised the form of her lover,
and her speech was tremulous and the sound slow.
She waved the wand which she held in her hands, and
he approached unhesitatingly to her side. The Indians
manifested little curiosity—such a feature of
character being inconsistent, in their nation, with the
manliness indispensable to the warrior. Still there
was something marked in their habit which taught them
to believe him a stranger. At such a time, however,
the young men, intriguing with their dusky loves, rendered
disguises and deceptions so frequent, that less
notice ensued than might otherwise have been the
Then followed the bridal procession to the
future dwelling of the couple. The whole assembly
sallied forth to the sound of discordant music, each
with a flaming torch within his hand. They frolicked
with wild halloos in the train of the bridal pair, waving
their flaming torches in every direction. A small
stream, consecrated by a thousand such occurrences,
rippled along their pathway, upon approaching which
they hurled the lights into its hissing waters, leaving
the entire procession in darkness. This was one part
of the wonted and well known frolic. The transition
from unaccustomed light to solemn darkness, producing
the profoundest confusion, the merriment grew
immense. One party stumbled over the other, and all
were playing at contraries and cross purposes. Shouts
of laughter in every direction broke the gloom which
occasioned it, and proved the perfect success of the
jest.
But, on a sudden, a cry arose that the bride was
missing. This, perhaps, contributed more than any
thing beside to the good humour of all but the one
immediately concerned, and the complaint and clamour
of the poor bridegroom met with no sympathy. His
appeals were unheeded—his asseverations received
with laughter and shouts of the most deafening description.
All mirth, however, must have its end; and
the joke grew serious. The bride was really missing,
and every thing was in earnest and undreamt-of confusion
and commotion. Vainly did the warriors search
—vainly did the maidens call upon the name of Anyta.
She was far beyond the reach of their voices, hurrying
their early loves and unqualified affections.
There was one who readily guessed the mystery of
Anyta's abduction. The heart of Henamarsa had long
yearned for that of Onea. The rejection of her suit
by the scrupulous warrior had changed its temper into
bitterness, and a more vindictive feeling took possession
of her breast. She determined to be revenged.
The warrior lay at sunset in the quiet bower, and he
slept with sweet visions in his eyes. But why shrieks
the young maiden, and wherefore the strong hand upon
him? Who are they that bind with thongs the free
limbs of the warrior? Vainly does he struggle for his
release. Many are the foes around him, and deadly
the vengeance which they threaten. He looks about
for Anyta,—she too is in chains. Above him stood
the form of Henamarsa, and he now knew who had
betrayed him, yet he uttered no reproach. She looked
upon him with an eye of mingled love and triumph,
but he gave her no look in return. He knew her
not.
They took him back to the island, and loaded him
with fetters. They taunted him with words of scorn,
and inflicted ignominious blows upon his limbs. They
brought him food and bade him eat for the sacrifice; for
that, at the close of the moon, just begun, he should be
subjected, with the gentle Anyta, to the torture of fire
and the stake. “A Creek warrior will teach you how
to die,” said Onea. “You are yet children; you know
nothing,”—and he shook his chains in their faces, and
spat on them with contempt.
That night a voice came to him in his dungeon.
was beside him.
“Live,” said the false one—“live, Onea, and I will
unloose the cords about thy limbs. I will make thee
free of thy keepers—I will carry thee to a quiet forest,
where my people shall find thee never.” The warrior
spake not, but turned his face from the tempter to the
wall of his prison. Vainly did she entreat him, nor
forego her prayers, until the first glimmerings of the
daylight urged her departure. Rising then with redoubled
fury from his side, where she had thrown herself,
she drew a knife before his eyes. The blade
gleamed in his sight, but he shrunk not.
“What,” said she, “if I strike thee to the heart,
thou that art sterner than the she-wolf, and colder
than the stone-house of the adder? What if I strike
thee for thy scorn, and slay thee like a fox even in his
hole?”
“Is there a mountain between us, woman, and canst
thou not strike?” said the warrior. “Why speakest
thou to me? Do thy will, and hiss no more like a
snake in my ears. Thou hast lost thy sting—I should
not feel the blow from thy knife.”
“Thou art a brave warrior,” said the intruder, “and
I love thee too well to slay thee. I will seek thee
again in thy captivity, and look for thee to listen.”
The last night of the moon had arrived, and the noon
of the ensuing day was fixed for the execution of Onea
and Anyta. Henamarsa came again to the prison of
the chief, and love had full possession of her soul. She
strove to win him to his freedom upon her own conditions.
She then proffered him the same boon upon
Deep was her affliction, and she now deplored her
agency in the captivity of the chief. She had thought
him less inflexible in his faith; and judging of his by
the yielding susceptibilities of her own heart, had
falsely believed that the service she offered would have
sanctioned his adoption of any conditions which she
might propose. She now beheld him ready for death
but not for dishonour. She saw him prepared for the
last trial, and she sunk down in despair.
The hour was at hand, and the two were bound to
the stake. The torches were blazing around them—
the crowd assembled—the warrior singing his song of
death, and of many triumphs. But they were not so
to perish. Relief and rescue were at hand, and looking
forth upon the lake, which his eyes took in at a
glance, he beheld a thousand birchen canoes upon its
surface, and flying to the scene of execution. He knew
the warriors who approached. He discerned the war
paint of his nation; he counted the brave men, as they
urged forward their vessels, and called them by their
names. The warriors who surrounded him rushed, in
a panic, for their arms—but how could they contend
with the choice men of the Creeks—the masters of a
hundred nations? The conflict was brief, though hotly
contended. The people of Onea were triumphant, and
the chief and the beautiful Anyta freed from their
perilous situation. The people whom they had conquered
were bound with thongs, and the council deliberated
upon their destiny. Shall they go free?
shall they die? were the questions—somewhat novel,
it is true, in the history of Indian warfare; whose
massacre. The voice of Onea determined the
question, and their lives were spared.
“Will you be of us and our nation?” asked the conquerors
of the conquered.
“We are the children of the sun,” was the proud
reply—“and can mingle with no blood but our own.”
“Our young men will not yield the fair lake, and the
beautiful island, and the choice fruits.”
“They are worthy of women and children only, and
to these we leave them. We will seek elsewhere for
the habitations of our people—we will go into other
lands. It is nothing new to our fortunes that we
should do so now. The spoiler has twice been among
us, and the places that knew us shall know us no more.
Are we free to depart? Let not your young men follow
to spy out our new habitations. Let them take
what is ours now, but let them leave us in quiet hereafter.”
“You are free to go,” was the response, “and our
young men shall not follow you.”
The old chiefs led the way, and the young followed,
singing a song of exile, to which they claimed to be
familiar, and calling themselves Seminoles, a name
which, in their language, is supposed to signify banishment.
All departed save Anyta, and she dwelt for
long years after in the cabin of Onea.
| THE CHILDREN OF THE SUN. The book of my lady | |