University of Virginia Library

THE CHOCTAW CRIMINAL.

Among the Choctaws of Mississippi, blood for blood
is studiously insisted upon, unless the shedding of it
take place in a fair and equal fight. It is made legitimate
by this circumstance only. The desire of justice
among this people, and in reference to themselves, is
productive of frequent events, startling, from their scrupulous
morality, to the less exact Christian. An instance
of this nature came under my own observation.
Travelling in the state of Mississippi, some few years
since, I found, after a long and fatiguing ride over bad
and lonely roads, that I was at length approaching
something that savoured of a human settlement. The
marks of man are easily known in the wilderness, long
ere you approach his habitations. The long worm
fence, the openings between the trees, the unimpeded
sweep of the winds through the clear open space, the
lowing of distant cattle, and, now and then, the shrill
halloo of the farmer's boy, articulated in half the number
of instances entirely to diminish the solitude spreading
about him, are sufficient indications; and on the
present occasion, they became, if not a positive pleasure,
an object of no little importance and gratification.
My ill humour at my long day's travel began to dissipate;
and what with meditating upon the smoking
supper at hand, of ham and eggs, fresh butter, and

round and glowing biscuits of new Ohio flour,—and
the promise of a sweet night's rest after the fatigues of
the day, it appeared to me, that happiness, after all—
at least for a time—was no such difficult matter to be
met with. At length the cottage appeared in sight—
kept by a half-breed—the supper ready, and I, nothing
loth, busily engaged in its discussion.

I partook of my repast in comparative silence. The
character of the Indian is any thing but communicative—as
indeed must be the character of every
insulated people, whose sole pursuit, like that of the
chase, keeps them for ever in solitude. The first step
towards their civilisation, must be the change of their
occupation:—a matter not so easily effected, as it will
call for laborious and new exercises from those who
have never seen the necessity of labour before. But I
digress. I ate my supper in silence. My host, though
only half an Indian, partook, in this particular, of the
peculiarities of the people with whom he dwelt; and a
sullen independence, by taking from him the necessity
of society, threw him upon his own resources, and,
while the mind may have still been most actively employed,
the tongue had learned to forget its better purposes.
The Indian half-breed is, indeed, something
more taciturn, and certainly more sullen than the Indian
himself. Like this latter, his words are always
sparing, very significant, and never uttered unnecessarily—his
looks are always ferocious—he possesses, in
short, added to the savage mood of the Indian, the cunning,
the caution, and the meanness, so markedly the
characteristic of the low and huckstering white. Such
was my host. He sat before me at the head of the

board, eating only occasionally. His consort, a stout,
sullen woman of the tribe, with a flat head and nose,
and a most unfavourable aspect, stood behind him during
the progress of supper, and waited upon us. The
looks of both of these, as well as of two young and
rather good looking savages, who sat in one corner of
the apartment, were full of a distinct sadness. Though
naturally gloomy and stern enough, I could yet see that
something unusual had taken place, and accordingly, as
soon as the repast was over, I enquired of the youngest
of the group as to the cause of present appearances.
From him I gathered the following, something novel,
and, in my opinion, highly interesting narrative.

There had been, it appears, a practice for some time
prevalent with the white planters, having settlements
immediately contiguous to the Indians, of planting more
cotton than their own slaves could gather: and when
this was the case, Indian women were usually employed
in furnishing the necessary additional assistance.
In this manner, and for this object, Col. H—, a
wealthy planter in the neighbourhood, had given employment
to a large body of Indian women and girls,
some forty or fifty, on his settlement, and there they
had been for some days busily engaged in the several
tasks assigned them. Their husbands and brothers
occasionally came to amuse themselves, by the contemplation
of their labouring relatives—solicitous, as they
are always found, of places and occasions for gathering
and festivity. Under the usual habits of this region, it
was but natural that the worthy colonel, whose hospitality
was proverbial, should give some refreshments to his
visiters, and this he accordingly did, in the questionable

shape of whiskey and tobacco. The jug was placed
before them, and there was no withstanding it. They
all, with the exception of a single man, named Mewanto,
became, in a short time, completely intoxicated.
Mewanto was a wonderful youth, even among his people—one
of the most promising of his tribe. To have
resisted in this way, alone, and such a dangerous and
sweeping influence, of itself, must sustain for him no
moderate pretensions to a strong and elevated character.
But more than this. Mewanto was not altogether
satisfied with being himself abstemious. He exercised
his energies to the utmost, in the endeavour to prevent
his people from the sad exposure of their weakness, to
which they were inevitably tending—but in vain; and
with a more individual feeling, the patriotic savage
turned his sole attention to a closely intimate and very
dear friend—a youth named Oolatibbe, who, led away
like the rest by the temptation, had bartered the more
manly energies of their primitive character, for the
gross indulgence which was defiling them all so rapidly.
He strove, even against hope, for a long time, to prevent
this youth from continuing the practice so fatally
begun. But the influence of the custom, and the example
of the many, proved more effective than the
wholesome advice, and the warm entreaties of friendship;
and Oolatibbe, in despite of all exhortations, became
momentarily more and more intoxicated. Mewanto,
with some difficulty, led him away from the
thicket in which their carousals were carried on, and,
in a tone of warmth, sufficiently warranted, as he
thought, by the intimacy between them, in the plain
language of truth, sought to persuade him of the danger
and error of his present indulgence. He spoke
with a good deal of that native eloquence which is said
to distinguish the Indian, and for which he himself was
greatly distinguished, and did not spare the whites, for
the introduction of an agent, which he said had withered
their fortunes and nation, even as the blasts of December
wither their leaves and flowers. The drunken
man heard him with a stupid sort of attention for some
time, but starting suddenly at length, as if he had just
then encountered some fearful object, he tore the knife
from his belt, and without a word, plunged it deeply
and fatally into the bosom of his counsellor, who fell
dead upon the spot. The murderer, after a momentary
stupor, grew conscious and sobered. The body of his
friend was before him—the bloody and yet streaming
knife in his hand;—and the liquor, which had heretofore
maddened, now left him to a perfectly restored
capacity of consciousness. A single shriek or howl,
indicative in itself, from long usage, of some horrible
matter, and peculiar to the savages, was the result of
his first awakening to sense and sensibility. That cry
brought all the Indians around, now almost equally
sobered with himself. Mewanto was a great chief and
well beloved, and they looked upon the spectacle of
blood with a general sentiment of terror. A loud and
wild cry called the party together, and the criminal
preceded them to the great council of the nation. He
delivered himself up voluntarily to death, and no restraint
was placed upon him. None was deemed necessary.

“To-morrow,” said my informant in conclusion,
“he will be shot.”

“And where is he now?” said I to the speaker,
anxious to gather from him as much as I could, before
his garrulity should be utterly exhausted.

“He sits beside you,” was the reply.

I started, and beheld a noble looking youth, not more
than twenty years of age, whose fine countenance had
caught my attention before sitting down to supper.
He sat silent, and seemingly calm and undisquieted, in
the corner, speaking occasionally with one who sat
beside him. The question rose involuntarily to my
lips, for he was perfectly unbound and unguarded.

“And will he not escape, and why do they not confine
him?”

“No use. He cannot fly, for the law is so, and he
knows that he must die. Oolatibbe is a brave chief.”

I was struck with the strong sense of retributive justice
which this sentence implied. “Do not unto others
which you would not that others should do unto you,”
seemed here in rather better practice than with some
Christian provinces. Curious to ascertain something
of, if not entirely to analyse this—to me—strange
characteristic of a people, whom, before we altogether
understand, we have been taught to despise, I carefully
fixed my gaze upon the criminal. What could a
spectator, one unacquainted with the circumstances,
have met with there?

Nothing of the precise and awful matter of fact, that
connected itself with the fortunes and life of the object
of observation. I addressed him—I brought him to
the subject so deeply interesting to himself. He
spoke of it as of those common occurrences which we
often speak of unconsciously. He took up the handle

of a tomahawk and employed himself in carving upon
it, a space for a bit of flattened silver which he laboured
to introduce into it. He spoke in detached sentences,
during this little effort. In reply to a question
which I put, touching the commission of the crime,
and whether he was conscious that he was doing it or
not he replied—“Yes—he knew it all—he knew it
was the one of himself, the best part—but he had put
on a horrible shape and the evil one darkened his eye
sight—that while he struck the blow, he knew perfectly
well that it was his friend he struck, but that he
was made to do it.”

We conversed at intervals till a late hour—he
seemed to sing at times, or rather muttered, a few
broken catches of song, monotonous and highly solemn
—at length, the rest having withdrawn, he threw himself
upon a bearskin before the door, and I attended
the little boy, who was with difficulty aroused from a
deep sleep, to my chamber which he pointed out. It
may be supposed I slept little that night. I was filled
with a thousand discordant fancies on the subject; and
could not help the doubt which perpetually beset me,
that before day he would be off, and out of all danger.
I could not believe in the strange degree of obedience
which this rude savage was about to manifest to his
stern and primitive, but really equitable laws. Every
movement in the household below, led me to the window,
in the full expectation that it could indicate
nothing less than the flight of the criminal. But
I was mistaken. The moral sublime had too unfrequently
been the subject of my own experience, to
enable me, in this instance, to appreciate it at a glance.

A large crowd the next morning had assembled in
the neighbourhood. The open space in front of the
house was thickly covered with Indians, all labouring
under the natural excitements of the occasion. I
hurried on my clothes with as much despatch as possible,
and went down among them. The house was
crowded as well as the arena before it. After surveying
the mass, I looked about for the principal in this
extraordinary spectacle—his were the only features
unmoved in the assembly. He seemed busily employed
in gathering up sundry little articles as well of
ornament as necessity in the Indian's life. His dress
seemed more studied—it consisted of a pair of pantaloons,
seemingly much worn, and probably the cast
off donation of some passing traveller. There was a
buckskin hunting shirt on him, with several falling
capes, all thickly covered with fringe; a belt of wampum,
studded with beads of various colours, tolerably
well arranged, encircled his waist—whilst his legs,
which were well formed, were closely fitted by a pair
of leggings fantastically worked and literally loaded
with beads. Several other little ornaments, medals,
and trinkets hung about him, particularly over his neck
and shoulders.

Some difference of sentiment no less than of feeling
seemed to operate upon, and to form a division among
the assembled multitude. An air of anger, impatience,
and exultation, fully indicated the friends of the deceased,
thirsting for the blood of his murderer—while
on the other hand, sadness and concern were the leading
traits of expression in the countenances of those
interested in the criminal. At length the victim himself

made the first open sign of preparation. He arose
from the ground where he had been reclining rather
than sitting; and giving to a little boy, who stood in
attendance, a bundle of beads, arrow-heads, &c. which
he had been making up as a part necessary in the
burial ceremonial—with the majesty of a chief, he drew
the huge bear skin partially over his shoulders, and led
the mournful procession. I took the way with the
party. The path lay through a long grove of stunted
pines; at the end of which we were met, and from
thence accompanied to the place of death, by the three
executioners, each carrying his rifle unostentatiously
beneath his arm. The criminal walked beside them,
and in his own language gave them due directions for
the performance of their duty. From one, he took
the weapon with a smile, and looked hastily at the
flint, while uttering a sentence which would seem to
have been a jest at the expense of the owner. Never
did I behold a man with step so firm on any occasion
—head so unbent—a countenance so unmoved, and
yet without any of the effort common to most men
who endeavour to assume an aspect of heroism upon
an event so trying. He walked as to a victory. The
triumphal arch seemed above him, and instead of an
ignominious death, a triumph over a thousand hearts
seemed depicted in his sight.

The grave was now before us. The place of death,
the scene, the trial and all its terrors, were at hand. I
watched his brow attentively as he looked down upon
the fearful paraphernalia; but while I felt the shuddering
run like a cold wind through my own frame, I could
behold no sign of change in him. After a momentary

pause, he began a low song, apparently consisting of
monosyllables only. He grew more impassioned—more
deeply warm. I could not understand a single word
he uttered—but, even though he stood as firm, proud,
and unbending as a Roman might be supposed to have
stood, as if he disdained the addition of action to his
words, the cadence, the fall, the melody and wild intonation
of this high-souled savage's voice was to me an active
eloquence, which I could not misunderstand. He
paused at length. Then moving with an even pace, he
took his place at the head of the grave prepared for
him—beckoned the boy near, who had followed him,
with the simple utensils of savage life, and when he had
retired, motioned the executioners. I saw them prepare
their rifles, and take their aim—I looked upon the features
of the victim—they were steady and calm—I
turned my head away with a strange sickness. I heard
the single report of the three rifles, and when I turned my
eye again upon the spot, so lately occupied by the unhappy
victim of an infatuation which has slain more
than the sword, they were slowly shovelling the fresh
earth into the grave of the murderer. The following
poem is devoted to the same subject.