University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

The sailor turned fiercely, dirk in hand, upon the
person who had thus torn him from his victim; but he
met an unflinching front, and a weapon far more potent
than his own. The glance of the new comer, not
less than his attitude, warned him of the most perfect
readiness; while a lively expression of the eye, and
the something of a smile which slightly parted his lips,
gave a careless, cavalier assurance to his air, which
left it doubtful whether, in reality, he looked upon a
contest as even possible at that moment. The stranger
was about thirty years old, with a rich European
complexion, a light blue eye, and features moulded

finely, so as to combine manliness with so much of
beauty as may well comport with it. He was probably
six feet in height, straight as an arrow, and remarkably
well and closely set. He wore a dress common
among the gentlemen of that period and place—a sort
of compound garb, in which the fashion of the English
cavalier of the second Charles had been made to coalesce
in some leading particulars with that which, in
the American forests, seemed to be imperatively called
for by the novel circumstances and mode of life prevailing
in that region. The over-coat was of a dark
blue stuff, usually worn open at the bosom, and displaying
the rich folds of the vest below, of a colour
suited to the taste of the wearer, but which on the
present occasion was of the purest white. The underclothes
were of a light gray, fitting closely a person
which they happily accommodated and served admirably
to display. His buskins were like those worn by
the Indians, but coming higher up the leg; and with a
roll just above the ankle, rather wider, but not unlike
that common to the modern boot. A broad buckskin
belt encircled his waist, and secured the doublet which
came midway down his thigh. In his hand he carried
a light masketoon, or smoothbore, of peculiarly graceful
make for that period, and richly ornamented with
drops of silver let in tastefully along the stock, so as
to shape vaguely a variety of forms and figures. The
long knife stuck in his belt was the only other weapon
which he appeared to carry; and forming, as it does,
one of the most essential implements of woodcraft, we
may scarcely consider it under that designation. A
white Spanish hat, looped broadly up at one of the
sides, and secured with a small button of gold, rested
slightly upon his head, from which, as was the fashion
of the time, the brown hair in long clustering ringlets
depended about the neck.

The sailor, as we have said, turned immediately upon
the person who, so opportunely for Sanutee, had torn
him from the body of the Indian; but he encountered
the presented rifle, and the clicking of the cock assured

him of the readiness of him who held it to settle all
further strife. Apart from this, he saw that the new
comer was no child—that he was of not less powerful
make than the Indian, and with fewer years to subtract
from it. The single effort, too, by which he had been
drawn away from his victim, indicated the possession
of a degree of strength which made the sailor pause
and move cautiously in his advance upon the intruder.

“Well, master,” said the seaman, “what is this
matter to you, that you must meddle in other men's
quarrels? Have you so many lives to spare that you
must turn my knife from the throat of a wild savage to
your own?”

“Put up your knife, good Pepperbox—put it up
while you have permission,” said the person so addressed,
very complaisantly, “and thank your stars
that I came in time to keep you from doing what none
of us might soon undo. Know you not the chief—
would you strike the great chief of the Yemassees—
our old friend Sanutee—the best friend of the English?”

“And who the devil cares whether he be a friend
to the English or not? I don't; and would just as
lief cut his throat as yours, if I thought proper.”

“Indeed—why you are a perfect Trojan—pray who
are you, and where did you come from?” was the cavalier's
response to the brutal speech of the sailor, whom
every word of the last speaker seemed to arouse into
new fury, which he yet found it politic to restrain; for
a sense of moral inferiority, in breeding or in station,
seemed to have the effect of keeping down and quelling
in some sort the exhibitions of a temper which
otherwise would have prompted him again to blows.
The pause which he made before responding to the
last direct inquiry, seemed given to reflection. His
manner became suddenly more moderate, and his
glance rested frequently and with an inquiring expression
upon the countenance of the Indian. At
length, giving a direct reply to the interrogatory which
seemed a yielding of the strife, he replied,

“And suppose, fair master, I don't choose to say
who I am, and from whence I came.—What then?”

“Why then let it alone, my Hercules. I care little
whether you have a name or not. You certainly cannot
have an honest one. For me you shall be Hercules
or Nebuchadnezzar—you shall be Turk, or Ishmaelite,
or the devil—it matters not whence a man comes
when it is easily seen where he will go.”

The countenance of the sailor grew black with rage
at the language of the speaker, not less than at his
cool, laughing, contemptuous manner. But the process
of thinking himself into composure and caution,
going on in his mind for necessary purposes, seemed
to teach him consideration; and leisurely proceeding
to reload his fusil, he offered no interruption to the
Englishman, who now addressed himself to the Indian.

“You have suffered a loss, Sanutee, and I'm sorry
for it, chief. But you shall have another—a dog of
mine,—a fine pup which I have in Charlestown. When
will you go down to see your English brother at
Charlestown?”

“Who is the brother of Sanutee?”

“The governor—you have never seen him, and he
would like to see you. If you go not to see him, he
will think you love him not, and that you lie on the
same blanket with his enemies.”

“Sanutee is the chief of the Yemassees—he will
stay at Pocota-ligo with his people.”

“Well, be it so. I shall bring you the dog to Pocota-ligo.”

“Sanutee asks no dog from the warrior of the English.
The dog of the English hunts after the darkskin
of my people.”

“No, no—chief. I don't mean to give you Dugdale.
Dugdale never parts with his master, if I can help it;
but you say wrong. The dog of the English has never
hunted the Yemassee warrior. He has only hunted
the Savannahs and the Westoes, who were the enemies
of the English.”

“The eyes of Sanutee are good—he has seen the
dog of the English tear the throat of his brother.”

“Well, you will see the dog I shall bring you to
Pocota-ligo.”

“Sanutee would not see the young brave of the
English at Pocota-ligo. Pocota-ligo is for the Yemassees.
Let the Coosaw-killer come not.”

“Hah! What does all this mean, Sanutee? Are we
not friends? Are not the Yemassee and the English
two brothers, that take the same track, and have the
same friends and enemies? Is it not so, Sanutee?”

“Speaks the young chief with a straight tongue—he
says.”

“I speak truth; and will come to see you in Pocota-ligo.”

“No—the young brave will come not to Pocota-ligo.
It is the season of the corn, and the Yemassee will
gather to the festival.”

“The green corn festival! I must be there, Sanutee,
and you must not deny me. You were not wont
to be so inhospitable, chief; nor will I suffer it now.
I would see the lodge of the great chief. I would partake
of the venison—some of this fine buck, which the
hands of Matiwan will dress for the warrior's board
at evening.”

“You touch none of that buck, either of you; so
be not so free, young master. It's my game, and had
the red-skin been civil, he should have had his share
in it; but, as it is, neither you nor he lay hands on
it; not a stiver of it goes into your hatch, d—n me.”

The sailor had listened with a sort of sullen indifference
to the dialogue which had been going on between
Sanutee and the new comer; but his looks indicated
impatience not less than sullenness; and he
took the opportunity afforded him by the last words
of the latter, to gratify, by the rude speech just given,
the malignity of his excited temper.

“Why, how now, churl?” was the response of the
Englishman, turning suddenly upon the seaman, with
a haughty indignation as he spoke—“how now, churl?
is this a part of the world where civility is so plenty
that you must fight to avoid a surfeit. Hear you,

sirrah; these woods have bad birds for the unruly, and
you may find them hard to get through if you put not
more good-humour under your tongue. Take your
meat, for a surly savage as you are, and be off as
quick as you can; and may the first mouthful choke
you. Take my counsel, Bully-boy, and clear your
joints, or you may chance to get more of your merits
than your venison.”

“Who the devil are you, to order me off? I'll go at
my pleasure; and as for the Indian, and as for you—”

“What, Hercules?”

“I'll mark you both, or there's no sea-room.”

“Well, as you please,” coolly replied the Englishman
to the threat,—“as you please; and now that you
have made your speech, will you be good-natured for
a moment, and let your absence stand for your civility?”

“No—I'll be d—d if I do, for any man.”

“You'll be something more than d—d, old boy, if
you stay. We are two, you see; and here's my Hector,
who's a little old to be sure, but is more than your
match now”—and as the Englishman spoke, he pointed
to the figure of a sturdy black, approaching the
group from the copse.

“And I care not if you were two dozen. You
don't capsize me with your numbers, and I shan't go
till it suits my pleasure, for either red-skin, or white
skin, or black skin; no, not while my name is—”

“What?” was the inquiry of the Englishman, as
the speaker paused at the unuttered name; but the
person addressed smiled contemptuously at the curiosity
which the other had exhibited, and turned slightly
away. As he did so, the Englishman again addressed
Sanutee, and proposed returning with him to
Pocota-ligo. His anxiety on this point was clearly
enough manifest to the Indian, who replied sternly,

“The chief will go alone. He wants not that the
Coosaw-killer should darken the lodge of Matiwan.
Let Harrison”—and as he addressed the Englishman
by his name, he placed his hand kindly upon his shoulder,
and his tones were more conciliatory—“let Harrison

go down to his ships—let him go with the pale-faces
to the other lands. Has he not a mother that
looks for him at evening?”

“Sanutee,” said Harrison, fixing his eye upon him
curiously—“wherefore should the English go upon
the waters?”

“The Yemassees would look on the big woods, and
call them their own. The Yemassees would be
free.”

“Old chief—” exclaimed the Englishman, in a
stern but low tone, while his quick, sharp eye seemed
to explore the very recesses of the Indian's soul—
“Old chief—thou hast spoken with the Spaniard.”

The Indian paused for an instant, but showed no
signs of emotion or consciousness at a charge, which,
at that period, and under the then existing circumstances,
almost involved the certainty of his hostility
towards the Carolinians, with whom the Spaniards of
Florida were perpetually at war. He replied, after an
instant's hesitation, in a calm, fearless manner:—

“Sanutee is a man—he is a father—he is a chief
—the great chief of the Yemassee. Shall he come
to the Coosaw-killer, and ask when he would loose
his tongue? Sanutee, when the swift hurricane runs
along the woods, goes into the top of the tall pine,
and speaks boldly to the Manneyto—shall he not
speak to the English—shall he not speak to the Spaniard?
Does Harrison see Sanutee tremble, that his eye
looks down into his bosom? Sanutee has no fear.”

“I know it, chief—I know it—but I would have
you without guile also. There is something wrong,
chief, which you will not show me. I would speak to
you of this, therefore I would go with you to Pocota-ligo.

“Pocota-ligo is for the Manneyto—it is holy ground
—the great feast of the green corn is there. The white
man may not go when the Yemassee would be alone.”

“But white men are in Pocota-ligo—is not Granger
there, the fur trader?”

“He will go,” replied the chief, evasively, and turning

away, as he did so, to depart; but suddenly, with
an air of more interest, returning to the spot where
Harrison stood, seemingly meditating deeply, he again
touched his arm, and spoke—

“Harrison will go down to the great lakes with his
people. Does the Coosaw-killer hear? Sanutee is
the wise chief of Yemassee.”

“I am afraid the wise chief of Yemassee is about
to do a great folly. But, for the present, Sanutee, let
there be no misunderstanding between us and our people.
Is there any thing of which you complain?”

“Did Sanutee come on his knees to the English?
He begs not bread—he asks for no blanket.”

“True, Sanutee, I know all that—I know your
pride, and that of your people; and because I know
it, if you have had wrong from our young men, I
would have justice done you.”

“The Yemassee is not a child—he is strong, he
has knife and hatchet—and his arrow goes straight to
the heart. He begs not for the justice of the English—”

“Yet, whether you beg for it or not, what wrong
have they done you, that they have not been sorry?”

“Sorry—will sorry make the dog of Sanutee to
live?”

“There you are wrong, Sanutee; the dog assaulted
the stranger, and though he might have been more
gentle, and less hasty, what he did seems to have
been done in self-defence. The deer was his game.”

“Ha, does Harrison see the arrow of Sanutee?”
and he pointed to the broken shaft still sticking in the
side of the animal.

“True, that is your mark, and would have been fatal
after a time, without the aid of gunshot. The other
was more immediate in effect.”

“It is well. Sanutee speaks not for the meat, nor
for the dog. He begs no justice from the English,
and their braves may go to the far lands in their canoes,
or they may hold fast to the land which is the Yemassee's.
The sun and the storm are brothers—Sanutee
has said.”

Harrison was about to reply, when his eye caught
the outline of another person approaching the scene.
He was led to observe him, by noticing the glance of
the sailor anxiously fixed in the same direction. That
personage had cooled off singularly in his savageness
of mood, and had been a close and attentive listener
to the dialogue just narrated. His earnestness had
not passed unobserved by the Englishman, whose keenness
of sense, not less than of vision, had discovered
something more in the manner of the sailor than was
intended for the eye. Following closely his gaze,
while still arguing with Sanutee, he discovered in the
new comer the person of one of the most subtle
chiefs of the Yemassee nation—a dark, brave, collected
malignant, by name Ishiagaska. A glance of
recognition passed over the countenance of the sailor,
but the features of the savage were immoveable.
Harrison watched both of them, as the new comer approached,
and he was satisfied from the expression
of the sailor that they knew each other. Once assured
of this, he determined in his own mind that his
presence should offer no sort of interruption to their
freedom; and, with a few words to Ishiagaska and
Sanutee, in the shape of civil wishes and a passing
inquiry, the Englishman, who, from his past conduct
in the war of the Carolinians with the Coosaws, had
acquired among the Yemassees, according to the Indian
fashion, the imposing epithet, so frequently used in
the foregoing scene by Sanutee, of Coosah-moray-te—
or, as it has been Englished, the killer of the Coosaws
—took his departure from the scene, followed by the
black slave Hector. As he left the group he approached
the sailor, who stood a little apart from the Indians,
and with a whisper, addressed him in a sentence which
he intended should be a test.

“Hark ye, Ajax; take safe advice, and be out of the
woods as soon as you can, or you will have a long
arrow sticking in your ribs.”

The blunt sense of the sailor did not see further
than the ostensible object of the counsel thus conveyed,

and his answer confirmed, to some extent, the previous
impression of Harrison touching his acquaintance
with Ishiagaska.

“Keep your advice for a better occasion, and be
d—d to you, for a conceited whipper-snapper as you
are. You are more likely to feel the arrow than I am,
and so look to it.”

Harrison noted well the speech, which in itself had
little meaning; but it conveyed a consciousness of
security on the part of the seaman, after his previous
combat with Sanutee, greatly out of place, unless he
possessed some secret resources upon which to rely.
The instant sense of Harrison readily felt this; but
apart from that, there was something so sinister and
so assured in the glance of the speaker, accompanying
his words, that Harrison did not longer doubt the
justice of his conjecture. He saw that there was
business between the seaman and the last-mentioned
Indian. He had other reasons for this belief, which
the progress of events will show. Contenting himself
with what had been said, he turned away with
a lively remark to the group at parting, and, followed
by Hector, was very soon deeply buried in the neighbouring
forest.