University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Sanutee turned away from the spot whence Harrison
had departed, and was about to retire, when, not
finding himself followed by Ishiagaska, and perceiving
the approach of the sailor, his late opponent, and not
knowing what to expect, he again turned, facing the
two, and lifting his bow, and setting his arrow, he prepared
himself for a renewal of the strife. But the
voice of the sailor and of Ishiagaska, at the same
moment, reached his ears in words of conciliation;
and resting himself slightly against a tree, foregoing
none of his precautions, however, with a cold indifference
he awaited their approach. The seaman addressed
him with all his usual bluntness, but with a
manner now very considerably changed from what it
was at their first encounter. He apologized for his
violence and for having slain the dog. Had he known
to whom it belonged, so he assured the chief, he had
not been so hasty in despatching it; and as some small
amends, he begged the Indian to do with the venison
as he thought proper, for it was now his own. During
the utterance of this uncouth apology, mixed up as it

was with numberless oaths, Sanutee looked on and
listened with contemptuous indifference. When it
was done, he simply replied—

“It is well—but the white man will keep the meat,
it is not for Sanutee.”

“Come, come, don't be ill-favoured now, warrior.
What's done can't be undone, and more ado is too
much to do. I'm sure I'm sorry enough I killed the
dog, but how was I to know he belonged to you?”

The sailor might have gone on for some time after
this fashion, had not Ishiagaska, seeing that the reference
to his dog only the more provoked the ire of the
chief, interposed by an address to the sailor which
more readily commanded Sanutee's consideration.

“The master of the big canoe—is he not the chief
that comes from St. Augustine? Ishiagaska has looked
upon the white chief in the great lodge of his Spanish
brother.”

“Ay, that you have, Indian, I'll be sworn; and I
thought I knew you from the first. I am the friend of
the Spanish governor, and I come here now upon his
business.”

“It is good,” responded Ishiagaska—and he turned
to Sanutee, with whom, for a few moments, he carried
on a conversation in their own, language, entirely
beyond the comprehension of the sailor, who nevertheless
gave it all due attention.

“Brings the master of the big canoe nothing from
our Spanish brother? Hides he no writing in his
bosom?” was the inquiry of Ishiagaska, turning from
Sanutee, who seemed to have prompted the inquiry.

“Writing indeed—no—writing to wild Indians,” and
he muttered to himself the last clause, at the conclusion
of his reply to their question. “No writing, but
something that you may probably understand quite as
well. Here—this is what I have brought you. See
if you can read it.”

As he spoke, he drew from his bosom a bright red
cloth—a strip, not over six inches in width, but of
several yards in length, worked over at little intervals

with symbols and figures of every kind and of the most
fantastic description—among which were birds and
beasts, reptiles and insects, uncouthly delineated, either
in shells or beads, which, however grotesque, had yet
their signification; and under the general name of wampum,
among all the Indians formed a common language,
in which their treaties, whether of peace, war, or alliance,
were commonly effected. Each tribe, indicated
by some hieroglyphic of this sort, supposed to be
particularly emblematic of its general pursuit or character,
pledges itself and its people after this fashion,
and affixes to the compact agreed upon between them
a seal, which is significant of their intentions, and
as faithfully binding as the more legitimate characters
known among the civilized. The features of
Sanutee underwent a change from the repose of indifference
to the lively play of the warmest interest, as he
beheld the long folds of this document slowly unwind
before his eyes; and without a word hastily snatching
it from the hands of the seaman, he had nearly brought
upon himself another assault from that redoubted
worthy. But as he made a show of that sort, Ishiagaska
interposed.

“How do I know that it is for him—that treaty is
for the chiefs of the Yemassees; and blast my eyes
if any but the chiefs shall grapple it in their yellow
fingers.”

“It is right—it is Sanutee, the great chief of the
Yemassees; and is not Ishiagaska a chief?” replied
the latter, impressively. The sailor was somewhat
pacified, and said no more; while Sanutee, who
seemed not at all to have heeded this latter movement,
went on examining each figure upon its folds in turn,
numbering them carefully upon his fingers as he did
so, and conferring upon their characters with Ishiagaska,
whose own curiosity was now actively at work
along with him in the examination. In that language
which from their lips is a solemn melody, they
conversed together, to the great disquiet of the seaman,
who had no less curiosity than themselves to know

the features of this treaty, but who understood not a
word they said.

“They are here, Ishiagaska, they have heard the
speech of the true warrior, and they will stand
together. Look, this green bird is for the Estatoe;[1]
he will sing death in the sleeping ear of the pale
warrior of the English.”

“He is a great brave of the hills, and has long worn
the blanket of the Spaniard. It is good,” was the
reply.

“And this for the Cussoboe—it is burnt timber.
They took the totem from the Suwannee, when they
smoked him out of his lodge. And this for the
Alatamaha, a green leaf of the summer, for the great
prophet of the Alatamaha never dies, and looks always
in youth. This tree snake stands for the Serannah;
for he watches in the thick top of the bush for the
warrior that walks blind underneath.”

“I have looked on this chief in battle—the hill
chief of Apalachy. It was the fight of a long day,
when we took scalps from their warriors, and slew
them with their arms about our necks. They are
brave—look, the mark of their knife is deep in the
cheek of Ishiagaska.”

“The hill is their totem. It stands, and they never
lie. This is the wolf tribe of the Cherokee—and this
the bear's. Look, the Catawba, that laughs, is here.
He speaks with the trick-tongue of the Coonee-lattee;[2]
he laughs, but he can strike like a true brave, and sings
his death-song with a free spirit.”

“For whom speaks the viper-snake, hissing from
under the bush?”

“For the Creek warrior with the sharp tooth, that
tears. His tooth is like an arrow, and when he tears
away the scalp of his enemy, he drinks a long drink

of his blood, that makes him strong. This is their
totem—I know them of old; they gave us six braves
when we fought with the Chickquasays.”

The sailor had heard this dialogue without any of
the advantages possessed by us. It was in a dead
language to him. Becoming impatient, and desiring
to have some hand in the business, he took advantage
of a pause made by Sanutee, who now seemed to examine
with Ishiagaska more closely the list they had
read out—to suggest a more rapid progress to the rest.

“Roll them out, chief; roll them out; there are many
more yet to come. Snakes, and trees, and birds, and
beasts enough to people the best show-stall of Europe.”

“It is good,” said Sanutee, who understood in part
what had been said, and as suggested, the Yemassee
proceeded to do so, though exhibiting something less
of curiosity. The residue of the hieroglyphics were
those chiefly of tribes and nations of which he had
been previously secure. He proceeded however, as
if rather for the stranger's satisfaction than his own.

“Here,” said he, continuing the dialogue in his own
language with Ishiagaska, “here is the Salutah[3] that
falls like the water. He is a stream from the rock.
This is the Isundiga[4] that goes on his belly, and shoots
from the hollow—this is the Santee, he runs in the
long canoe, and his paddle is a cane, that catches the
tree top, and thus he goes through the dark swamps
of Serattaya[5] The Chickaree stands up in the pine—
and the Winyah is here in the terrapin.”

“I say, chief,” said the sailor, pointing to the next
symbol, which was an arrow of considerable length,
and curved almost to a crescent, “I say, chief, tell
us what this arrow means here—I know it stands for
some nation, but what nation? and speak now in plain
English, if you can, or in Spanish, or in French, which
I can make out, but not in that d—d gibberish which

is all up side down and in and out, and no ways at all,
in my understanding.”

The chief comprehended the object of the sailor,
though less from his words than his looks; and with
an elevation of head and gesture, and a pleasant kindling
of the eye, he replied proudly:—

“It is the arrow, the arrow that came with the
storm—it came from the Manneyto, to the brave, to
the well-beloved, the old father-chief of the Yemassee.”

“Ah, ha! so that's your mark—totem, do you call
it?—Well, its a pretty long matter to burrow in one's
ribs, and reminds me of the fellow to it, that you so
kindly intended for mine. But that's over now—so
no more of it, old chief.”

Neither of the Indians appeared to heed this latter
speech of the sailor, for they seemed not exactly
to comprehend one of the symbols upon the wampum
which now met their eyes, and called for their
closest scrutiny. They uttered their doubts and opinions
in their own language with no little fluency;
for it is something of a popular error to suppose the
Indian that taciturn character which he is sometimes
represented. He is a great speech maker, and when
business claims him not, actually and exceeding fond
of a jest; which, by the way, is not often the purest
in its nature. The want of our language is a very
natural reason why he should be sparing of his words
when he speaks with us.

The bewilderment of the chiefs did not escape the
notice of the sailor, who immediately guessed its occasion.
The symbol before their eyes was that of Spain;
the high turrets, and the wide towers of its castellated
dominion, frowning in gold, and finely embroidered
upon the belt, directly below the simpler ensign of the
Yemassees. Explaining the mystery to their satisfaction,
the contrast between its gorgeous imbodiments
and vaster associations of human agency and
power, necessarily influenced the imagination of the
European, while wanting every thing like force to the
Indian, to whom a lodge so vast and cheerless in its

aspect seemed rather an absurdity than any thing else;
and he could not help dilating upon the greatness and
magnificence of a people dwelling in such houses.

“That's a nation for you now, chiefs—that is the
nation after all.”

“The Yemassee is the nation,” said one of the
chiefs proudly.

“Yes, perhaps so, in this part of the world, a great
nation enough; but in Europe you wouldn't be a mouthful—a
mere drop in the bucket—a wounded porpoise,
flirting about in the mighty seas that must swallow it
up. Ah! it's a great honour, chiefs, let me tell you,
when so great a king as the King of Spain condescends
to make a treaty with a wild people such as you are
here.”

Understanding but little of all this, Sanutee did not
perceive its disparaging tendency, but simply pointing
to the insignia, inquired—

“It is the Spanish totem.”

“Ay, it's their sign—their arms—if that's what you
mean by totem. It was a long time before the Governor
of Saint Augustine could get it done after your
fashion, till an old squaw of the Charriquees[6] fixed it
up, and handsomely enough she has done it too. And
now, chiefs, the sooner we go to work the better. The
governor has put his hand to the treaty, he will find the
arms, and you the warriors.”

“The Yemassee will speak to the governor,” said
Sanutee.

“You will have to go to Saint Augustine, then, for
he has sent me in his place. I have brought the treaty,
and the arms are in my vessel ready for your warriors,
whenever they are ready.”

“Does Sanutee speak to a chief?”

“Ay, that he does, or my name is not Richard
Chorley. I am a sea chief, a chief of the great canoe,
and captain of as pretty a crew as ever riddled a merchantman.”

“I see not the totem of your tribe.”

“My tribe?” said the sailor, laughingly—“My crew,
you mean. Yes, they have a totem, and as pretty a
one as any on your roll. There, look,” said he, and
as he spoke, rolling up his sleeve, he displayed a huge
anchor upon his arm, done in gunpowder—a badge
so much like their own, that the friendly regards of
the Indians became evidently more active in his favour
after this exhibition.

“And now,” said Chorley, “it is well I have some
of my marks about me, for I can easily put my signature
to that treaty without scrawl of pen, or taking half
the trouble that it must have given the worker of these
beads. But, hear me, chiefs, I don't work for nothing;
I must have my pay, and as it don't come out of your
pockets, I look to have no refusal.”

“The chief of the great canoe will speak.”

“Yes, and first to show that I mean to act as well
as speak, here is my totem—the totem of my crew or
tribe as you call it. I put it on, and trust to have fair
play out of you.” As he spoke, he took from his pocket
a small leaden anchor, such as are now-a-days numbered
among the playthings of children, but which at
that period made no unfrequent ornament to the seaman's
jacket. A thorn from a neighbouring branch
secured it to the wampum, and the engagement of the
sea chief was duly ratified. Having done this, he
proceeded to unfold his expectations. He claimed,
among other things, in consideration of the service of
himself and the fifteen men whom he should command
in the insurrection, the possession of all slaves who
should be taken by him from the Carolinians; and that
unless they offered resistance, they should not be slain
in the war.

“I don't want better pay than that,” said he, “but
that I must and will have, or d—n the blow I strike in
the matter.”

The terms of the seaman had thus far undergone
development, when Sanutee started suddenly, and his
eyes, flushed seemingly with some new interest, were

busied in scrutinizing the little circuit of wood on the
edge of which their conversation had been carried on.
Ishiagaska betrayed a similar consciousness of an
intruder's presence, and the wampum belt was rolled
up hurriedly by one of the chiefs, while the other
maintained his watchfulness upon the brush from
whence the interruption had come. There was some
reason for the alarm, though the unpractised sense of
the white man had failed to perceive it. It was there
that our old acquaintance, Hector, despatched as a spy
upon the progress of those whom his master suspected
to be engaged in mischief, had sought concealment
while seeking his information. Unfortunately for the
black, as he crept along on hands and knees, a fallen and
somewhat decayed tree lay across his path, some of the
branches of which protruded entirely out of the cover,
and terminated within sight of the three conspirators,
upon the open plain. In crawling cautiously enough
over the body of the tree, the branches thus exposed
were agitated, and though but slightly, yet sufficiently for
the keen sight of an Indian warrior. Hector, all the
while, ignorant of the protrusion within their gaze of
the agitated members, in his anxiety to gain more of the
latter words of the sailor, so interesting to his own
colour, and a portion of which had met his ear, incautiously
pushed forward over the tree, crawling all the
way like a snake, and seeking to shelter himself in a
little clump that interposed itself between him and those
he was approaching. As he raised his head above the
earth, he beheld the glance of Sanutee fixed upon the
very bush behind which he lay; the bow uplifted, and
his eye ranging from stem to point of the long arrow.
In a moment the negro sunk to the level of the ground;
but in doing so precipitately, disturbed still more the
branches clustering around him. The lapse of a few
moments without any assault, persuaded Hector to
believe that all danger was passed; and he was just
about to lift his head for another survey, when he felt
the entire weight of a heavy body upon his back.
While the black had lain quiet, in those few moments,
Sanutee had swept round a turn of the woods, and with
a single bound after noticing the person of the spy,
had placed his feet upon him.

“Hello, now, who de debble dat? Get off, I tell
you. Wha'for you do so to Hector?” Thus shouting
confusedly, the negro, taken in the very act, with a
tone of considerable indignation, addressed his assailant,
while struggling violently all the time at his extrication.
His struggles only enabled him to see his captor,
who, calling out to Ishiagaska, in a moment, with
his assistance, dragged forth the spy from his unconcealing
cover. To do Hector's courage all manner of
justice, he battled violently; threatening his captors
dreadfully with the vengeance of his master. But his
efforts ceased as the hatchet of Ishiagaska gleamed
over his eyes, and he was content, save in words,
which he continued to pour forth with no little fluency,
to forego his further opposition to the efforts which
they now made to keep him down, while binding his
arms behind him with a thong of hide which Ishiagaska
readily produced. The cupidity of Chorley
soon furnished them with a plan for getting rid of him.
Under his suggestion, driving the prisoner before them,
with the terrors of knife and hatchet, they soon reached
the edge of the river; and after some search, found the
rattlesnake's point, where the boat had been stationed in
waiting. With the assistance of the two sailors in it, the
seats were taken up, and the captive, kicking, struggling,
and threatening, though all in vain, was tumbled in;
the seats replaced above him, the seamen sitting upon
them; and every chance of a long captivity, and that
foreign slavery against which his master had forewarned
him, in prospect before his thoughts. The
further arrangements between the chiefs and the sailor
took place on shore, out of Hector's hearing. In
a little while, it ceased—the Yemassees took their
way up the river to Pocota-ligo, while Chorley, returning
to his boat, bringing the deer along, which he
tumbled in upon the legs of the negro, took his seat
in the stern, and the men pulled steadily off for the

vessel, keeping nigh the opposite shore, and avoiding
that side upon which the settlements of the Carolinians
were chiefly to be found. As they pursued their way,
a voice hailed them from the banks, to which the sailor
gave no reply; but immediately changing the direction
of the boat, put her instantly into the centre of
the stream. But the voice was known to Hector as
that of Granger, the Indian trader, and with a desperate
effort, raising his head from the uncomfortable
place where it had been laid on a dead level with his
body, he yelled out to the trader, with his utmost
pitch of voice, vainly endeavouring through the mists
of evening, which now hung heavily around, to make
out the person to whom he spoke. A salutary blow
from the huge fist of the sailor, driven into the uprising
face of the black, admonished him strongly
against any future imprudence, while driving him back
with all the force of a sledge-hammer to the shelter
of his old position. There was no reply that the
negro heard to his salutation; and in no long time
after, the vessel was reached, and Hector was soon
consigned to a safe quarter in the hold, usually provided
for such freight, and kept to await the arrival of as
many companions in captivity, as the present enterprise
of the pirate captain, for such is Master Richard
Chorley, promised to procure.