University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

The house of council, in the town of Pocota-ligo,
was filled that night with an imposing conclave. The
gauds and the grandeur—the gilded mace, the guardian
sword, the solemn stole, the rich pomps of civilization
were wanting, it is true; but how would these have
shown in that dark and primitive assembly! A single
hall—huge and cumbrous—built of the unhewn trees
of the forest, composed the entire building. A single
door furnished the means of access and departure.

The floor was the native turf, here and there concealed
by the huge bearskin of some native chief, and
they sat around, each in his place, silent, solemn, but
with the sagacious mind at work, and with features
filled with the quiet deliberateness of the sage.
Motionless like themselves, stood the torch-bearers,
twelve in number, behind them—standing, and observant,
and only varying their position when it became
necessary to renew with fresh materials the bright
fires of the ignited pine which they bore. These
were all the pomps of the savage council—but the
narrow sense, alone, would object to their deficiency.
The scene is only for the stern painter of the dusky
and the sublime—it would suffer in other hands.

Huspah was at this time the superior chief—the
reigning king, if we may apply that title legitimately
to the highest dignitary of a people with a form of
government like that of the Yemassees. He bore the
name, though in name only might he claim to be considered
in that character. In reality, there was no
king over the nation. It was ruled by a number of
chiefs, each equal in authority, though having several
tribes for control, yet the majority of whom were required
to coalesce in any leading national measures.
These chiefs were elective, and from these the superior,
or presiding chief, was duly chosen; all of these
without exception were accountable to the nation,
though such accountability was rather the result of
popular impulse than of any other more legitimate or
customary regulation. It occurred sometimes, however,
that a favourite ruler, presuming upon his strength
with the people, ventured beyond the prescribed
boundary, and transcended the conceded privileges of
his station; but such occurrences were not frequent,
and when the case did happen, the offender was most
commonly made to suffer the unmeasured penalties
always consequent upon any outbreak of popular indignation.
As in the practices of more civilized communities,
securing the mercenaries, a chief has been
known to enter into treaties, unsanctioned by his

brother chiefs; and, forming a party resolute to sustain
him, has brought about a civil war in the nation, and,
perhaps, the secession from the great body of many of
its tribes. Of this sort was the case of the celebrated
Creek chief, Mackintosh—whose summary execution
in Georgia, but a few years ago, by the indignant
portion of his nation, disapproving of the treaty which
he had made with the whites for the sale of lands,
resulted in the emigration of a large minority of that
people to the west.

Among the Yemassees, Huspah, the oldest chief,
was tacitly placed at the head of his caste, and these
formed the nobility of the nation. This elevation
was nominal, simply complimentary in its character,
and without any advantages not shared in common
with the other chiefs. The honour was solely given to
past achievements; for at this time, Huspah, advanced
in years and greatly enfeebled, was almost in his
second infancy. The true power of the nation rested
in Sanutee—his position was of all others the most
enviable, as upon him the eyes of the populace generally
turned in all matters of trying and important
character; and his brother chiefs were usually compelled
to yield to the popular will as it was supposed
to be expressed through the lips of one styled by
general consent, the “well-beloved” of the nation. A
superiority so enviable with the people had the unavoidable
effect of subtracting from the favourable
estimate put upon him by his brother chiefs; and the
feelings of jealous dislike which many of them entertained
towards him, had not been entirely concealed
from the favourite himself. This was shown in various
forms, and particularly in the fact that he was most
generally in a minority, no ways desirable at any time,
but more particularly annoying to the patriotic mind of
Sanutee at the present moment, as he plainly foresaw
the evil consequences to the people of this hostility on
the part of the chiefs to himself. The suggestions
which he made in council were usually met with
decided opposition by a regularly combined party,

and it was only necessary to identify with his name
the contemplated measure, to rally against it sufficient
opposition for its defeat in council. The nation, it is
true, did him justice, but, to his thought, there was
nothing grateful in the strife.

Under this state of things at home, it may be readily
understood why the hostility of Sanutee to the fastapproaching
English, should find little sympathy with
the majority of those around him. Accordingly, we
find, that as the jealousy of the favourite grew more
and more hostile to the intruders, they became, for
this very reason, more and more favoured by the party
most envious of his position. No one knew better
than Sanutee the true nature of this difference. He
was a far superior politician to those around him, and
had long since foreseen the sort of warfare he would be
compelled to wage with his associates when aiming at
the point to which at this moment every feeling of his
soul and every energy of his mind was devoted. It
was this knowledge that chiefly determined upon the
conspiracy—the plan of which, perfectly unknown
to the people, was only intrusted to the bosom of a
few chiefs having like feelings with himself. These
difficulties of his situation grew more fully obvious to
his mind, as, full of evil auguries from the visit of the
English commissioners, he took the lonely path from
his own lodge to the council-house of Pocota-ligo.

He arrived just in season. As he feared, the rival
chiefs had taken advantage of his absence to give
audience to the commissioners of treaty from the
Carolinians, charged with the power to purchase from
the Yemassees a large additional tract of land, which,
if sold to the whites, would bring their settlements
directly upon the borders of Pocota-ligo itself. The
whites had proceeded, as was usual in such cases, to
administer bribes, of one sort or another, in the shape
of presents, to all such persons, chiefs, or people, as
were most influential and seemed most able to serve
them. In this manner had all in that assembly been
appealed to. Huspah, an old and drowsy Indian,

tottering with palsy from side to side of the skin upon
which he sat, was half smothered in the wide folds
of a huge scarlet cloak which the commissioners had
flung over his shoulders. Dresses of various shapes,
colours, and decorations, such as might be held most
imposing to the Indian eye, had been given to each
in the assembly, and put on as soon as received.
In addition to these, other gifts, such as hatchets,
knives, beads, &c. had been made to minister to the
craving poverty of the people, so that before the arrival
of Sanutee, the minds of the greater number had been
prepared for a very liberal indulgence of any claim or
proffer which the commissioners had to make.

Sanutee entered abruptly, followed by Ishiagaska,
who, like himself, had just had intelligence of the
council. There was a visible start in the assembly
as the old patriot came forward, full into the centre of
the circle,—surveying, almost analyzing every feature,
and sternly dwelling in his glance upon the three commissioners,
who sat a little apart from the chiefs, upon
a sort of mat to themselves. Another mat held the
presents which remained unappropriated and had been
reserved for such chiefs, Ishiagaska and Sanutee
among them, as had not been present in the first distribution.
The survey of Sanutee, and the silence which
followed his first appearance within the circle, lasted
not long: abruptly, and with a voice of strong but restrained
emotion, addressing no one in particular, but
with a glance almost exclusively given to the commissioners,
he at length exclaimed as follows, in his
own strong language:—“Who came to the lodge of
Sanutee to say that the chiefs were in council? Is
not Sanutee a chief?—the Yemassees call him so, or he
dreams. Is he not the well-beloved of the Yemassees,
or have his brothers taken from him the totem of his
tribe? Look, chiefs, is the broad arrow of Yemassee
gone from the shoulder of Sanutee?” and as he spoke,
throwing the loose hunting shirt open to the shoulder,
he displayed to the gaze of all, the curved arrow
which is the badge of the Yemassees. A general

silence in the assembly succeeded this speech—none of
them caring to answer for an omission equally chargeable
upon all. The eye of the chief lowered scornfully
as it swept the circle, taking in each face with its
glance; then, throwing from his arm the thick bearskin
which he carried, upon a vacant spot in the circle,
he took his seat with the slow and sufficient dignity of
a Roman senator, speaking as he descended.

“It is well—Sanutee is here in the council—he is a
chief of the Yemassees. He has ears for the words
of the English.”

Granger, the trader and interpreter, who stood
behind the commissioners, signified to them the willingness
conveyed in the last words of Sanutee, to hear
what they had to say, and Sir Edmund Bellinger—then
newly created a landgrave, one of the titles of Carolinian
nobility—the head of the deputation, arose
accordingly, and addressing himself to the new comer,
rather than to the assembly, proceeded to renew those
pledges and protestations which he had already uttered
to the rest. His speech was immediately interpreted
by Granger, who, residing in Pocota-ligo, was familiar
with their language.

“Chiefs of the Yemassee,” said Sir Edmund Bellinger—“we
come from your English brothers, and we
bring peace with this belt of wampum. They have
told us to say to you that one house covers the English
and the Yemassee. There is no strife between us—
we are like the children of one father, and to prove
their faith they have sent us with words of good-will
and friendship, and to you, Sanutee, as the well-beloved
chief of the Yemassee, they send this coat
which they have worn close to their hearts, and which
they would have you wear in like manner, in proof of
the love that is between us.”

Thus saying, the chief of the deputation presented,
through the medium of Granger, a rich but gaudy
cloak, such as had already been given to Huspah;—
but putting the interpreter aside and rejecting the gift,
Sanutee sternly replied—

“Our English brother is good, but Sanutee asks not
for the cloak. Does Sanutee complain of the cold?”

Granger rendered this, and Bellinger addressed him
in reply—

“The chief Sanutee will not reject the gift of his
English brother.”

“Does the white chief come to the great council of
the Yemassees as a fur trader? Would he have skins
for his coat?” was the reply.

“No, Sanutee—the English chief is a great chief,
and does not barter for skins.”

“A great chief?—he came to the Yemassee a little
child, and we took him into our lodges. We gave him
meat and water—”

“We know this, Sanutee.” But the Yemassee went
on without heeding the interruption.

“We helped him with a staff as he tottered through
the thick wood.”

“True, Sanutee.”

“We showed him how to trap the beaver,[2] and to
hunt the deer—we made him a lodge for his woman;
and we sent our young men on the war-path against his
enemy.”

“We have not forgotten, we have denied none of the
services, Sanutee, which yourself and people have done
for us,” said the deputy.

“And now he sends us a coat!” and as the chief
uttered this unlooked-for anti-climax, his eye glared
scornfully around upon the subservient portion of the
assembly. Somewhat mortified with the tenour of the
sentence which the interpreter in the meantime had
repeated to him, Sir Edmund Bellinger would have
answered the refractory chief—

“No, but, Sanutee—”

Without heeding or seeming to hear him, the old
warrior went on—

“He sends good words to the Yemassee, he gives
him painted glass, and makes him blind with a water

which is poison—his shot rings over our forests—we
hide from his long knife in the cold swamp, while
the copper snake creeps over us as we sleep.”

As soon as the deputy comprehended this speech,
he replied—

“You do us wrong, Sanutee,—you have nothing to
fear from the English.”

Without waiting for the aid of the interpreter, the
chief, who had acquired a considerable knowledge of
the simpler portions of the language, and to whom this
sentence was clear enough, immediately and indignantly
exclaimed in his own—addressing the chiefs,
rather than replying to the Englishman.

“Fear,—Sanutee has no fear of the English—he
fears not the Manneyto. He only fears that his people
may go blind with the English poison drink,—that the
great chiefs of the Yemassee may sell him for a slave
to the English, to plant his maize and to be beaten
with a stick. But let the ears of the chiefs hear the
voice of Sanutee—the Yemassee shall not be the slave
of the pale-face.”

“There is no reason for this fear, Sanutee—the
English have always been the friends of your people,”
said the chief of the deputation.

“Would the English have more land from the Yemassee?
Let him speak, Granger—put the words of
Sanutee in his ear. Why does he not speak?”

Granger did as directed, and Sir Edmund replied:—

“The English do want to buy some of the land of
your people—”

“Did not Sanutee say? And the coat is for the land,”
quickly exclaimed the old chief, speaking this time in
the English language.

“No, Sanutee,” was the reply—“the coat is a free
gift from the English. They ask for nothing in return.
But we would buy your land with other things—we
would buy on the same terms with that which we bought
from the Cassique of Combahee.”

“The Cassique of Combahee is a dog—he sells the
grave of his father. I will not sell the land of my people.

The Yemassee loves the old trees, and the smooth
waters where he was born, and where the bones of the
old warriors lie buried. I speak to you, chiefs—it is
the voice of Sanutee. Hear his tongue—it has no
fork—look on his face, it does not show lies. These
are scars of battle, when I stood up for my people.
There is a name for these scars—they do not lie.
Hear me, then.”

“Our ears watch,” was the general response, as he
made his address to the council.

“It is good.—Chiefs of the Yemassee, now hear.
Why comes the English to the lodge of our people?
Why comes he with a red coat to the chief—why brings
he beads and paints for the eye of a little boy? Why
brings he the strong water for the young man? Why
makes he long speeches, full of smooth words—why
does he call us brother? He wants our lands. But
we have no lands to sell. The lands came from our
fathers—they must go to our children. They do not
belong to us to sell—they belong to our children to
keep. We have sold too much land, and the old turkey,
before the sun sinks behind the trees, can fly over
all the land that is ours. Shall the turkey have more
land in a day than the Yemassee has for his children?
Speak for the Yemassee, chiefs of the broad-arrow—
speak for the Yemassee—speak Ishiagaska—speak
Choluculla—speak, thou friend of Manneyto, whose
words are true as the sun, and whose wisdom comes
swifter than the lightning—speak, prophet—speak Enoree-Mattee—speak
for the Yemassee.”

To the high-priest, or rather the great prophet of
the nation, the latter portion of the speech of Sanutee
had been addressed. He was a cold, dark, stern looking
man, gaudily arrayed in a flowing garment of red,
a present from the whites at an early period, while a
fillet around his head, of cloth stuck with the richest
feathers, formed a distinguishing feature of dress from
any of the rest. His voice, next to that of Sanutee,
was potential among the Indians; and the chief well
knew, in appealing to him, Choluculla and Ishiagaska,

that he was secure of these, if of none other in the
council.

“Enoree-Mattee is the great prophet of Manneyto—
he will not sell the lands of Yemassee.”

“'Tis well—speak, Ishiagaska—speak, Choluculla”
—exclaimed Sanutee.

They replied in the same moment:—

“The English shall have no land from the Yemassee.
It is the voice of Ishiagaska—it is the voice of Choluculla.”

“It is the voice of Sanutee—it is the voice of the
prophet—it is the voice of the Manneyto himself,”
cried Sanutee, with a tone of thunder, and with a solemn
emphasis of manner that seemed to set at rest all
further controversy on the subject. But the voices
which had thus spoken were all that spoke on this
side of the question. The English had not been inactive
heretofore, and what with the influence gained
from their numerous presents and promises to the other
chiefs, and the no less influential dislike and jealousy
which the latter entertained for the few more controlling
spirits taking the stand just narrated, the
minds of the greater number had been well prepared
to make any treaty which might be required of them,
trusting to their own influence somewhat, but more
to the attractions of the gewgaws given in return for
their lands, to make their peace with the great body of
the people in the event of their dissatisfaction. Accordingly,
Sanutee had scarcely taken his seat, when
one of the most hostile among them, a brave but dishonest
chief, now arose, and addressing himself chiefly
to Sanutee, thus furnished much of the feeling and
answer for the rest:—

“Does Sanutee speak for the Yemassee—and where
are the other chiefs of the broad-arrow? Where are
Metatchee and Huspah—where is Oonalatchie, where
is Jarratay—are they not here? It is gone from me
when they sung the death-song, and went afar to the
blessed valley of Manneyto. They are not gone—
they five—they have voices and can speak for the Yemassee.

Sanutee may say, Ishiagaska may say, the
prophet may say—but they say not for Manneywanto.
There are brave chiefs of the Yemassee, yet we hear
only Sanutee. Sanutee! cha! cha! I am here—I—
Manneywanto. I speak for the trade with our English
brother. The Yemassee will sell the land to their
brothers.” He was followed by another and another,
all in the affirmative.

“Metatchee will trade with the English. The English
is the brother to Yemassee.”

“Oonalatchie will sell the land to the English brothers.”

And so on in succession, all but the four first speakers,
the assembled chiefs proceeded to sanction the
proposed treaty, the terms of which had been submitted
to them before. To the declaration of each, equivalent
as it was to the vote given in our assemblies,
Sanutee had but a single speech.

“It is well! It is well!” And he listened to the
votes in succession approving of the trade, until,
rising from a corner of the apartment in which, lying
prostrate, he had till then been out of the sight of the
assembly and entirely concealed from the eye of Sanutee,
a tall young warrior, pushing aside the torch-bearers,
staggered forth into the ring. He had evidently
been much intoxicated, though now recovering
from its effects; and, but for the swollen face and the
watery eye, the uncertain and now undignified carriage,
he might well have been considered a fine specimen of
savage symmetry and manly beauty. When his voice,
declaring also for the barter, struck upon the ear of the
old chief, he started round as if an arrow had suddenly
gone into his heart—then remained still, silently contemplating
the speaker, who, in a stupid and incoherent
manner, proceeded to eulogize the English as the
true friends and dear brothers of the Yemassees.
Granger, the trader and interpreter, beholding the fingers
of Sanutee gripe the handle of his tomahawk, whispered
in the ears of Sir Edmund Bellinger—

“Now would I not be Occonestoga for the world.

Sanutee will tomahawk him before the stupid youth
can get out of the way.”

Before the person addressed could reply to the interpreter,
his prediction was in part, and, but for the ready
presence of the Englishman, would have been wholly,
verified. Scarcely had the young chief finished his
maudlin speech, than, with a horrible grin, seemingly
of laughter, Sanutee leaped forward, and with uplifted
arm and descending blow, would have driven the
hatchet deep into the scull of the only half-conscious
youth, when Sir Edmund seized the arm of the fierce
old man in time to defeat the effort.

“Wouldst thou slay thy own son, Sanutee?”

“He is thy slave—he is not the son of Sanutee.
Thou hast made him a dog with thy poison water, till
he would sell thee his own mother to carry water for
thy women. Hold me not, Englishman—I will strike
the slave—I will strike thee too, thou that art his master;”
and with a fury and strength which required the
restraining power of half a dozen, he laboured to effect
his object. They succeeded, however, in keeping
him back, until the besotted youth had been safely hurried
from the apartment; when, silenced and stilled by
the strong reaction of his excitement, the old chief
sunk down again upon his bearskin seat in a stupor,
until the parchment conveying the terms of the treaty,
with pens and ink, provided by Granger for their signatures,
was handed to Huspah, for his own and the
marks of the chiefs. Sanutee looked on with some
watchfulness, but moved not until one of the attendants
brought in the skin of a dog filled with earth and
tightly secured with thongs, giving it the appearance of
a sack. Taking this sack in his hands, Huspah, who
had been half asleep during the proceedings, now arose,
and repeating the words of general concurrence in the
sale of the lands, proceeded to the completion of the
treaty by conveying the sack which held some of the
soil to the hands of the commissioners. But Sanutee
again rushed forward; and seizing the sack from the
proffering hand of Huspah, he hurled it to the ground,

trampled it under foot, and poured forth, as he did so,
an appeal to the patriotism of the chiefs, in a strain of
eloquence in his own wild language which we should
utterly despair to render into ours. He implored
them, holding as they did the destinies of the nation
in their hands, to forbear its sacrifice. He compared
the wide forests of their fathers, in value, with the paltry
gifts for which they were required to give them up.
He dwelt upon the limited province, even now, which
had been left them for the chase; spoke of the daily
incursions and injuries of the whites, and with those
bold forms of phrase and figure known among all primitive
people, with whom metaphor and personification
supply the deficiency and make up for the poverty of
language, he implored them not to yield up the bones
of their fathers, nor admit the stranger to contact with
the sacred town, given them by the Manneyto, and
solemnly dedicated to his service. But he spoke in
vain; he addressed ears more impenetrable than those
of the adder. They had been bought and sold, and
they had no scruple to sell their country. He was
supported by the few who had spoken with him against
the trade, but what availed patriotism against numbers?
They were unheeded, and beholding the contract effected
which gave up an immense body of their best
lands for a strange assortment of hatchets, knives,
blankets, brads, beads, and other commodities of like
character, Sanutee, followed by his three friends, rushed
forth precipitately, and with a desperate purpose, from
the traitorous assembly.