University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

A not less exciting scene was now going on within
the council-chamber. There, all was confusion and
despair. The shock of such a doom as that which the
chiefs had heard pronounced by the people, under the
influence of the prophet, came upon them like a bolt
of thunder. For a moment it paralyzed with its terrors
the hearts of those who had no fear of death. The
mere loss of life is always an event of triumph with the
brave of the Indians, and for the due ennobling of which,
his song of past victories and achievements, carefully
chronicled by a memory which has scarcely any other
employment, is shouted forth in the most acute physical
agony, with a spirit which nothing can bend or
conquer. But to deprive him of this memory—to
eradicate all the marks of his achievements—to take
from him the only credential by which he operates
among his fellows and claims a place in the ranks of
the illustrious dead—was a refinement upon the terrors
of punishment, which, unfrequently practised,
was held as a terror, intended to paralyze, as in the
present instance, every thing of moral courage which

the victim might possess. For a moment such was
its effect in the assembly of the chiefs. The solitary
howl of despair which their unanimous voices sent up
as the first intimation of the decree met their ears,
was succeeded by the deepest silence, while they
threw themselves upon their faces, and the torch-bearers,
burying their torches in the clay floor of the
building, with something of that hate and horror which
seemed to distinguish the body of the Indians without,
rushed forth from the apartment and joined with the
assembled people. Their departure aroused the despairing
inmates, and while one of them carefully
again closed the entrance before the watchful mass
without could avail themselves of the opening, the rest
prepared themselves with a renewed courage to deliberate
upon their situation.

“There is death for Manneywanto,” exclaimed that
fierce warrior and chief—“he will not lose the arrow
of his tribe. I will go forth to the hatchet. I will
lift my arm, and strike so that they shall slay.”

“Let them put the knife to the heart of Oonalatchie,”
cried another—“but not to the arrow upon his
shoulder. He will go forth with Manneywanto.”

The determination of the whole was soon made.
Huspah, the superior but superannuated chief, tottering
in advance, and singing mournfully the song of
death with which the Indian always prepares for its approach.
The song became general with the victims, and
with drawn knives and ready hatchets, they threw wide
the entrance, and rushing forth with a fury duly heightened
by the utter hopelessness of escape, they struck
desperately on all sides among the hundreds by whom
they were beleagnered. But they had been waited and
prepared for, and forbearing to strike in return, and
freely risking their own lives, the Indians were content
to bear them down by the force of numbers. The
more feeble among them fell under the pressure. Of
these was Huspah the king, whom the crowd immediately
dragged from the press, and in spite of the
exertions of Sanutee, who desired the observance of

some formalities which marked the ceremony, they
fiercely cut away the flesh of the arm bearing the
insignia, while his shrieks of despair and defiance,
reaching the ears of his comrades, still struggling,
heightened their desperation and made their arrest
the more difficult. But the strife was in a little time
over. The crowd triumphed, and the chiefs, still living
and unhurt, saving only a few bruises which were unavoidable
in the affray, were all secured but Manneywanto.
That powerful and ferocious chief manfully
battled with a skill and strength that knew no abatement
from its exercise, and seemed only heightened by
the opposition. A friendly hand, at length, whose
stroke he blessed, encountered him in the crowd and
severed his scull with a hatchet. He was the only
individual of the traitors by whom the vengeance of the
Indians was defrauded; not another of the clan proved
fortunate in his desperation. The survivers were all
securely taken, and, carefully bound with thongs, were
borne away to the great tumulus, upon which the
doom was to be put in execution. In an hour after
they were expatriated men, flying desperately to
the forests, homeless, nationless, outcasts from God and
man, yet destined to live. It is remarkable that in all
this time, suicide never entered the thoughts of the
victims. It forms no part of the Indian's philosophy,
and the Roman might have won a lesson from the
Yemassee, in this respect, which would have ennobled
his Catos.

Meanwhile the deputation of the Carolinians lay at
the house of Granger, full of apprehensions for their
common safety. Nor was Granger himself less so. He
felt assured of the danger, and only relied upon the
interposition of Sanutee, which he knew to be all-powerful,
and which, looking on the outbreak of the
people as the result of their own impulse, he saw no
reason to imagine would be denied on the present
occasion. From their place of retreat, which lay on
the skirts of the town and nigh the river, the embassy
could hear the outcries and clamours of the Indians

without being acquainted with particulars; and when
at length they beheld the flames ascending from the
house of council, which, when they had seized upon
the chiefs, the rioters had fired, believing the chiefs
consumed in the conflagration, they gave themselves
up for lost. They did not doubt that the fury which
had sacrificed so many and such influential persons
would scarcely be satisfied to allow of their escape;
and firmly impressed with the conviction that their
trial was at hand, Sir Edmund Bellinger drew his
sword, and, followed by the rest of the deputation, prepared
for a conflict in which they had but one hope,
and that lay in selling the life dearly, which seemed
so certainly forfeited.

In this mood of mind they waited the coming of the
storm, nor were they long kept in suspense. Having
beheld the fearful doom carried into effect, and seen
their ancient rulers scourged out of the town, the
revolutionists rushed headlong, and with an appetite
for blood duly heightened by the little they had seen,
to the dwelling of the trader--vowing as they hurried
along, to their infernal deity, Opitchi-Manneyto, an increase
of slaves in the persons of the Englishmen,
whom they proposed to sacrifice by fire. On their
way, mistaking one of their own people who had
dressed himself somewhat after the fashion of the
English, in a dress which had been discarded by some
white man, they dashed him to the earth, trampled and
nearly tore him into pieces before discovering the
mistake. In such a temper, they appeared before the
dwelling of the trader, and with loud shouts demanded
their prey.

Determined upon stout resistance to the last, the
commissioners had barricadoed the little dwelling as
well as they could; and doubtless, for a small space of
time, would have made it tenable; but fortunately for
them, just as the furious savages were about to apply
the fatal torch to the building, the appearance of Enoree-Mattee
and Sanutee, spared them an issue which
could have only terminated in their murder. Sanutee

had his game to play, and though perfectly indifferent
as to the fate of the commissioners, yet, as his hope in
the forthcoming insurrection lay in taking the Carolinians
by surprise, it was his policy to impress confidence
rather than distrust upon them. He aimed now
to divest the embassy of all suspicion, and to confine
the show of indignation made by the Yemassees, entirely
to the chiefs who had so abused their power.

Addressing the mob, he controlled it in his own manner,
and telling them that they wanted nothing from the
English but the treaty which had so fraudulently been
entered into by their chiefs, he engaged to them to effect
its restoration, along with the skin of earth, which,
completing the bargain, was equivalent in their estimation,
not less to legal right than to actual possession.
After some demur, Granger admitted the chief, who came
alone to the presence of the deputation, the chairman
of which thus sternly addressed him:—

“Are the English dogs,” said Sir Edmund Bellinger,
“that thy people hunt them with cries and fire?
Wherefore is this, Sanutee?”

“The English have the lands of my people, and
therefore my people hunt them. The bad chiefs who
sold the land as chiefs of the Yemassee, are chiefs
no longer.”

“Thou hast slain them?” inquired Sir Edmund.

“No, but they are dead—dead to Sanutee—dead to
the Yemassee—dead to Manneyto. They are dogs—
the English have slaves in the woods.”

“But their acts are good with us, and the English
will protect them, Sanutee, and will punish their enemies.
Beware, chief—I tell thee there is danger for
thy people.”

“It is good. Does the white chief hear my people?
They cry for blood. They would drink it from thy
heart, but Sanutee is the friend of the English. They
shall touch thee not, to harm.”

“Thou hast said well, Sanutee, and I expected no
less from thee; but why do they not go? Why do they
still surround our dwelling?”

“They wait for the wampum—they would tear the
skin which carries the land of the Yemassee;” and the
chief, as he spoke, pointed to the treaty and the sack
of earth which lay by the side of Bellinger. He proceeded
to tell them that they should be secure when
these were re-delivered to the Indians. But with the
commissioners it was a point of honour not to restore
the treaty which they had obtained from the rulers de
facto of the people—certainly, not to a lawless mob;
and regarding only the high trust of which he had
charge, the speech of the chief commissioner was instantaneous:—

“Never, Sanutee, never—only with my blood. Go
—you have my answer. We shall fight to the last,
and our blood be upon the heads of your people. They
will pay dearly for every drop of it they spill.”

“It is well—” said Sanutee, “It is well: Sanutee
will go back to his people, and the knife of the Yemassee
will dig for his land in the heart of the English.”
He left the house, and with gloomy resignation, Bellinger,
with the other commissioners and Granger, prepared
for the coming storm with all their philosophy.
In a few moments the anticipated commotion began.
The populace, but a little before silent and patient, now
chafed and roared like a stormy ocean, and the fierce
cry of Sangarrah-me, the cry for blood, went up from a
thousand voices. The torches were brought forward,
and the deputies, firm and fearless enough, saw no hope
even of a chance for the use of their weapons. The
two subordinates, with Granger, looked imploringly to
Bellinger, but the stern chief paced the apartment unbendingly,
though seemingly well aware of all the
dangers of their situation. At that moment the wife of
Granger—a tall, fine looking woman, of much masculine
beauty, appeared from an inner apartment, and
before she had been observed by either of the commissioners,
seizing upon the little skin of earth and the
parchment at the same moment, without a word, she
threw open the door, and cried out to Sanutee to receive
them. This was all done in an instant, and before the

stern commissioner could see or interfere, the deposites,
placed in the grasp of the savages, were torn into a
thousand pieces.

“Woman, how darest thou do this!”—was the first
sentence of Bellinger to the person who had thus yielded
up his trust. But she fearlessly confronted him—

“My life is precious to me, my lord, though you
may be regardless of yours. The treaty is nothing
now to the Yemassees, who have destroyed their chiefs
on account of it. To have kept it would have done
no good, but must have been destructive to us all. Sanutee
will keep his word, and our lives are now saved.”

It was evident that she was right, and Bellinger was
wise enough to see it. He said nothing farther, glad,
perhaps, that the responsibility of the trust had been
thus removed from him—and, true to his word, Sanutee
now reappeared among them. The crowd was
pacified by his exhortations rather than by the concession,
and the storm was rapidly subsiding. A
little delay followed, in which the commissioners were
busy in making preparations for their departure, and
waiting, under Sanutee's suggestion, the disappearance
of the people, which he assured them would take place
soon. The clamour having subsided, they prepared
to go forth under the protection and presence of the
old chief, which the proud Sir Edmund Bellinger indignantly,
but in vain, refused. Seeing that Granger
and his wife remained, Sanutee turned suddenly upon
him, and in a low tone, unheard by the commissioners,
asked why he did not prepare to go also. He answered
by avowing his willingness still to remain in
Pocota-ligo as before, for the purposes of trade.

“Go—Sanutee is good friend to Granger, and to his
woman. Go all—there is fire and a knife in the hand
of the Yemassees, and they will drink a deep draught
from the heart of the pale-faces. If Granger will not
go from Yemassee, look, the hatchet of Sanutee is
ready;” and he raised it as he spoke—“Sanutee will
save Granger from the fire-death.”

This is the last service which the Indian warrior

may do his friend, and Granger understood the extent
of his danger from this proffer, meant as a kindness
on the part of the old chief. He needed no second
exhortation to a remove, and though the hope of gain
and a prosperous trade had encouraged him hitherto
to risk every thing in his present residence, the love
of life proved stronger; for he well knew that Sanutee
seldom spoke without reason. Packing up, therefore,
with the aid of his wife, the little remaining stock
in trade which he possessed, and which a couple of
good-sized bundles readily comprised, they took their
way along with the commissioners, and, guided by
Sanutee, soon reached the river. Choosing for them
a double canoe, the old chief saw them safely embarked.
Taking the paddles into their own hands, the
midnight wayfarers descended the stream on their way
towards the Block House, while, surrounded by a small
group of his people, Sanutee watched their slow progress
from the banks.