University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

The wife of Granger soon provided refreshments
for the young savage, of which he ate sparingly,
though without much seeming consciousness of what
he was doing. Harrison did not trouble him much
with remark or inquiry, but busied himself in looking
after some of the preparations for defence of the
building; and for this purpose, Hector and himself
occupied an hour in the apartment adjoining that in
which the household concerns of Granger were carried
on. In this apartment Hector kept Dugdale, a famous
blood-hound, supposed to have been brought from the

Caribbees, which, when very young, Harrison had
bought from a Spanish trader. This dog is a peculiar
breed, and resembled in some leading respects the
Irish wolf-hound, while, having all the thirst and appetite
for blood which distinguished the more ancient
Slute or Sleuth-hound of the Scots. It is a mistake to
suppose that the Spaniards brought these dogs to
America. They found them here, actually in use by
the Indians and for like purposes, and only perfected
their training, while stimulating them in the pursuit of
man. The dog Dugdale had been partially trained
after their fashion to hunt the Indians, and even under
his present owner, it was not deemed unbecoming
that he should be prepared for the purposes of war upon
the savages, by the occasional exhibition of a stuffed
figure, so made and painted as to resemble a naked
Indian, around whose neck a lump of raw and bleeding
beef was occasionally suspended. This was shown
him while chained,—from any near approach he was
withheld, until his appetite had been so wrought upon,
that longer restraint would have been dangerous and
impossible. The training of these dogs, as known to
the early French and Spanish settlers, by both of
whom they were in common use for the purpose of
war with the natives, is exceeding curious; and so
fierce under this form of training did they become in
process of time, that it was found necessary to restrain
them in cages while thus stimulated, until the call to
the field, and the prospect of immediate strife should
give an opportunity to the exercise of their unallayed
rapacity. In the civil commotions of Hayti, the most
formidable enemies known to the insurrectionists were
the fierce dogs which had been so educated by the
French. A curious work, found in the Charleston
Library, devoted to the history of that time and province,
is illustrated with several plates which show the
training common with the animal. The dog of Harrison
had not however been greatly exercised by his present
owner after this fashion. He had been simply required
to follow and attend upon his master, under the conduct
of Hector, for both of whom his attachments had been
singularly strong. But the early lessons of his Spanish
masters had not been forgotten by Dugdale, who, in the
war of the Carolinians with the Coosaws, following his
master into battle, proved an unlooked-for auxiliar of
the one, and an enemy whose very appearance struck
terror into the other. So useful an ally was not to be
neglected, and the stuffed figure which had formed a part
of the property of the animal in the sale by his Spanish
master, was brought into occasional exercise and use,
under the charge of Hector, in confirming Dugdale's
warlike propensities. In this exercise, with the figure
of a naked Indian perched against one corner, and a
part of a deer's entrails hanging around his neck,
Hector, holding back the dog by a stout rope drawn
around a beam, the better to embarrass him at pleasure,
was stimulating at the same time his hunger and
ferocity.

“Does Dugdale play to-day, Hector?” inquired his
master.

“He hab fine sperits, mossa—berry fine sperits. I
kin hardly keep 'em in. See da, now,—” and, as the
slave spoke, the dog broke away, dragging the rope suddenly
through the hands of the holder, and, without remarking
the meat, ran crouching to the feet of Harrison.

“Him nebber forget you, mossa, ebber sense you
put you hand down he troat.”

Harrison snapped his fingers, and motioning with his
hand to the bleeding bowels of the deer around the
neck of the figure, the hound sprung furiously upon it,
and dragging it to the floor, planted himself across
the body, while, with his formidable teeth, he tore away
the bait from the neck where it was wound, lacerating
the figure at every bite, in a manner which would have
soon deprived the living man of all show of life.
Having given some directions to the slave, Harrison
returned to the apartment where he had left the Indian.

Occonestoga sat in a corner mournfully croning
over, in an uncouth strain, something of a song, rude,
sanguinary, in his own wild language. Something of

the language was known to Harrison, but not enough
to comprehend the burden of what he sung. But the
look and the manner of the savage were so solemn and
imposing, so foreign, yet so full of dignified thought,
that the Englishman did not venture to interrupt him.
He turned to Granger, who, with his wife, was partially
employed in one corner of the apartment, folding up
some of his wares and burnishing others.

“What does he sing, Granger?” he asked of the
trader.

“His death-song, sir.—It is something very strange
—but he has been at it now for some time; and the
Indian does not employ that song unless with a near
prospect of death. He has probably had some dream
or warning, and they are very apt to believe in such
things.”

“Indeed—his death-song—” murmured Harrison,
while he listened attentively to the low chant which
the Indian still kept up. At his request, forbearing his
labour, Granger listened also, and translated at intervals
the purport of many of the stanzas.

“What is the Seratee,” in his uncouth lyric, sung
the melancholy Indian—

At the conclusion of this uncouth verse, he proceeded
in a different tone and manner, and his present

form of speech constituted a break or pause in the
song.

“That Opitchi-Manneyto—wherefore is he wroth
with the young chief who went on the war-path against
the Seratee. He made slaves for him from the dogs of
the long grass. Let Opitchi-Manneyto hear. Occonestoga
is a brave chief,—he hath struck his hatchet
into the lodge of the Savannah, when there was a full
sun in the forests.”

“Now,” said Granger, “he is going to tell us of
another of his achievements.” Occonestoga went
on—

Then after this wild and barbarous chant which,
verse after verse, Granger rendered to Harrison, a
pause of a few moments was suffered to succeed, in
which, all the while in the profoundest silence, the
young warrior continued to wave his head backward
and forward at regular intervals.

“He has had a warning certainly, captain,—I have
seen them frequently go on so. Stop—he begins!”

Not singing, but again addressing the evil deity,
Occonestoga began with the usual adjuration.

“Arrows and feathers, burnt arrows and feathers—
a bright flame for thee, Opitchi-Manneyto. Look not
dark upon the young brave of Yemassee: Hear his
song of the war-path and the victory”—and again he
chanted something which seemed to be more national,
in a more sounding and elevated strain, and which, in
the translation of Granger, necessarily lost much of its
native sublimity.

Harrison now ventured to interrupt the enthusiastic
but still sullen warrior. He interrupted him with a
compliment, confirming that which he had himself been
uttering to the prowess of his nation.

“That is a true song, Occonestoga—that in praise
of your nation. They are indeed a brave people;
but I fear under wild management now. But come—
here is some drink, it will strengthen you.”

“It is good,” said he, drinking—“it is good—good
for strength. The English is a friend to Occonestoga.”

“We have always tried to be so, Occonestoga, as
you should know by this time. But speak to me of
Pocota-ligo. What have the people been doing there?
What maddens them, and wherefore should they grow
angry with their English brothers?”

“The Yemassee is like the wolf—she smells blood
on the track of the hunter, when the young cub is carried
away. He is blind, like the rattlesnake, with the
poison of the long sleep, when he first comes out in the
time of the green corn. He wants blood to drink—
he would strike the enemy.”

“I see. The Yemassees are impatient of peace.
They would go upon the war-path, and strike the English
as their enemies. Is this what you think, Occonestoga?”

“Harrison speaks! The English is a friend to
Yemassee, but Yemassee will not hear the word of
Occonestoga. Sanutee says the tongue of Occonestoga
has a fork—he speaks in two voices.”

“They are mad, young brave—but not so mad, I
think, as to go on the war-path without an object. At
this moment they could not hope to be successful, and
would find it destructive.”

“The thought of Occonestoga is here. They will
go on the war-path against the English.”

“Ha!—If you think so, Occonestoga, you must be
our friend.”

“Cha! Cha! Occonestoga is too much friend to
the English.”

“Not too much, not too much—not more than they
will well reward you for.”

“Will the strong water of the English make Occonestoga
to be the son of Sanutee? Will the meat
carry Occonestoga to the young braves of the Yemassee?
Will they sleep till he speaks for them to wake?
Look, Harrison, the death-song is made for Occonestoga.”

“Not so—there is no cause yet for you to sing the
death-song of the young warrior.”

“Occonestoga has said!—he has seen—it came
to him when he ate meat from the hands of the trader.”

“Ah! that is all owing to your fatigue and hunger,
Occonestoga. You have long years of life before you,
and still have some services to perform for your friends
the English. You must find out for us certainly
whether your people mean to go on the war-path or
not—where they will strike first, and when; and above
all, whether any other tribes join with them. You
must go for us back to Pocota-ligo. You must watch
the steps of the chiefs, and bring word of what they
intend.”

An overpowering sense of his own shame as he
listened to this requisition of Harrison, forced his head
down his bosom, while the gloom grew darker upon
his face. At length he exclaimed—

“It is no good talk: Occonestoga is a dog. The
tomahawk of Sanutee is good for a dog.”

“Wherefore this, young chief of the Yemassee?—
What mean you by this speech?”

“Young chief of Yemassee!” exclaimed the savage,
repeating the phrase of Harrison as if in derision
—“said you not the young chief of Yemassee should
hunt his people like a dog in the cover of the bush?”

“Not like a dog, Occonestoga, but like a good friend,
as well to the English as to the Yemassee. Is not
peace good for both? It is peace, not war, that the
English desire; but if there be war, Occonestoga, they
will take all the scalps of your nation.”

“The English must look to his own scalp,” cried
the young man, fiercely,—“the hand of Yemassee is
ready;—” and as he spoke, for a moment his eye
lightened up, and his form rose erect from the place
where he had been sitting, while a strong feeling of
nationality in his bosom aroused him into something
like the warlike show of an eloquent chief inspiriting
his tribe for the fight. But Granger, who had been
watchful, came forward with a cup of spirits, which,
without a word, he now handed him. The youth seized
it hurriedly, drank it off at a single effort, and, in that
act, the momentary enthusiasm which had lightened
up, with a show of still surviving consciousness and

soul, the otherwise desponding and degraded features,
passed away; and sinking again into his seat, he replied
to the other portion of the remark of Harrison.

“It is well, what the English speaks. Peace is
good—peace for the Yemassee—peace for the English—peace—peace
for Occonestoga—Occonestoga
speaks for peace.”

“Then let Occonestoga do as I wish him. Let him
go this very night to Pocota-ligo. Let his eye take the
track of the chiefs, and look at their actions. Let him
come back to-morrow, and say all that he has seen,
and claim his reward from the English.”

“There is death for Occonestoga if the Yemassee
scout finds his track.”

“But the young chief has an eye like the hawk—a
foot like the sneaking panther, and a body limber as the
snake. He can see his enemy afar—he can hide in
the thick bush—he can lie still under the dead timber
when the hunter steps over it.”

“And rise to strike him in the heel like the yellow-belly
moccasin. Yes! The young chief is a great
warrior—the Seratee is a dog, the Savannah is a dog
—Look, his legs have the scalp of Suwannee and
Chareco. Occonestoga is a great warrior.”

The vanity of the savage once enlisted, and his
scruples were soon overcome. An additional cup of
spirits which Granger again furnished him, concluded
the argument, and he now avowed himself ready for
the proposed adventure. His preparations were soon
completed, and when the night had fairly set in, the
fugitive was again within the boundary lines of his
nation; and cautiously thridding his way, with all the
skill and cunning of an Indian, among the paths of the
people whom he had so grievously incensed. He
knew the danger, but he was vain of his warrior and
hunter skill.—He did not fear death, for it is the habitual
practice of the Indian's thought to regard it as a
part of his existence; and his dying ceremonies, otherwise,
form no inconsiderable part of the legacy of
renown which is left to his children. But had he

known the doom which had been pronounced against
him, along with the other chiefs, and which had been
already executed upon them by the infuriated people,
he had never ventured for an instant upon so dangerous
a commission.