University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

Half conscious only of his design at starting, the
young and profligate savage, on crossing to the opposite
shore, which he did just at the Block House,
grew more sensible, not only in reference to the object
of his journey, but to the dangers which necessarily
came along with it. Utterly ignorant, as yet, of that
peculiar and unusual doom which had been pronounced
against himself and the other chiefs, and already executed
upon them, he had yet sufficient reason to apprehend
that, if taken, his punishment, death probably,
would be severe enough. Apprehending this probability,
the fear which it inspired was not however
sufficient to discourage him from an adventure which,
though pledged for its performance in a moment of
partial inebriation, was yet held by the unconventional
and simple Indian to be all-binding upon him. Firmly
resolved, therefore, upon the fulfilment of his promise
to Harrison, who, with Granger and others, had often
before employed him, though on less dangerous missions,
he went forward, preparing to watch the progress
of events among the Yemassees, and to report duly
the nature of their warlike proceedings.

The aim of Harrison was preparation, and the purpose
was therefore of the highest importance upon

which Occonestoga had been sent. The generally
exposed situation of the whole frontier occupied by the
whites, with the delay and difficulty of warlike preparation,
rendered every precautionary measure essential on
the part of the Carolinians. For this reason, a due and
proper intelligence of the means, designs, and strength
of their adversaries, became more absolutely important;
particularly as the capricious nature of savage affections
makes it doubtful whether they can, for any length of
time, continue in peace and friendship. How far Occonestoga
may stand excused for the part which he had
taken against his countrymen, whatever may have been
the character of their cause, is a question not necessary
for our consideration here. It is certain that the
degradation consequent upon his intemperance had
greatly contributed towards blunting that feeling of
nationality, which is no small part of the honest boast
of every Indian warrior.

Night had fairly shrouded the forest when the young
chief commenced his journey. But he knew the path,
by night as by day, with a familiarity begun in childhood.
His ear, quick, keen, and discriminating by his
education, could distinguish between and identify the
movement of every native of the woodland cover. He
knew the slight and hurried rustle of the black snake,
from the slow, dignified sweep of the rattle; and, drunk
or sober, the bear in the thicket, or the buck bounding
along the dry pine-land ridge, were never mistaken,
one for the other, by our forest warrior. These, as
they severally crossed or lay in his path—for the rattlesnake
moves at his own pleasure—he drove aside or
avoided; and when contradictory sounds met his ear,
doubtful in character or significant of some dangerous
proximity, then would the warrior sink down into the
bush or under the cover of the fallen tree, or steal away
into the sheltering shadow of the neighbouring copse,
without so much as a breath or whisper. Such precautions
as these became more and more necessary as
he drew nigher to the homestead of his people. The
traces of their presence thickened momently around

him. Now the torch flared across his eye, and now
the hum of voices came with the sudden gust; and, more
than once, moving swiftly across his path, wound a
dusky figure like his own, bent upon some secret quest,
and watchful like himself to avoid discovery. He too,
perhaps, had been dimly seen in the same manner—
not his features, for none in that depth of shadow in
which he crept could well have made them out;—but
such partial glances, though he strove to avoid all
observation, he did not so much heed, as he well knew
that the thought of others seeing him, without ascertaining
who he was, would be apt to assign him a like
pursuit with that which he assigned to those he saw—
the nocturnal amour,—pursued by the Yemassees with a
fastidious regard to secrecy, not because of any moral
reserve, but that such a pursuit savours of a weakness
unbecoming to manhood.

On a sudden he drew back from the way he was
pursuing, and sunk under the cover of a gigantic oak.
A torch flamed across the path, and a dusky maiden
carried it, followed by a young warrior. They passed
directly beside the tree behind which Occonestoga had
sought for shelter, and, at the first glance, he knew
Hiwassee, the young maiden who was to have filled
his own lodge, according to the expectations of the
people. But he had lost sight of and forgotten her in
the practices which had weaned him from his brethren
and bound him to the whites. Yet he had regarded
her with favour, and though he had never formally
proposed to break with her the sacred wand of Checkamoysee,
[1] which was to give her the title to his dwelling
and make her his wife, yet, the public expectation had
found sufficient warrant in his own feelings upon the
subject. He now listened with something of disappointment,
but more of self-reproach, to the proposition
as it was made to her by another.

“It is a brave chief, Hiwassee—a brave chief that
would have you enter his lodge. The lodge of Echotee

is ready for Hiwassee. Look! this is the stick of
Checkamoysee,—break it—take it in thy hands and
break it, Hiwassee, and Echotee will quench the torch
which thou bearest in the running water. Then shalt
thou be the wife of a warrior, and the venison shall
always be full in thy lodge. Break the stick of Checkamoysee,
Hiwassee, and be the wife of Echotee.”

And the dusky maiden needed little wooing. She
broke the stick, and as she did so, seizing the blazing
torch with a ready hand, Echotee hurried with it to a
brook that trickled along at a little distance, and in the
next instant it hissed in the water, and all was darkness.
Without regarding what he was doing, or thinking
of his own risk, Occonestoga, in the absence
of her accepted lover, could not forbear a word, something
of reproach, perhaps, in the ear of Hiwassee.
She stood but a few paces off, under the shadow and
on the opposite side of the same tree which gave him
shelter; with the broken stick still in her hand in
attestation of her wild forest nuptial. What he said
was unheard save by herself, but she screamed as she
heard it; and, hearing her lover approach, and now duly
conscious of his error, Occonestoga in the next moment
had darted away from the place of their tryst, and was
pursuing his path with all the vigour of a renewed and
resolute spirit. At length he approached the town of
Pocota-ligo, but, at first, carefully avoiding its main
entrance, which was upon the river, particularly as the
throng of sounds reaching his ears from that quarter
indicated a still active stir, he shot off circuitously into
the thicker woods, so as to come into the immediate
neighbourhood of his father's dwelling. From a neighbouring
thicket, after a little while, he looked down
upon the cabin which had given a birth-place and shelter
to his infancy; and the feeling of shame grew strong
in his bosom as he thought upon the hopes defeated of
his high-souled father, and of the affections thrown away
of the gentle mother, with whom, however mortified
and fruitless, they still continued to flourish for the
outcast. Such thoughts however were not permitted

to trouble him long; for, as he looked he beheld by the
ruddy blaze of the pine torch which the boy carried
before him, the person of his father emerge from the
lodge, and take the well-known pathway leading to
Pocota-ligo. If Occonestoga had no other virtue, that
of love for his mother was, to a certain extent, sufficiently
redeeming. His previous thoughts, his natural
feeling, prepared him, whatever the risk, to take advantage
of the opportunity thus offered him. In another
instant, and the half penitent prodigal stood in the
presence of Matiwan.

“Oh, boy—Occonestoga—thou art come—thou art
come. Thou art not yet lost to Matiwan.” And she
threw herself, with the exclamation, fondly, though but
for a moment, upon his neck; the next, recovering herself,
she spoke in hurried tones, full of grief and apprehension.
“Thou shouldst not come—fly, boy—fly,
Occonestoga—be a swift bird, that the night has overtaken
far away from his bush. There is danger—
there is death—not death—there is a curse for thee
from Opitchi-Manneyto.”

“Let not the grief stand in the eye of Matiwan.
Occonestoga fears not death. He has a song for the
Manneyto of the blessed valley, the great warriors
shall clap their hands and cry `Sangarrah-me, Sangarrah-me,
Yemassee,' when they hear. Let not the
grief stand in the eye of Matiwan.”

“It is for thee, for thee, boy—for thee, Occonestoga.
The sorrow of Matiwan is for thee. Thou hast been
in this bosom, Occonestoga, and thine eyes came, when
the green was on the young leaf and the yellow flower
was hanging over the lodge in the strength of the sun.”

“Know I not the song of Enoree-Mattee, when the
eyes of Occonestoga looked up? said he not, under the
green leaf, under the yellow flower, the brave comes
who shall have arrows with wings and a knife that has
eyes? Occonestoga is here.”

“Matiwan was glad. Sanutee lifted thee to the sun,
boy, and begged for thee his beams from the good
Manneyto. The gladness is gone, Occonestoga—

gone from Sanutee, gone from Matiwan,—gone with
thee. There is no green on the leaf—my eyes look
upon the yellow flowers no longer. Occonestoga, it
is thou,—thou hast taken all this light from the eye
of Matiwan. The gladness and the light are gone.”

“Matiwan tells no lie—this dog is Occonestoga.”
But the gentle parent, tender even in the utterance of
truth, fearing she had gone too far, hastily and almost
indignantly interrupted him in the melancholy self-condemnation
he was uttering.

“No, no—Occonestoga is no dog. He is a brave—
he is the son of Sanutee, the well-beloved of the Yemassee.
Occonestoga has shut his eyes and gone upon
the track of a foolish dream, but he will wake with the
sun,—and Matiwan will see the green leaf and the
yellow flower still hanging over the lodge of Sanutee;”
and as she spoke she threw her arms about him affectionately,
while the tears came to the relief of her
heart and flowed freely down her cheeks. The youth
gently but coldly disengaged her clasp, and proceeded
to seat himself upon the broad skin lying upon the floor
of the cabin; when, aroused by the movement, and
with a return of all her old apprehensions, she thrust
him from it with an air of anxiety, if not of horror, and
shutting her eyes upon the wondering and somewhat
indignant glance with which he now surveyed her,
she exclaimed passionately—

“Go—fly—wherefore art thou here—here in the
lodge of Sanutee—thou, the accursed—the—” and the
words stuck in her throat, and, unarticulated, came forth
chokingly.

“Is Matiwan mad—has the fever-pain gone into her
temples?” he asked in astonishment.

“No, no, no—not mad, Occonestoga. But thou art
cast out from the Yemassee. He does not know thee
—the young warriors know thee not—the chiefs know
thee not—Manneyto denies thee. They have said—
thou art a Yemassee no longer. They have cast thee
out.”

“The Yemassee is great, but he cannot deny Occonestoga.
Thou art mad, Matiwan. Look, woman, here

is the broad arrow of Yemassee upon the shoulder of
a chief.”

“It is gone—it is gone from thee, Occonestoga.
They have sworn by Opitchi-Manneyto, that Malatchie,
the Clublifter, shall take it from thy shoulder.”

The youth shrunk back, and his eyes started in
horror, while his limbs trembled with a sentiment of
fear not often felt by an Indian warrior. In another
instant, however, he recovered from the stupor if not
from the dread, which her intelligence occasioned.

“Ha, Matiwan, thou hast no fork in thy tongue.
Thou speakest not to me with the voice of the Coonee-latee.”

“Opitchi-Manneyto!—he hears the voice of Matiwan.
The Yemassee has doomed thee.”

“They dare not—they will not. I will go with them
upon the war-path against the Santee and the Seratee.
I will take up the hatchet against the English. I will
lead the young warriors to battle. They shall know
Occonestoga for a chief.”

“Thou canst not, boy. They do not trust thee—
they have doomed thee with the chiefs who sold the
land to the English. Has not Malatchie cut with
the knife, and burnt away with fire from their shoulders
the sacred and broad arrow of Yemassee, so that we
know them no more?—Their fathers and their sons know
them no more—the mothers that bore them know them
no more—the other nations know them no more—they
cannot enter the blessed valley of Manneyto, for Manneyto
knows them not when he looks for the broad
arrow of Yemassee, and finds it not upon their shoulders.”

“Woman! thou liest!—thou art hissing lies in my
ears, like a green snake, with thy forked tongue. The
Yemassee has not done this thing as thou say'st.”

The voice of the woman sunk into a low and husky
murmur, and the always melancholy tones of their
language grew doubly so in her utterance, as she
replied in a stern rebuke, though her attitude and manner
were entirely passionless:—

“When has Matiwan lied to Occonestoga? Occonestoga
is a dog when he speaks of Matiwan as the
forked tongue.”

“He is a dog if thou hast not lied, Matiwan. Say
that thou hast lied—that thou hast said a foolish thing
to Occonestoga. Say, Matiwan, and the young arrow
will be in thy hand even as the long shoots of the tree
that weeps. Thou shalt be to him as thou wilt.”

With an expression the most humbled and imploring,
and something more of warmth than is usually shown
by the Indian warrior, the young chief took the hand
of his mother, while uttering an appeal, virtually apologizing
for the harsh language he had previously made
use of. With the pause of an instant, and a passionate
melancholy, almost amounting to the vehemence of
despair, she replied:—

“Matiwan does not lie. The Yemassee has said
the doom, which Enoree-Mattee, the prophet, brought
from Opitchi-Manneyto. Has not Malatchie cut from
the shoulders of the chiefs and burnt away with fire
the broad arrow, and never more may they be known
by the Yemassee—never more by the Manneyto! The
doom is for thee, Occonestoga. It is true. There is
no fork in the tongue of Matiwan. Fly, boy—fly, Occonestoga.
It is thy mother, it is Matiwan that prays
thee to fly. Matiwan would not lose thee, Occonestoga,
from the happy valley. Be the swift arrow on the path
of flight—let them not see thee—let them not give thee
to Malatchie.”

Thus, passionately imploring him, the mother urged
upon him the necessity of flight. But, for a few
minutes, as if stunned by the intelligence which he
could not now disbelieve, the young warrior stood in
silence, with down-bending head, the very personification
of despair. Then, quickly and fully recovering,
with a kindling eye, and a manner well corresponding
with his language, he started forward erectly, in his
fullest height, and with the action of a strong mood,
for a moment assumed the attitude of that true dignity
from which in his latter days and habits he had but too
much and too often departed.

“Ha! Is Occonestoga an arrow that is broken?
Is he the old tree across the swamp that the dog's foot
runs over? Has he no strength—has the blood gone
out of his heart? Has he no knife—where are the arrow
and the tomahawk? They are here—I have them.
The Yemassee shall not hold me down when I sleep.
Occonestoga sleeps not. He will do battle against the
Yemassee. His knife shall strike at the breast of
Sanutee.”

“Thou hast said a folly, boy—Occonestoga, wouldst
thou strike at thy father?” said the mother, sternly.

“His hatchet shook over the head of Occonestoga
in the lodge of council. He is the enemy of Occonestoga—a
bad thorn in the path, ready for the foot that
flies. I will slay him like a dog. He shall hear the
scalp-song of Occonestoga—I will sing it in his ears,
woman, like a bird that comes with the storm, while I
send the long knife into his heart;” and fiercely, as he
concluded this speech, he chanted a passage of the
famous scalp-song of the Yemassee—

“Ha! thou hearest, Matiwan—this will I sing for
Sanutee when my knee is upon his breast, when my
knife is thick in his heart, when I tear the thin scalp
from his forehead.”

Thus, in a deep, fiercely impressive, but low tone,
Occonestoga poured forth in his mother's ears the
fulness of his paroxysm,—in his madness attributing,
and with correctness, the doom which had been pronounced
against him as coming from his father. In
that fierce and bitter moment he forgot all the ties of
consanguinity, and his look was that of the furious and

fearful savage, already imbruing his hands in parental
blood, which, in his scalp-song, we have heard him
describe. The horror of Matiwan, beyond expression,
could not, however, be kept from utterance:—

“Thou hast drunk madness, boy, from the cup of
Opitchi-Manneyto. The devil of the white man's
prophet has gone into thy heart. But thou art the
child of Matiwan, and, though thou art in a foolish path,
it is thy mother that would save thee. Go—fly, Occonestoga—keep
on thy shoulder the broad arrow of
Yemassee, so that thy mother may not lose thee from
the blessed valley of Manneyto.”

Before the young warrior, somewhat softened by
this speech, could find words to reply to it, his acute
sense—acute enough at all times to savour of a supernatural
faculty—detected an approaching sound; and,
through an opening of the logs in the dwelling, the flare
of a torch was seen approaching. Matiwan, much
more apprehensive, with her anxieties now turned in
a new direction, went quickly to the entrance, and
returning instantly, with great alarm, announced the
approach of Sanutee.

“He comes to the hatchet of Occonestoga,” cried
the youth fiercely, his recent rage re-awakening.

“Wouldst thou slay Matiwan?” was the reply,—and
the look, the tone, the words, were sufficient. The
fierce spirit was quelled, and the youth suffered himself
to follow quietly as she directed. She led him to a
remote corner of the lodge, which, piled up with skins,
furnished a fair chance and promise of security. With
several of these, as he stretched himself at his length,
she contrived to cover him in such a manner as effectually
to conceal him from the casual observer. Having
so done, she strove to resume her composure in time
for the reception of the old chief, whose torch now
blazed at the entrance.