University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

The “great town” of Pocota-ligo, as it was called
by the Yemassees, was the largest in their occupation.
Its pretensions were few, however, beyond its popu

lation, to rank under that title. It was a simple collection
of scattered villages, united in process of time
by the coalition with new tribes and the natural progress
of increase among them. They had other large
towns, however, nor least among these was that of
Coosaw-hatchie, or the “refuge of the Coosaws,” a
town established by the few of that people who had
survived the overthrow of their nation in a previous
war with the Carolinians. The “city of refuge” was
a safe sanctuary, known among the greater number
of our forest tribes, and not less respected with them
than the same institutions among the Hebrews.[1] The
refuge of the Coosaws, therefore, became recognised
as such by all the Indians, and ranked, though of inferior
size and population, in no respect below the
town of Pocota-ligo. Within its limits—that is to say,
within the circuit of a narrow ditch, which had carefully
prescribed the bounds around it—the murderer
found safety; and the hatchet of his pursuer, and the
club of justice, alike, were to him equally innocuous
while he remained within its protection.

The gray, soft teints of an April dawn had scarcely
yet begun to lighten the dim horizon, when the low
door of an Indian lodge that lay almost entirely imbowered
in the thick forest, about a mile from Pocota-ligo,
was seen to unclose, and a tall warrior to
emerge slowly and in silence from its shelter, followed
by a handsome dog, something of a hound in his gaunt
person, but differing from the same animal in the possession

of a head exceedingly short and compact.
The warrior was armed after the Indian fashion. The
long straight bow, with a bunch of arrows, probably
a dozen in number, suspended by a thong of deerskin,
hung loosely upon his shoulders. His hatchet or
tomahawk, a light weapon introduced by the colonists,
was slightly secured to his waist by a girdle of the
same material. His dress, which fitted tightly to his
person, indicated a frequent intercourse with the
whites; since it had been adapted to the shape of the
wearer, instead of being worn loosely as the bearskin
of preceding ages. Such an alteration in the national
costume was found to accord more readily with the
pursuits of the savage than the flowing garments
which he had worn before. Until this improvement
he had been compelled, in battle or the chase, to
throw aside the cumbrous covering which neutralized
his swiftness, and to exhibit himself in that state of
perfect nudity, scarcely less offensive to the Indians
than to more civilized communities. The warrior before
us had been among the first to avail himself of the
arts of the whites in the improvement of the costume;
and though the various parts of the dress were secured
together by small strings of the deer sinew, passed
rudely through opposite holes, every two having their
distinct tie, yet the imitation had been close enough to
answer all purposes of necessity, and in no way to
destroy the claim of the whites to the originating of
the improvement. He wore a sort of pantaloons, the
seams of which had been permanently secured in this
manner, made of tanned buckskin of the brightest
yellow, and of as tight a fit as the most punctilious
dandy in modern times would insist upon. An upper
garment, also of buckskin, made with more regard
to freedom of limb, and called by the whites a hunting-shirt,
completed the dress. Sometimes, such was
its make, the wearer threw it as a sort of robe
loosely across his shoulders; secured thus with
the broad belt, either of woollen cloth or of the same
material, which usually accompanied the garment.
In the instance of which we speak, it sat upon the
form of the wearer pretty much after the manner of a
modern gentleman's frock. Buskins, or as named
among them, mocquasins, also of the skin of the deer,
tanned, or in its natural state, according to caprice or
emergency, enclosed his feet tightly; and without any
other garment, and entirely free from the profusion of
gaudy ornaments so common to the degraded Indians
of modern times, and of which they seem so extravagantly
fond, the habit of our new acquaintance may
be held complete. Ornament, indeed, of any description,
would certainly have done little, if any thing,
towards the improvement, in appearance, of the individual
before us. His symmetrical person—majestic
port—keen, falcon eye—calm, stern, deliberate expression,
and elevated head—would have been enfeebled,
rather than improved, by the addition of beads
and gauds,—the tinsel and glitter so common to the
savage now. His form was large and justly proportioned.
Stirring event and trying exercise had given
it a confident, free, and manly carriage, which the air
of decision about his eye and mouth admirably tallied
with and supported. He might have been about fifty
years of age; certainly he could not have been less;
though we arrive at this conclusion rather from the
strong, acute, and sagacious expression of his features
than from any mark of feebleness or age. Unlike the
Yemassees generally, who seem to have been of an
elastic and frank temper, the chief—for he is such—
under our view, seemed one, like Cassius, who had
learned to despise all the light employs of life, and
now only lived in the constant meditation of deep
scheme and subtle adventure. He moved and looked
as one with a mind filled to overflowing with restless
thought, whose spirit, crowded with impetuous
feelings, kept up constant warfare with the more deliberate
and controlling reason.

Thus appearing, and followed closely by his dog,
advancing from the shelter of his wigwam, he drew
tightly the belt about his waist, and feeling carefully

the string of his bow, as if to satisfy himself that it
was unfrayed and could be depended upon, prepared
to go forth into the forest. He had proceeded but a
little distance, however, when, as if suddenly recollecting
something he had forgotten, he returned hurriedly
to the dwelling, and tapping lightly upon the
door which had been closed upon his departure,
spoke as follows to some one within:—

“The knife, Matiwan, the knife.”

He was answered in a moment by a female voice;
the speaker, an instant after, unclosing the door and
handing him the instrument he required—the long
knife, something like the modern case-knife, which, introduced
by the whites, had been at once adopted by
the Indians, as of all other things that most necessary
to the various wants of the hunter. Sometimes the
name of the Long Knife was conferred by the Indians,
in a complimentary sense, upon the English, in due
acknowledgment of the importance of their gift. Protected,
usually, as in the present instance, by a leathern
sheath, it seldom or never left the person of its
owner. The chief received the knife, and placed it
along with the tomahawk in the belt around his waist.
He was about to turn away, when the woman, but a
glimpse of whose dusky but gentle features and dark
eyes, appeared through the half-closed door, addressed
him in a sentence of inquiry, in their own language,
only remarkable for the deep respectfulness of its
tone.

“Sanutee,—the chief, will he not come back with
the night?”

“He will come, Matiwan—he will come. But the
lodge of the white man is in the old house of the deer,
and the swift-foot steals off from the clear water where
he once used to drink. The white man grinds his corn
with the waters, and the deer is afraid of the noise.
Sanutee will hunt for him in the far swamps—and the
night will be dark before he comes back to Matiwan.”

“Sanutee—chief,” she again spoke in a faltering
accent, as if to prepare the way for something else,

of the success of which she seemed more doubtful;
but she paused without finishing the sentence.

“Sanutee has ears, Matiwan—ears always for
Matiwan,” was the encouraging response, in a manner
and tone well calculated to confirm the confidence
which the language was intended to inspire. Half
faltering still, she however proceeded:—

“The boy, Sanutee—the boy, Occonestoga—”

He interrupted her, almost fiercely.

“Occonestoga is a dog, Matiwan; he hunts the slaves
of the English in the swamp, for strong drink. He
is a slave himself—he has ears for their lies—he believes
in their forked tongues, and he has two voices
for his own people. Let him not look into the lodge of
Sanutee. Is not Sanutee the chief of the Yemassee?”

“Sanutee is the great chief. But Occonestoga is
the son of Sanutee—”

“Sanutee has no son—”

“But Matiwan, Sanutee—”

“Matiwan is the woman who has lain in the bosom
of Sanutee; she has dressed the venison for Sanutee
when the great chiefs of the Charriquees[2] sat at his
board. Sanutee hides it not under his tongue. The
Yemassees speak for Matiwan—she is the wife of
Sanutee.”

“And mother of Occonestoga,” exclaimed the woman,
hurriedly.

“No! Matiwan must not be the mother to a dog.
Occonestoga goes with the English to bite the heels
of the Yemassee.”

“Is not Occonestoga a chief of Yemassee?” asked
the woman.

“Ha! look, Matiwan—the great Manneyto has bad
spirits that hate him. They go forth and they fear
him, but they hate him. Is not Opitchi-Manneyto[3] a
bad spirit?”

“Sanutee says.”

“But Opitchi-Manneyto works for the good spirit.
He works, but his heart is bad—he loves not the
work, but he fears the thunder. Occonestoga is the
bad servant of Yemassee: he shall hear the thunder,
and the lightning shall flash in his path. Go, Matiwan,
thou art not the mother of a dog. Go—Sanutee will
come back with the night.”

The eye of the woman was suffused and full of
appeal, as the chief turned away sternly, in a manner
which seemed to forbid all other speech. She watched
him silently as he withdrew, until he was hidden from
sight by the interposing forest, then sunk back sorrowfully
into the lodge to grieve over the excesses of an
only son, exiled by a justly incensed father from the
abode of which he had been the blessing and the
pride.

Sanutee, in the meanwhile, pursued his way silently
through a narrow by-path, leading to the town of Pocota-ligo,
which he reached after a brief period. The
town lay in as much quiet as the isolated dwelling he
had left. The sun had not yet arisen, and the scattered
dwellings, built low and without closeness or
order, were partly obscured from sight by the untrimmed
trees, almost in the original forest, which shut
them in. A dog, not unlike his own, growled at him
as he approached one of the more conspicuous dwellings,
and this was the only sound disturbing the general
silence. He struck quickly at the door, and inquired
briefly—

“Ishiagaska—he will go with Sanutee.”

A boy came at the sound, and in reply, pointing to
the woods, gave him to understand—while one hand
played with the handle of the chief's knife, which he
continued to draw from and thrust back into its sheath,
without interruption from the wearer—that his father
had already gone forth. Without further pause or inquiry,
Sanutee turned, and taking his way through the
body of the town, soon gained the river. Singling
forth a canoe, hollowed out from a cypress, and which
lay with an hundred others drawn up upon the miry

bank, he succeeded with little exertion in launching it
forth into the water, and taking his place upon a seat
fixed in the centre, followed by his dog, with a small
scull or flap-oar, which he transferred with wonderful
dexterity from one hand to the other as he desired to
regulate his course, he paddled himself directly across
the river, though then somewhat swollen and impetuous
from a recent and heavy freshet. Carefully concealing
his canoe in a clustering shelter of sedge and
cane, which grew along the banks, he took his way,
still closely followed by his faithful dog, into the
bosom of a forest much more dense than that which
he had left, and which promised a better prospect of
the game which he desired.