University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Let us somewhat retrace our steps, and go back to
the time, when, made a prisoner in the camp of the
Yemassees, Harrison was borne away to Pocota-ligo,
a destined victim for the sacrifice to their god of victory.
Having left him, as they thought, secure, the
war-party, consisting, as already described, of detachments
from a number of independent, though neighbouring
nations, proceeded to scatter themselves over the
country. In small bodies, they ran from dwelling to
dwelling with the utmost rapidity—in this manner, by
simultaneous attacks, everywhere preventing any thing
like union or organization among the borderers. One
or two larger parties were designed for higher enterprises,
and without permitting themselves to be drawn
aside to these smaller matters, pursued their object
with Indian inflexibility. These had for their object
the surprise of the towns and villages; and so great
had been their preparations, so well conducted their

whole plan of warfare, that six thousand warriors had
been thus got together, and, burning and slaying, they
had made their way, in the progress of this insurrection,
to the very gates of Charlestown—the chief,
indeed the only town, of any size or strength, in the
colony. But this belongs not to the narrative immediately
before us.

Two parties of some force took the direction given
to our story, and making their way along the river
Pocota-ligo, diverging for a few miles on the European
side, had, in this manner, assailed every dwelling and
settlement in their way to the Block House. One of
these parties was commanded by Chorley, who, in addition
to his seamen, was intrusted with the charge of
twenty Indians. Equally savage with the party which
he commanded, the path of this rusian was traced in
blood. He offered no obstacle to the sanguinary indulgence,
on the part of the Indians, of their habitual
fury in war; but rather stimulated their ferocity by
the indulgence of his own. Unaccustomed, however,
to a march through the forests, the progress of the
seamen was not so rapid as that of the other party
despatched on the same route; and many of the dwellings,
therefore, had been surprised and sacked some
time before the sailor commander could make his appearance.
The Indian leader who went before him
was Ishiagaska, one of the most renowned warriors of
the nation. He, indeed, was one of those who, making
a journey to St. Augustine, had first been seduced
by the persuasions of the Spanish governor of that
station—a station denounced by the early Carolinians,
from the perpetual forays upon their borders, by land
and sea, issuing from that quarter—as another Sallee.
He had sworn fidelity to the King of Spain while
there, and from that point had been persuaded to visit
the neighbouring tribes of the Creek, Apalatchie,
Euchee, and Cherokee Indians, with the war-belt, and
a proposition of a common league against the English
settlements—a proposition greedily accepted, when
coming with innumerable presents of hatchets, knives,

nails, and gaudy dresses, furnished by the Spaniards,
who well knew how to tempt and work upon the appetites
and imagination of the savages. Laden with
similar presents, the chief had returned home, and with
successful industry had succeeded, as we have seen,
aided by Sanutee, in bringing many of his people to a
similar way of thinking with himself. The frequent
aggressions of the whites, the cheats practised by some
of their traders, and other circumstances, had strongly
co-operated to the desired end; and with his desire
satisfied, Ishiagaska now headed one of the parties
destined to carry the war to Port Royal Island, sweeping
the track of the Pocota-ligo settlements in his
progress, and at length uniting with the main party of
Sanutee before Charlestown.

He was not slow in the performance of his mission;
but, fortunately for the English, warned by the counsels
of Harrison, the greater number had taken timely
shelter in the Block House, and left but their empty
dwellings to the fury of their invaders. Still, there
were many not so fortunate; and plying their way
from house to house in their progress, with all the
stealth and silence of the eat, the Indians drove their
tomahawk into many of the defenceless cotters who
came imprudently to the door in recognition of the
conciliating demand which they made for admission.
Once in possession, their aim was indiscriminate
slaughter, and one bed of death not unfrequently comprised
the forms of an entire family—husband, wife,
and children. Sometimes they fired the dwelling into
which caution denied them entrance, and as the inmates
fled from the flames, stood in watch and shot them down
with their arrows. In this way, sparing none, whether
young or old, male or female, the band led on by Ishiagaska
appeared at length at the dwelling of the pastor.
Relying upon his reputation with the Indians, and indeed
unapprehensive of any commotion, for he knew nothing
of their arts of deception, we have seen him steadily
skeptical, and almost rudely indifferent to the advice
of Harrison. Regarding the cavalier in a light somewhat

equivocal, it is more than probable that the
source of the counsel was indeed the chief obstacle,
with him, in the way of its adoption. Be that as it
may, he stubbornly held out in his determination to
abide where he was, though somewhat staggered in
his confidence, when, in their flight from their own
more exposed situation to the shelter of the Block
House, under Harrison's counsel, the old dame Grayson,
with her elder son, stopped at his dwelling. He
assisted the ancient lady to alight from her horse, and
helped her into the house for refreshments, while her
son busied himself with the animal.

“Why, what's the matter, dame? What brings you
forth at this late season? To my mind, at your time
of life, the bed would be the best place, certainly,”
was the address of the pastor as he handed her some
refreshment.

“Oh, sure, parson, and its a hard thing for such as
me to be riding about the country on horseback at any
time, much less at night—though to be sure Watty
kept close to the bridle of the creature, which you
see is a fine one, and goes like a cradle.”

“Well, but what brings you out?—you have not told
me that, yet. Something of great moment, doubtless.”

“What, you haven't heard? Hasn't the captain
told you? Well, that's strange! I thought you'd be
one of the first to hear it all,—seeing that all say he
thinks of nobody half so much as of your young lady
there. Ah! my dear—well, you needn't blush now,
nor look down, for he's a main fine fellow, and you
couldn't find a better in a long day's journey.”

The pastor looked grave, while the old dame, whose
tongue always received a new impulse when she met
her neighbours, ran on in the most annoying manner.
She stopped at last, and though very readily conjecturing
now the occasion of her flight, he did not conceive
it improper to renew his question.

“Well, as I said, it's all owing to the captain's advice—Captain
Harrison, you know—a sweet gentleman
that, as ever lived. He it was—he came to me

this morning, and he went to all the neighbours, and
looked so serious—you know he don't often look serious
—but he looked so serious as he told us all about the
savages—the Yemassees, and the Coosaws—how they
were thinking to rise and tomahawk us all in our beds;
and then he offered to lend me his horse, seeing I had
no creature, and it was so good of him—for he knew
how feeble I was, and his animal is so gentle and easy.”

“And so, with this wild story, he has made you
travel over the country by night, when you should
be in your bed. It is too bad—this young man
takes quite too many liberties.”

“Why, how now, parson—what's the to-do betwixt
you and the captain?” asked the old lady in astonishment.

“None—nothing of any moment,” was the grave
reply. “I only think that he is amusing himself at
our expense, with a levity most improper, by alarming
the country.”

“My!—and you think the Indians don't mean to
attack and tomahawk us in our beds?”

“That is my opinion, dame—I see no reason why
they should. It is true, they have had some difficulties
with the traders of late, but they have been civil to us.
One or more have been here every day during the
last week, and they seemed then as peaceably disposed
as ever. They have listened with much patience to
my poor exhortations, and, I flatter myself, with profit
to their souls and understandings. I have no apprehensions
myself; though, had it been left to Bess and
her mother, like you, we should have been all riding
through the woods to the Block House, with the pleasure
of riding back in the morning.”

“Bless me! how you talk—well, I never thought
to hear so badly of the captain. He did seem so
good a gentleman, and was so sweetly spoken.”

“Don't mistake me, dame,—I have said nothing unfavourable
to the character of the gentleman—nothing
bad of him. I know little about him, and this is one
chief objection which I entertain to a greater intimacy.

Another objection is that wild and indecorous levity, of
which he never seems to divest himself, and which I
think has given you to-night a fatiguing and unnecessary
ramble.”

“Well, if you think so, I don't care to go farther,
for I don't expect to be at all comfortable in the Block
House. So, if you can make me up a truck here—”

“Surely, dame,—Bess, my dear—”

But the proposed arrangement was interrupted by
Walter Grayson, who just then appeared, and who
stoutly protested against his mother's stopping short of
the original place of destination. The elder Grayson
was a great advocate for Captain Harrison, who imbodied
all his ideal of what was worthy and magnificent,
in whom his faith was implicit—and he did
not scruple to dilate with praiseworthy eloquence upon
the scandal of such a proceeding as that proposed.

“You must not think of it, mother. How will it
look? Besides, I'm sure the captain knows what's
right, and wouldn't say what was not certain. It's
only a mile and a bit—and when you can make sure,
you must not stop short.”

“But, Watty, boy—the parson says it's only the
captain's fun, and we'll only have to take a longer ride
in the morning if we go on further to-night.”

The son looked scowlingly upon the pastor, as he
responded:—

“Well, perhaps the parson knows better than any
body else; but give me the opinion of those whose business
it is to know. Now, I believe in the captain
whenever fighting's going on, and I believe in the parson
whenever preaching's going on—so as it's fighting
and not preaching now, I don't care who knows it, but
I believe in the captain, and I won't believe in the
parson. If it was preaching and not fighting, the parson
should be my man.”

“Now, Watty, don't be disrespectful. I'm sure the
parson must be right, and so I think we had all better
stay here when there's no use in going.”

“Well now, mother, I'm sure the parson's wrong,

and if you stay, it will only be to be tomahawked and
scalped.”

“Why alarm your mother with such language, young
man? You are deceived—the Yemassees were never
more peaceable than they are at present”—Matthews
here broke in, but commanded little consideration from
the son, and almost provoked a harsh retort:—

“I say, Parson Matthews—one man knows one thing,
and another man another—but, curse me, if I believe
in the man that pretends to know every thing. Now
fighting's the business, the very trade as I may say of
Captain Harrison, of the Foresters, and I can tell you,
if it will do you any good to hear, that he knows better
how to handle these red-skins than any man in Granville
county, let the other man come from whatever
quarter he may. Now preaching's your trade, though
you can't do much at it, I think; yet, as it is your trade,
nobody has a right to meddle—it's your business, not
mine. But, I say, parson—I don't think it looks altogether
respectful to try and undo, behind his back, the
trade of another; and I think it little better than backbiting
for any one to speak disreputably of the captain,
just when he's gone into the very heart of the nation,
to see what we are to expect, and all for our benefit.”

Grayson was mightily indignant, and spoke his mind
freely. The parson frowned and winced at the rather
novel and nowise sparing commentary, but could say
nothing precisely to the point beyond what he had said
already. Preaching, and not fighting, was certainly
his profession; and, to say the least of it, the previous
labours of Harrison among the Indians, his success,
and knowledge of their habits and character, justified
the degree of confidence in his judgment, upon which
Grayson so loudly insisted, and which old Matthews
so sturdily withheld. A new speaker now came forward,
however, in the person of Bess Matthews, who,
without the slightest shrinking, advancing from the side
of her mother, thus addressed the last speaker:—

“Where, Master Grayson, did you say Captain Harrison
had gone?”

“Ah, Miss Betsey, I'm glad to see you. But you
may well ask, for it's wonderful to me how any body
can undervalue a noble gentleman just at the very time
he's doing the best, and risking his own life for us all.
Who knows but just at this moment the Yemassees
are scalping him in Pocota-ligo, for its there he is gone
to see what we may expect.”

“You do not speak certainly, Master Grayson—it is
only your conjecture?” was her inquiry, while the lip
of the maiden trembled, and the colour fled hurriedly
from her cheek.

“Ay, but I do, Miss Betsey, for I put him across the
river myself, and it was then he lent me the horse for
mother. Yes, there he is, and nobody knows in what
difficulty—for my part, I'm vexed to the soul to hear
people running down the man that's doing for them
what they can't do for themselves, and all only for the
good-will of the thing, and not for any pay.”

“Nobody runs down your friend, Mr. Grayson.”

“Just the same thing—but you may talk as you think
proper; and if you don't choose to go, you may stay.
I don't want to have any of mine scalped, and so,
mother, let us be off.”

The old woman half hesitated, and seemed rather
inclined once more to change her decision and go with
her son, but happening to detect a smile upon the lips
of the pastor, she grew more obstinate than ever, and
peremptorily declared her determination to stay where
she was. Grayson seemed perfectly bewildered, and
knew not what to say. What he did say seemed
only to have the effect of making her more dogged in
her opposition than ever, and he was beginning to despair
of success, when an influential auxiliary appeared
in the person of his younger brother. To him the elder
instantly appealed, and a close observer might have
detected another change in the countenance of the old
dame at the approach of her younger son. The features
grew more feminine, and there was an expression
of conscious dependance in the lines of her cheek and
the half parted lips, which necessarily grew out of the

greater love which she bore to the one over the other
child.

“And what do you say, Hughey, my son?” inquired
the old dame, affectionately.

“What have I said, mother?” was the brief response.

“And we must go to the Block House, Hughey?”

“Did we not set out to go there?”

“But the parson thinks there is no danger, Hughey.”

“That is, doubtless, what he thinks. There are
others having quite as much experience, who think
there is danger, and as you have come so far, it will
not be much additional trouble to go farther and to a
place of safety. Remember my father—he thought
there was no danger, and he was scalped for it.”

The young man spoke gravely and without hesitation,
but with a manner the most respectful. His words
were conclusive with his mother, whose jewel he unquestionably
was, and his last reference was unnecessary.
Drawing the strings of her hat, with a half
suppressed sigh, she prepared to leave a circle somewhat
larger and consequently somewhat more cheerful
than that to which she had been accustomed. In the
meantime, a little by-play had been going on between
the elder brother and Bess Matthews, whose apprehensions,
but poorly concealed, had been brought into
acute activity on hearing of the precarious adventure
which her lover had undertaken. This dialogue,
however, was soon broken by the departure of Dame
Grayson, attended by her elder son, the younger remaining
behind, much against the desire of the anxious
mother, though promising soon to follow. Their departure
was succeeded by a few moments of profound
and somewhat painful silence, for which each of the
parties had a particular reason. The pastor, though
obstinately bent not to take the counsel given by Harrison,
was yet not entirely satisfied with his determination;
and the probability is, that a single circumstance
occurring at that time, so as to furnish a
corresponding authority from another, might have
brought about a change in his decision. His lady was

a taciturn body, who said little then, but looked much
discontent; and Bess, who was too much absorbed
with the voluntary exposure of her lover to the ferocity
of those whom he esteemed enemies, kept her thoughts
entirely from the subject of their late discussion.
Young Grayson, too, had his peculiar cause of disquiet,
and, with a warm passion, active yet denied, in his
heart—and a fierce mood for ambition, kept within
those limits which prescription and social artifice so
frequently wind, as with the coil of the constrictor,
around the lofty mind and the upsoaring spirit, keeping
it down to earth, and chaining it in a bondage as degrading
as it is unnatural—he felt in no humour to break
through the restraints which fettered the goodly company
about him. Still, the effort seemed properly
demanded of him, and referring to the common movement,
he commenced the conversation by regretting,
with a commonplace phraseology, the prospect held
forth, so injurious to the settlement by any approaching
tumult among the Indians. The old pastor
fortified his decision not to remove, by repeating his
old confidence in their quiet:—

“The Indians,” said he, “have been and are quiet
enough. We have no reason to anticipate assault now.
It is true, they have the feelings of men, and as they
have been injured by some of our traders, and perhaps
by some of our borderers, they may have cause of
complaint, and a few of them may even be desirous
of revenge. This is but natural. But, if this were
the general feeling, we should have seen its proofs
before now. They would seek it in individual enterprises,
and would strike and slay those who wronged
them. Generally speaking, they have nothing to complain
of; for, since that excellent man, Charles Craven,
has been governor, he has been their friend, even in
spite of the assembly, who, to say truth, have been nowise
sparing of injustice wherever the savage has been
concerned. Again, I say, I see not why we should
apprehend danger from the Yemassees at this moment.”

As if himself satisfied with the force of what he had

said, the pastor threw himself back in his chair, and
closed his eyes and crossed his hands in that starched
and canting manner, quite too common among a class
of professional worshippers, and in which self-complaisance
makes up quite as much of the feature as
sincerity of devotion. Grayson replied briefly:—

“Yet there are some evidences which should not
be disregarded. Sanutee, notoriously friendly as he
has been to us, no longer visits us—he keeps carefully
away, and when seen, his manner is restrained, and
his language any thing but cordial. Ishiagaska, too,
has been to St. Augustine, brought home large presents
for himself and other of the chiefs, and has paid a visit
to the Creeks, the Apalatchies, and other tribes—
besides bringing home with him Chigilli, the celebrated
Creek war-chief, who has been among the Yemassees
ever since. Now, to say the least of it, there is much
that calls for attention in the simple intercourse of
foes so inveterate hitherto as the Spaniards and Yemassees.
Greater foes have not often been known,
and this new friendship is therefore the more remarkable;
conclusive, indeed, when we consider the coldness
of the Yemassees towards us just as they have
contracted this new acquaintance; the fury with which
they revolutionized the nation, upon the late treaty for
their lands, and the great difficulty which Sanutee had
in restraining them from putting our commissioners to
death.”

“Ah, that was a bad business, but the fault was on
our side. Our assembly would inveigle with the
young chiefs, and bribe them against the will of the
old, though Governor Craven told them what they
might expect, and warned them against the measure.
I have seen his fine letter to the assembly on that very
point.”

“We differ, Mr. Matthews, about the propriety of
the measure, for it is utterly impossible that the whites
and Indians should ever live together and agree. The
nature of things is against it, and the very difference
between the two, that of colour, perceptible to our

most ready sentinel, the sight, must always constitute
them an inferior caste in our minds. Apart from this,
an obvious superiority in arts and education must soon
force upon them the consciousness of their inferiority.
When this relationship is considered, in connexion
with the uncertainty of their resources and means of
life, it will be seen that, after a while, they must not
only be inferior, but they must become dependant.
When this happens, and it will happen with the diminution
of their hunting lands, circumscribed, daily,
more and more, as they are by our approaches, they
must become degraded and sink into slavery and destitution.
A few of them have become so now, and
one chief cause of complaint among the Yemassees,
is the employment by our people of several of their
warriors to carry messages and hunt our runaway
slaves—both of them employments, which their own
sense readily informs them, are necessarily degrading
to their character, and calculated to make them a nation
of mercenaries. To my mind, the best thing we
can do for them is to send them as far as possible from
contact with our people.”

“What! and deny them all the benefits of our
blessed religion?”

“By no means, sir. The old apostles would have
gone along with, or after them. Unless the vocation
of the preacher be very much changed in times present
from times past, they will not, therefore, be denied
any of the benefits of religious education.”

The answer somewhat silenced the direction of our
pastor's discourse, who, though a very well meaning,
was yet a very sleek and highly providential person;
and, while his wits furnished no ready answer to this
suggestion, he was yet not prepared himself for an
utter remove from all contact with civilization, and the
good things known to the economy of a Christian
kitchen. As he said nothing in reply, Grayson proceeded
thus:—

“There is yet another circumstance upon which
I have made no remark, yet which seems important

at this moment of doubt, and possibly of danger. This
guarda costa, lying in the river for so many days,
without any intercourse with our people, and seemingly
with no object, is at least singular. She is evidently
Spanish; and the report is, that on her way, she
was seen to put into every inlet along the coast—every
bay and creek along the rivers—and here we find her,
not coming to the shore, but moored in the stream,
ready to cut cable and run at a moment. What can be
her object?”

“You have been at some pains, Master Hugh
Grayson, I see, to get evidence; but so far as this vessel
or guarda costa is concerned, I think I may venture
to say she is harmless. As to her putting into this
creek or that, I can say nothing—she may have done
so, and it is very probable, for she comes especially
to get furs and skins from the Indians. I know her
captain—at least I knew him when a boy—a wild
youth from my own county—who took to the sea for the
mere love of roving. He was wild, and perhaps a
little vicious, when young, and may be so now; but I
have his own word that his object is trade with the
Indians for furs and skins, as I have told you.”

“And why not with the whites for furs and skins?
No, sir! He needs no furs, and of this I have evidence
enough. I had a fine parcel, which I preferred
rather to sell on the spot than send to Charlestown,
but he refused to buy from me on the most idle pretence.
This, more than any thing else, makes me
doubt; and, in his refusal, I feel assured there is more
than we know of. Like yourself, I have been slow to
give car to these apprehensions, yet they have forced
themselves upon me, and precaution is surely better,
even though at some trouble, when safety is the object.
My brother, from whom I have several facts of this
kind within the last hour, is himself acquainted with
much in the conduct of the Indians, calculated to
create suspicion, and from Captain Harrison he gets
the rest.”

“Ay, Harrison again—no evidence is good without

him. He is everywhere, and with him a good jest is
authority enough at any time.”

“I love him not, sir, any more than yourself,” said
Grayson, gloomily; “but there is reason in what he
tells us now.”

“Father!” said Bess, coming forward, and putting
her hand tenderly on the old man's shoulder—“hear
to Master Grayson—he speaks for the best. Let us
go to the Block, only for the night, or at most two or
three nights—for Gabriel said the danger would be
soon over.”

“Go to, girl, and be not foolish. Remember, too, to
speak of gentlemen by their names in full, with a
master before them, or such as the law or usage gives
them. Go!”

The manner in which Harrison had been referred to
by the daughter, offended Grayson not less than it did
her father, and, though now well satisfied of the position
in which the parties stood, he could not prevent
the muscles of his brow contracting sternly, and his
eyes bending down sullenly upon her. The old lady
now put in:—

“Really, John, you are too obstinate. Here are all
against you, and there is so little trouble, and there
may be so much risk. You may repent when it is too
late.”

“You will have something then to scold about,
dame, and therefore should not complain. But all
this is exceedingly childish, and you will do me the
favour, Master Grayson, to discourse of other things,
since, as I see not any necessity to fly from those
who have been friends always, I shall, for this good
night at least, remain just where I am. For you,
wife, and you, Bess, if you will leave me, you are both
at liberty to go.”

“Leave you, father,” exclaimed Bess, sinking on
one knee by the old man's side—“speak not unkindly.
I will stay, and if there be danger, will freely share it
with you, in whatever form it may chance to come.”

“You are a good girl, Bess—a little timid, perhaps,

but time will cure you of that,” and patting her on the
head, the old man rose, and took his way from the
house into his cottage enclosure. Some household
duties at the same moment demanding the consideration
of the old lady in another room, she left the
young people alone together.