University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

Let us now return to the chamber of Bess Matthews.
She slept not soundly, but unconsciously, and heard
not the distant but approaching cry—“Sangarrah-me
—Sangarrah-me!” The war had begun; and in the
spirit and with the words of Yemassee battle, the thirst
for blood was universal among their warriors. From
the war-dance, blessed by the prophet, stimulated by
his exhortations, and warmed by the blood of their
human sacrifice, they had started upon the war-path in
every direction. The larger division, led on by Sanutee
and the prophet, took their course directly for Charlestown,
while Ishiagaska, heading a smaller party, proceeded
to the frontier settlements upon the Pocota-ligo,
intending massacre along the whole line of the
white borders, including the now flourishing town
of Beaufort. From house to house, with the stealth
of a cat, he led his band to indiscriminate slaughter,
and diverging with this object from one settlement to
another, he continued to reach every dwelling-place of
the whites known to him in that neighbourhood. But
in many he had been foiled. The providential arrangement
of Harrison, wherever, in the brief time
allowed him, he had found it possible, had rendered
their design in great part innocuous throughout that
section, and duly angered with his disappointment, it
was not long before he came to the little cottage of the
pastor. The lights had been all extinguished, and,
save on the eastern side, the dwelling lay in the deepest
shadow. The quiet of the whole scene formed

an admirable contrast to the horrors gathering in perspective,
and about to destroy its sacred and sweet
repose for ever.

With the wonted caution of the Indian, Ishiagaska
led on his band in silence. No sound was permitted
to go before the assault. The war-whoop, with which
they anticipate or accompany the stroke of battle, was
not suffered in the present instance to prepare with a
salutary terror the minds of their destined victims.
Massacre, not battle, was the purpose, and the secret
stratagem of the marauder usurped the fierce habit of
the avowed warrior. Passing from cover to cover, the
wily savage at length approached the cottage with his
party. He stationed them around it, concealed each
under his tree. He alone advanced to the dwelling
with the stealth of a panther. Avoiding the clear
path of the moon, he availed himself, now of one and
now of another shelter—the bush, the tree—whatever
might afford a concealing shadow in his approach;
and where this was wanting, throwing himself flat
upon the ground, he crawled on like a serpent—now
lying snug and immoveable, now taking a new start
and hurrying in his progress, and at last placing himself
successfully alongside of the little white paling
which fenced in the cottage, and ran at a little distance
around it. He parted the thong which secured
the wicket with his knife, ascended the little avenue,
and then, giving ear to every quarter of the dwelling,
and finding all still, proceeded on tiptoe to try the
fastenings of every window. The door he felt was
secure—so was each window in the body of the house
which he at length encompassed, noting every aperture
in it. At length he came to the chamber where Bess
Matthews slept,—a chamber forming one half of the
little shed, or addition to the main dwelling—the other
half being occupied for the same purpose by her
parents. He placed his hand gently upon the shutter,
and with savage joy he felt it yield beneath his touch.

The moment Ishiagaska made this discovery, he
silently retreated to a little distance from the dwelling,

and with a signal which had been agreed upon—the
single and melancholy note of the whip-poor-will, he
gave notice to his band for their approach. Imitating
his previous caution, they came forward individually
to the cottage, and gathering around him, under the
shadow of a neighbouring tree, they duly arranged the
method of surprise.

This done, under the guidance of Ishiagaska, they
again approached the dwelling, and a party having
been stationed at the door in silence, another party
with their leader returned to the window which was
accessible. Lifted quietly upon the shoulders of two
of them, Ishiagaska was at once upon a level with it.
He had already drawn it aside, and by the light of the
moon which streamed into the little apartment, he was
enabled with a single glance to take in its contents.
The half-slumbering girl felt conscious of a sudden
press of air—a rustling sound, and perhaps a darkening
shadow; but the obtrusion was not sufficient to
alarm into action, faculties which had been so very
much unbraced and overborne by previous exertion,
under the exciting thoughts which had so stimulated,
and afterward so frustrated them. She lay motionless,
and the wily savage descended to the floor with all the
velvet-footed stealthiness of design, surveying silently
all the while the reclining and beautiful outline of his
victim's person. And she was beautiful—the ancient
worship might well have chosen such an offering in
sacrifice to his choice demon. Never did her beauty
show forth more exquisitely than now, when murder
stood nigh, ready to blast it for ever, hurrying the sacred
fire of life from the altar of that heart which had
maintained itself so well worthy of the heaven from
whence it came. Ishiagaska looked on, but with no
feeling inconsistent with the previous aim which had
brought him there. The dress had fallen low from
her neck, and in the meek, spiritual light of the moon,
the soft, wavelike heave of the scarce living principle
within her bosom was like that of some blessed thing
susceptible of death, yet at the same time strong in

the possession of the most exquisite developments
of life. Her long tresses hung about her neck, relieving,
but not concealing, its snowy whiteness. One arm
fell over the side of the couch, nerveless, but soft
and snowy as the frostwreath lifted by the capricious
wind. The other lay pressed upon her bosom above
her heart, as if restraining those trying apprehensions
which had formed so large a portion of her prayers
upon retiring. It was a picture for any eye but that
of the savage—a picture softening any mood but that
of the habitual murderer. It worked no change in the
ferocious soul of Ishiagaska. He looked, but without
emotion. Nor did he longer hesitate. Assisting
another of the Indians into the apartment, who passed
at once through it into the hall adjoining, the door of
which he was to unbar for the rest, Ishiagaska now
approached the couch, and drawing his knife from the
sheath, the broad blade was uplifted, shining bright
in the moonbeams, and the inflexible point bore down
upon that sweet, white round, in which all was loveliness,
and where was all of life—the fair bosom, the
pure heart, where the sacred principles of purity
and of vitality had at once their abiding place. With
one hand he lifted aside the long white finger that lay
upon it, and in the next instant the blow was given;
but the pressure of his grasp, and at the same moment
the dazzling light of the moon, directed from the blade
under her very lids, brought instant consciousness to
the maiden. It was an instinct that made her grasp
the uplifted arm with a strength of despairing nature,
not certainly her own. She started with a shriek, and
the change of position accompanying her movement,
and the unlooked-for direction and restraint given to
his arm, when, in that nervous grasp, she seized it, partially
diverted the down-descending weapon of death.
It grazed slightly aside, inflicting a wound of which
at that moment she was perfectly unconscious. Again
she cried out with a convulsive scream, as she saw
him transfer the knife from the one to the other hand.
For a few seconds her struggles were all-powerful, and
kept back for that period of time the fate which had
been so certain. But what could the frail spirit, the
soft hand, the unexercised muscles avail or achieve,
against such an enemy and in such a contest. With
another scream, as of one in a last agony, consciousness
went from her in the conviction of the perfect
fruitlessness of the contest. With a single apostrophe—

“God be merciful—father—Gabriel, save me—Gabriel—Ah!
God, God—he cannot—” her eye closed,
and she lay supine under the knife of the savage.

But the first scream which she uttered had reached
the ears of her father, who had been more sleepless
than herself. The scream of his child had been sufficient
to give renewed activity and life to the limbs of
the aged pastor. Starting from his couch, and seizing
upon a massive club which stood in the corner of his
chamber, he rushed desperately into the apartment of
Bess, and happily in time. Her own resistance had
been sufficient to give pause for this new succour, and
it ceased just when the old man, now made conscious
of the danger, cried aloud in the spirit of his faith,
while striking a blow which, effectually diverting
Ishiagaska from the maiden, compelled him to defend
himself.

“Strike with me, Father of Mercies,” cried the old
Puritan—“strike with thy servant—thou who struck
with David and with Gideon, and who swept thy waters
against Pharaoh—strike with the arm of thy poor instrument.
Make the savage to bite the dust, while I
strike—I slay in thy name, Oh! thou avenger—even
in the name of the Great Jehovah.”

And calling aloud in some such apostrophe upon the
name of the Deity at every effort which he made with
his club, the old pastor gained a temporary advantage
over the savage, who, retreating from his first furious
assault to the opposite side of the couch, enabled him
to place himself alongside of his child. Without
giving himself a moment even to her restoration, with
a paroxysm that really seemed from heaven, he advanced

upon his enemy—the club swinging over his
head with an exhibition of strength that was remarkable
in so old a man. Ishiagaska pressed thus, unwilling
with his knife to venture within its reach, had
recourse to his tomahawk, which hurriedly he threw
at the head of his approaching assailant. But the aim
was wide—the deadly weapon flew into the opposite
wall, and the blow of the club rung upon the head of
the Indian with sufficient effect, first to stagger, and
then to bring him down. This done, the old man
rushed to the window, where two other savages were
labouring to elevate a third to the entrance, and with
another sweep of his mace he defeated their design,
by crushing down the elevated person whose head
and hands were just above the sill of the window.
In their confusion, drawing to the shutter, he securely
bolted it, and then turned with all the aroused affections
of a father to the restoration of his child.

Meanwhile, the Indian who had undertaken to unclose
the main entrance for his companions, ignorant
of the sleeping negro before it, stumbled over him.
July, who, like most negroes suddenly awaking, was
stupid and confused, rose however with a sort of instinct,
and rubbing his eyes with the fingers of one
hand, he stretched out the other to the bar, and without
being at all conscious of what he was doing,
lifted it from its socket. He was soon brought to a
sense of his error, as a troop of half naked savages
rushed through the opening, pushing him aside with a
degree of violence which soon taught him his danger.
He knew now that they were enemies; and with the
uplifted bar still in his hand, he felled the foremost of
those around him—who happened to be the fellow who
first stumbled over him—and rushed bravely enough
among the rest. But the weapon he made use of
was an unwieldy one, and not at all calculated for such
a contest. He was soon taught to discover this, fatally,
when it swung uselessly around, was put aside by
one of the more wily savages, who, adroitly closing in
with the courageous negro, soon brought him to the

ground. In falling, however, he contrived to grapple
with his more powerful enemy, and down in a close
embrace they went together. But the hatchet was in
the hand of the Indian, and a moment after his fall it
crushed into the scull of the negro. Another and
another blow followed, and soon ended the struggle.
While the pulse was still quivering in his heart, and
ere his eyes had yet closed in the swimming convulsions
of death, the negro felt the sharp blade of the
knife sweeping around his head. The conqueror was
about to complete his triumph by taking off the scalp of
his victim, “as ye peel the fig when the fruit is fresh,”
when a light, borne by the half dressed lady of the
pastor, appeared at the door of her chamber, giving
life to the scene of blood and terror going on in the
hall. At the same moment, followed by his daughter,
who vainly entreated him to remain in the chamber,
the pastor rushed headlong forward, wielding the club,
so successful already against one set of enemies, in
contest with another.

“Go not, father—go not,” she cried earnestly, now
fully restored to the acutest consciousness, and clinging
to him passionately all the while.

“Go not, John, I pray you—” implored the old lady,
endeavouring to arrest him. But his impulse, under
all circumstances, was the wisest policy. He could
not hope for safety by hugging his chamber, and a bold
struggle to the last—a fearless heart, ready hand, and
teeth clinched with a fixed purpose—are true reason
when dealing with the avowed enemy. A furious inspiration
seemed to fill his heart as he went forward,
crying aloud—

“I fear not. The buckler of Jehovah is over his
servant. I go under the banner—I fight in the service
of God. Keep me not back, woman—has he not said
—shall I misbelieve—he will protect his servant. He
will strike with the shepherd, and the wolf shall be
smitten from the fold. Avoid thee, savage, avoid thee
—unloose thee from thy prey. The sword of the
Lord and of Gideon!”

Thus saying, he rushed like one inspired upon the
savage whose knife had already swept around the head
of the negro. The scalping of July's head was a more
difficult matter than the Indian had dreamed of, fighting
in the dark. It was only when he laid hands upon it
that he found the difficulty of taking a secure hold.
There was no war-tuft to seize upon, and the wool had
been recently abridged by the judicious scissors. He
had, accordingly, literally, to peel away the scalp by
the flesh itself. The pastor interposed just after he
had begun the operation.

“Avoid thee, thou bloody Philistine—give up thy
prey. The vengeance of the God of David is upon
thee. In his name I strike, I slay.”

As he shouted he struck a headlong, a heavy blow,
which, could it have taken effect, would most probably
have been fatal. But the pastor knew nothing of the
arts of war, and though on his knees over the negro,
and almost under the feet of his new assailant, the
Indian was too “cunning of fence,” too well practised in
strategy, to be overcome in this simple manner. With
a single jerk which completed his labour, he tore the
reeking scalp from the head of the negro, and dropping
his own at the same instant on a level with the floor,
the stroke of the pastor went clean over it; and the
assailant himself, borne forward incontinently by the
ill-advised effort, was hurried stunningly against the
wall of the apartment, and in the thick of his enemies.
In a moment they had him down—the club wrested
from his hands, and exhaustion necessarily following
such prodigious and unaccustomed efforts in so old a
man, he now lay without effort under the knives of his
captors.

With the condition of her father, all fear, all stupor,
passed away instantly from the mind of Bess Matthews.
She rushed forward—she threw herself between them
and their victim, and entreated their knives to her heart
rather than to his. Clasping the legs of the warrior
immediately bestriding the body of the old man, with
all a woman's and a daughter's eloquence, she prayed

for pity. But she spoke to unwilling ears, and to
senses that, scorning any such appeal in their own
cases, looked upon them with sovereign contempt when
made by others. She saw this in the grim smile with
which he heard her apostrophes. His white teeth,
peering out between the dusky lips which enclosed
them, looked to her fears like those of the hungry tiger
gnashing with delight at the banquet of blood at last
spread before it. While yet she spoke, his hand tore
away from her hair a long and glittering ornament
which had confined it—another tore from her neck the
clustering necklace which could not adorn it; and the
vain fancies of the savage immediately appropriated
them as decorations for his own person—her own
head-ornament being stuck most fantastically in the
long, single tuft of hair—the war-tuft, and all that is
left at that period—of him who had seized it. She
saw how much pleasure the bauble imparted, and a
new suggestion of her thought gave her a momentary
hope.

“Spare him—spare his life, and thou shalt have
more—thou shalt have beads, and rings. Look—look,”
—and the jewelled ring from her finger, and another,
a sacred pledge from Harrison, were given into his
grasp. He seized them with avidity.

“Good—good—more!” cried the ferocious but frivolous
savage, in the few words of broken English which
he imperfectly uttered in reply to hers, which he well
understood, for such had been the degree of intimacy
existing between the Yemassees and the settlers, that
but few of the former were entirely ignorant of some
portions of the language of the latter. So far, something
had been gained in pleasing her enemy. She
rushed to the chamber, and hurried forth with a little
casket, containing a locket, and sundry other trifles
commonly found in a lady's cabinet. Her mother, in
the meanwhile, having arranged her dress, hurriedly
came forth also, provided, in like manner, with all such
jewels as seemed most calculated to win the mercy
which they sought. They gave all into his hands,

and, possibly, had he been alone, these concessions
would have saved them,—their lives at least,—for
these, now the spoils of the individual savage to whom
they were given, had they been found in the sack of
the house, must have been common stock with all of
them. But the rest of the band were not disposed for
mercy when they beheld such an appropriation of their
plunder, and while they were pleading with the savage
for the life of the pastor, Ishiagaska, recovered from
the blow which had stunned him, entering the apartment,
immediately changed the prospects of all the
party. He was inflamed to double ferocity by the
stout defence which had been offered where he had
been taught to anticipate so little; and with a fierce
cry, seizing Bess by the long hair which, from the loss
of her comb, now streamed over her shoulders, he waved
the tomahawk in air, bidding his men follow his example
and do execution upon the rest. Another savage,
with the word, seized upon the old lady. These sights
re-aroused the pastor. With a desperate effort he
threw the knee of his enemy from his breast, and was
about to rise, when the stroke of a stick from one of
the captors descended stunningly, but not fatally, and
sent him once more to the ground.

“Father—father!—God of mercy—look, mother!
they have slain him—they have slain my father!” and
she wildly struggled with her captor, but without avail.
There was but a moment now, and she saw the hatchet
descending. That moment was for prayer, but the
terror was too great; for as she beheld the whirling arm
and the wave of the glittering steel, she closed her
eyes, and insensibility came to her relief, while she
sunk down under the feet of the savage—a simultaneous
movement of the Indians placing both of her parents
at the same moment in anticipation of the same awful
destiny.