University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

The blow was stayed—the death, deemed inevitable,
was averted—the captives lived. The descending arm
was arrested—the weapon thrown aside, and a voice
of authority, at the most interesting juncture in the lives
of the prisoners, interposed for their safety. The new
comer was Chorley, the captain of the pirate, heading
his troop of marines, and a small additional force of
Indians. He was quite as much rejoiced as the captives,
that he came in time for their relief. It was not
here his policy to appear the man of blood, or to destroy,
though mercilessly destructive wherever he appeared
before. There were in the present instance many reasons
to restrain him. The feeling of “auld lang syne”
alone might have had its effect upon his mood; and,
though not sufficiently potent, perhaps, for purposes of
pity in a bosom otherwise so pitiless, yet, strengthened
by a passion for the person of Bess Matthews, it
availed happily to save the little family of the pastor.
Their safety, indeed, had been his object, and he had
hurried towards their dwelling with the first signal of
war, as he well knew the dangers to which they would
be exposed, should he not arrive in season, from the
indiscriminate fury of the savages. But the circuitous
route which he had been compelled to take, together
with the difficulties of the forest to sailors, to whom a
march through the tangled woods was something unusual,
left him considerably behind the party led on by
Ishiagaska. Arriving in time to save, however, Chorley
was not displeased that he had been delayed so
long. There was a merit in his appearance at a moment

so perilous, which promised him advantages he
had not contemplated before. He could now urge a
claim to the gratitude of the maiden, for her own and
the safety of her parents, upon which he built strongly
in his desire to secure her person, if not her heart. This,
at least, under all circumstances, he had certainly determined
upon.

He came at the last moment, but he came in time.
He was well fitted for such a time, for he was bold and
decisive. With a muscle of iron he grasped the arm
of the savage, and thrust him back from his more delicate
victim, while, with a voice of thunder, sustained
admirably by the close proximity of the muskets borne
by the marines, he commanded the savages to yield
their prisoners. A spear-thrust from one of his men
enforced the command, which was otherwise disregarded
in the case of the Indian bestriding Mr. Matthews,
and the old pastor stood once more erect. But
Ishiagaska, the first surprise being over, was not so
disposed to yield his captives.

“Will the white brother take the scalps from Ishiagaska?
Where was the white brother when Ishiagaska
was here? He was on the blind path in the woods—
I heard him cry like the lost child for the scouts of
Ishiagaska. It was Ishiagaska who crept into the
wigwam of the white prophet—look! The white
prophet can strike—the mark of his club is on the
head of a great chief—but not to slay. Ishiagaska has
won the English—they are the slaves of the Yemassee
—he can take their scalps—he can drink their blood—
he can tear out their hearts!”

“I'll be damned if he does, though, while I am here.
Fear not, Matthews, old boy—and you, my beauty
bird—have no fear. You are all safe—he takes my
life before he puts hands on you, by Santiago, as the
Spaniards swear. Hark ye, Ishiagaska—do you understand
what I say?”

“The Yemassee has ears for his brother—let him
speak,” replied the chief, sullenly.

“That means that you understand me, I suppose—

though it doesn't say so exactly. Well, then—listen.
I'll take care of these prisoners, and account for them
to the Governor of Saint Augustine.”

“The white prophet and the women are for Ishiagaska.
Let our brother take his own scalps. Ishiagaska
strikes not for the Spaniard—he is a warrior of
Yemassee.”

“Well, then, I will account to your people for them,
but they are my prisoners now.”

“Is not Ishiagaska a chief of the Yemassees—shall
the stranger speak for him to his people? Our white
brother is like a cunning bird that is lazy. He looks
out from the tree all day, and when the other bird
catches the green fly, he steals it out of his teeth.
Ishiagaska catches no fly for the teeth of the stranger.”

“Well, as you please; but, by God, you may give
them up civilly or not! They are mine now, and you
may better yourself as you can.”

The brow of the Indian, stormy enough before, put
on new terrors, and without a word he rushed fiercely
at the throat of the sailor, driving forward one hand for
that purpose, while the other aimed a blow at his head
with his hatchet. But the sailor was sufficiently
familiar with Indian warfare, not less than war of most
other kinds, and seemed to have anticipated some
such assault. His readiness in defence was fully
equal to the suddenness of the assault. He adroitly
evaded the direct attack, bore back the erring weapon
with a stroke that sent it wide from the owner's hand,
and grasping him by the throat, waved him to and fro
as an infant in the grasp of a giant. The followers of
the chief, not discouraged by this evidence of superiority,
or by the greater number of seamen with their
white ally, rushed forward to his rescue, and the probability
is that the affair would have been one of mixed
massacre but for the coolness of Chorley.

“Men—each his man! short work, as I order.
Drop muskets, and close handsomely.”

The order was obeyed with promptitude, and the

Indians were belted in, as by a hoop of iron, without
room to lift a hatchet or brandish a knife, while each
of the whites had singled out an enemy, at whose
breast a pistol was presented. The sailor captain in
the meanwhile appropriated Ishiagaska to himself,
and closely encircled him with one powerful arm,
while the muzzle of his pistol rested upon the Indian's
head. But the affair was suffered to proceed no further,
in this way, by him who had now the chief management.
The Indians were awed, and though they
still held out a sullen attitude of defiance, Chorley,
whose desire was that control of the savages without
which he could hope to do nothing, was satisfied
of the adequacy of what he had done towards his object.
Releasing his own captive, therefore, with a
stentorian laugh, he addressed Ishiagaska:—

“That's the way, chief, to deal with the enemy.
But we are no enemies of yours, and have had fun
enough.”

“It is fun for our white brother,” was the stern and
dry response.

“Ay, what else—devilish good fun, I say—though,
to be sure, you did not seem to think so. But I suppose
I am to have the prisoners.”

“If our brother asks with his tongue, we say no—
if he asks with his teeth, we say yes.”

“Well, I care not, damn my splinters, Ishy—
whether you answer to tongue or teeth, so that you
answer as I want you. I'm glad now that you speak
what is reasonable.”

“Will our brother take the white prophet and the
women, and give nothing to the Yemassee? The
English buy from the Yemassee, and the Yemassee
gets when he gives.”

“Ay, I see—you have learned to trade, and know
how to drive a bargain. But you forget, chief, you
have had all in the house.”

“Good—and the prisoners—they are scalps for
Ishiagaska. But our brother would have them for
himself, and will give his small gun for them.”

The offer to exchange the captives for the pistol in
his hand, caused a momentary hesitation in the mind
of the pirate. He saw the lurking malignity in the
eye of the savage, and gazed fixedly upon him, then,
suddenly seeming to determine, he exclaimed,—

“Well, it's a bargain. The captives are mine, and
here's the pistol.”

Scarcely had the weapon been placed in the hands
of the wily savage, than he hastily thrust it at the head
of the pirate, and crying aloud to his followers, who
echoed it lustily “Sangarrah-me—Yemassee,” he
drew the trigger. A loud laugh from Chorley was all
the response that followed. He had seen enough of
the Indian character to have anticipated the result of
the exchange just made, and gave him a pistol therefore
which had a little before been discharged. The
innocuous effort upon his life, accordingly, had been
looked for; and having made it, the Indian, whose
pride of character had been deeply mortified by the
indignity to which the sport of Chorley had just subjected
him, folded his arms patiently as if in waiting
for his death. This must have followed but for the
ready and almost convulsive laugh of the pirate; for
his seamen, provoked to fury by the attempt, would
otherwise undoubtedly have cut them all to pieces.
The ready laugh, however, so unlooked-for—so seemingly
out of place—kept them still; and, as much surprised
as the Indians, they remained as stationary too.
A slap upon the shoulder from the heavy hand of the
seaman aroused Ishiagaska with a start.

“How now, my red brother—didst thou think I
could be killed by such as thee? Go to—thou art a
child—a little boy. The shot can't touch me—the
sword can't cut—the knife can't stick—I have a charm
from the prophet of the Spaniards. I bought it and
a good wind, with a link of this blessed chain, and have
had no reason to repent my bargain. Those are the
priests, friend Matthews—now you don't pretend to
such a trade. What good can your preaching do to

sailors or soldiers, when we can get such bargains for
so little?”

The pastor, employed hitherto in sustaining the form
of his still but half conscious daughter, had been a
silent spectator of this strange scene. But he now,
finding as long as it lasted that the nerves of Bess
would continue unstrung, seized the opportunity afforded
by this appeal, to implore that they might be
relieved of their savage company.

“What, and you continue here?” replied the sailor.
“No, no—that's impossible. They would murder you
the moment I am gone.”

“What then are we to do—where go—where find
safety?'

“You must go with me—with my party, alone, will
you be safe, and while on shore you must remain with
us. After that, my vessel will give you shelter.”

“Never—never—dear father, say no—better that
we should die by the savage,” was the whispered and
hurried language of Bess to her father as she heard
this suggestion. A portion of her speech, only, was
audible to the seaman.

“What's that you say, my sweet bird of beauty—
my bird of paradise?—speak out, there is no danger.”

“She only speaks to me, captain,” said the pastor,
unwilling that the only protector they now had should
be offended by an indiscreet remark.

“Oh, father, that you had listened to Gabriel,” murmured
the maiden, as she beheld the preparations
making for their departure with the soldiers.

“Reproach me not now, my child—my heart is sore
enough for that error of my spirit. It was a wicked
pride that kept me from hearing and doing justice to
that friendly youth.”

The kind word in reference to her lover almost
banished all present fears from the mind of Bess Matthews;
and with tears that now relieved her, and
which before this she could not have shed, she buried
her head in the bosom of the old man.

“We are friends again, Ishiagaska,” extending his

hand while he spoke, was the address of the seaman to
the chief, as the latter took his departure from the
dwelling on his way to the Block House. The proffered
hand was scornfully rejected.

“Is Ishiagaska a dog that shall come when you
whistle, and put his tail between his legs when you
storm? The white chief has put mud on the head of
Ishiagaska.”

“Well, go and be d—d, who cares? By God,
but for the bargain, and that the fellow may be useful,
I could send a bullet through his red skin with appetite.”

A few words now addressed to his captives, sufficed
to instruct them as to the necessity of a present movement;
and a few moments put them in as great a
state of readiness for their departure as, under such
circumstances, they could be expected to make. The
sailor, in the meantime, gave due directions to his followers;
and picking up the pistol which the indignant
Ishiagaska had thrown away, he contented himself,
while reloading it, with another boisterous laugh at
the expense of the savage. Giving the necessary
orders to his men, he approached the group, and
tendered his assistance, especially to Bess Matthews.
But she shrunk back with an appearance of horror,
not surely justifiable, if reference is to be had only to
his agency on the present occasion. But the instinctive
delicacy of maidenly feeling had been more than
once outraged in her bosom by the bold, licentious
glance which Chorley had so frequently cast upon her
charms; and now, heightened as they were by circumstances—by
the dishevelled hair, and ill-adjusted
garments—the daring look of his eye was enough to
offend a spirit so delicately just, so sensitive, and so
susceptible as hers.

“What, too much of a lady—too proud, miss, to take
the arm of a sailor? Is it so, parson? Have you taught
so much pride to your daughter?”

“It is not pride, Master Chorley, you should know
—but Bess has not well got over her fright, and it's but

natural that she should look to her father first for protection.
It's not pride, not dislike, believe me,” was
the assiduous reply.

“But there's no sense in that, now—for what sort
of protection could you have afforded her if I hadn't
come? You'd ha' been all scalped to death, or there's
no snakes.”

“You say true, indeed, Master Chorley. Our only
hope was in God, who is above all,—to him we look—
he will always find a protector for the innocent.”

“And not much from him either, friend Matthews—
for all your prayers would have done you little good
under the knife of the red-skins, if I had not come at
the very moment.”

“True—and you see, captain, that God did send us
help at the last trying moment.”

“Why, that's more than my mother ever said for me,
parson—and more than I can ever say for myself.
What, Dick Chorley the messenger of God!—Ha! ha!
ha!—The old folks would say the devil rather, whose
messenger I have been from stem to stern, man and boy,
a matter now—but it's quite too far to go back.”

“Do not, I pray, Master Chorley,” said the old man,
gravely—“and know, that Satan himself is God's messenger,
and must do his bidding in spite of his own
will.”

“The deuse you say. Old Nick, himself, God's messenger!
Well, that's new to me, and what the Catechism
and old Meg never once taught me to believe.
But I won't doubt you, for as it's your trade, you ought to
know best, and we'll have no more talk on the subject.
Come, old boy—my good Mrs. Matthews, and you, my
sweet—all ready? Fall in, boys—be moving.”

“Where go we now, Master Chorley?” inquired
the pastor.

“With me, friend Matthews,” was the simple and
rather stern reply of the pirate, who arranged his
troop around the little party, and gave orders to move.
He would have taken his place alongside of the maiden,
but she studiously passed to the opposite arm of

her father, so as to throw the pastor's person between
them. In this manner the party moved on, in the direction
of the Block House, which the cupidity of Chorley
hoped to find unguarded, and to which he hurried,
with as much rapidity as possible, in order to be
present at the sack. He felt that it must be full of the
valuables of all those who had sought its shelter, and
with this desire he did not scruple to compel the captives
to keep pace with his party, as it was necessary,
before proceeding to the assault, that he should place
them in a condition of comparative safety. A small
cot lay on the banks of the river, a few miles from his
vessel, and in sight of it. It was a rude frame of
poles, covered with pine bark; such as the Indian
hunters leave behind them all over the country. To
this spot he hurried, and there, under the charge of
three marines, well armed, he left the jaded family
dreading every change of condition as full of death,
if not of other terrors even worse than death—and
with scarcely a smaller apprehension of that condition
itself. Having so done, he went onward to the work
of destruction, where we shall again come up with
him.