University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.

The force brought up by the younger Grayson, and
now led by Harrison, came opportunely to the relief
of the garrison. The flames had continued to rage,

unrestrained, so rapidly around the building, that its
walls were at length greedily seized upon by the furious
element, and the dense smoke, gathering through all its
apartments, alone was sufficient to compel the retreat
of its defenders. Nothing now was left them in their
desperation but to sally forth even upon the knives and
hatchets of their merciless and expecting foe; and for
this last adventure, so full of danger, so utterly wanting
in a fair promise of any successful result, the sturdy
foresters prepared. Fortunately for this movement, it
was just about this period that the approach of Harrison,
with his party, compelled the besiegers to change
their position, in order the better to contend with him;
and, however reluctant to suffer the escape of those so
completely in their power, and for whose destruction
they had already made so many sacrifices of time and
life, they were compelled to do so in the reasonable
fear of an assault upon two sides—from the garrison
before them, impelled by desperation, and from the foe
in their rear, described by their scouts as in rapid advance
to the relief of the Block House. The command
was shared jointly between Chorley and Ishiagaska.
The former had fared much worse than his tawny
allies; for, not so well skilled in the artifices of land
and Indian warfare, seven out of the twenty warriors
whom he commanded had fallen victims in the preceding
conflicts. His discretion had become something
more valuable, therefore, when reminded by the scanty
force remaining under his command, not only of his
loss, but of his present weakness; a matter of no little
concern, as he well knew that his Indian allies, in their
capricious desperation, might not be willing to discriminate
between the whites who had befriended, and those
who had been their foes.

Thus, counselled by necessity, the assailing chiefs
drew off their forces from the Block House, and sinking
into cover, prepared to encounter their new enemies,
after the fashion of their warfare. Ignorant in the
meantime of the approach of Harrison or the force
under him, Grayson wondered much at this movement

of the besiegers, of which he soon had intelligence,
and instantly prepared to avail himself of the privilege
which it gave to the garrison of flight. He called his
little force together, and having arranged, before leaving
its shelter, the progress and general movement of his
party, he carefully placed the women and children in
the centre of his little troop, sallied boldly forth into
the woods, conscious of all the dangers of the movement,
but strengthened with all those thoughts of lofty cheer
with which the good Providence, at all times, inspires
the spirit of adventure, in the hour of its trying circumstance.
There was something of pleasure in their
very release from the confined circuit of the Block
House, though now more immediately exposed to the
tomahawk of the Indian; and with the pure air, and
the absence of restraint, the greater number of the
foresters grew even cheerful and glad—a change of
mood in which even the women largely partook. Some
few indeed, of the more Puritancial among them, disposed
to think themselves the especial charge of the
Deity, and holding him not less willing than strong to
save, under any circumstances, even went so far as to
break out into a hymn of exultation and rejoicing,
entirely forgetting the dangers still hanging around
them, and absolutely contending warmly with Grayson
when he undertook to restrain them. Not the least
refractory of these was his own mother, who, in spite
of all he could say, mouthed and muttered continually,
and every now and then burst forth into starts of irrepressible
psalmody, sufficient to set the entire tribe of
Indians unerringly upon their track. The remonstrance
of Grayson had little effect, except when he reminded
her of his younger brother. The idolized Hugh, and
his will, were her law in most things. Appealing to
his authority, and threatening complaint to him, he
succeeded in making her silent, at least to a certain
extent. Entire silence was scarcely possible with
the old dame, who likened her escape from the flaming
Block House, and, so far, from the hands of the savage,
to every instance of Providential deliverance she had
ever read of in the sacred volume; and still, under the
stimulus of such a feeling, broke out every now and
then, with sonorous emphasis, into song, from an old
collection of the period, every atom of which she had
familiarly at the end of her tongue. A moment had
not well elapsed after the first suggestion of Grayson,
when, as if unconsciously, she commenced again:—

“Now, mother, in the name of common sense, can't
you be quiet?”

“And wherefore should we not send up the hymn of
rejoicing and thanksgiving for all his mercies, to the
Father who has stood beside us in the hour of peril?
Wherefore, I ask of you, Walter Grayson? Oh, my
son, beware of self-conceit and pride of heart; and
because you have here commanded earthly and human
weapons, think not, in the vanity of your spirit, that the
victory comes from such as these. The Saviour of men,
my son—it is he that has fought this fight. It is his
sword that has smitten the savage hip and thigh, and
brought us free out of the land of bondage, even as he
brought his people of old from the bondage of the
Egyptians. He is mighty to save, and therefore should
we rejoice with an exceeding strong voice.” And as
if determined to sustain amply the propriety she insisted
on, her lungs were never more tasked than when she
sung:—

“For Heaven's sake, mother—hush your tongue—if
it be in you to keep it quiet for a moment. Let it rest
only for a little while, or we shall all be scalped.
Wait till daylight, and you may then sing to your heart's
content. It can't be long till daylight, and you can
then begin, but not till then, or we shall have the savages
on our track, and nothing can save us.”

“Oh! thou of little faith—I tell thee, Walter, thou
hast read but too little of thy Bible, and dependest too
much upon the powers of earth—all of which are
wicked and vain defences. Put thy trust in God; he
is strong to save. Under his hand I fear not the savage—for,
does he not tell us—” and she quavered
again:—

“Mother, in the name of common sense.” But she
went on with double fervour, as if vexed with the interruption:—

“Mother, mother, I say—” But she was bent seemingly
to finish the line:—

“Was there ever such an obstinate! I say, mother—”

“Well, my son?”

“Are you my mother?”

“Of a certainty, I am. What mean you by that
question, Walter?”

“Do you want to see my scalp dangling upon the
long pole of a savage?”

“God forbid, Walter, my son. Did I not bear thee
—did I not suffer for thee?”

“Then, if thou dost not really desire to see me
scalped, put some stop on thy tongue, and move along
as if death lay under every footstep. If the savages
surround us now, we are gone, every mother's son
of us—and all the saints, unless they are accustomed
to Indian warfare, can do nothing in our behalf.”

“Speak not irreverently, son Walter. The saints
are blessed mediators for the sinner, and may move
eternal mercy to save. Have they not fought for us

already to-night—and are we not saved by their ministry
from the bloody hands of the savage?”

“No—it's by our own hands, and our own good
handiwork, mother. I owe the saints no thanks, and
shall owe you still less, unless you stop that howling.”

“Oh, Father, forgive him, he knows not what he
says—he is yet in the bondage of sin—” and she
hymned her prayer from her collection:—

“Mother, if thou hush not, I will tell Hugh of thy
obstinacy. He shall know how little thou mindest his
counsel.”

“Well, well, Walter, my son, I am done. Thou art
too hasty, I'm sure.—Oh, bless me—”

Her speech was cut short by a sudden and fierce
whoop of the Indians, followed by the huzzas of the
whites at a greater distance, and the rapid fire of musketry,
scattered widely along the whole extended range
of forest around them.

“Down, down, all hands to your knees—one and
all—” was the cry of Grayson to his party; and, accustomed
to most of the leading difficulties and dangers
of such a fight, the order was obeyed as if instinctively
by all except Dame Grayson, who inflexibly
maintained her position, and refused to move, alleging
her objection to any prostration except for the purposes
of prayer. Maddened by her obstinacy, Grayson, with
very little scruple, placing his hand upon her shoulder,
bore her down to the earth, exclaiming,—

“Then say your prayers, mother—do any thing but
thwart what you cannot amend.”

Thus humbled, the party crept along more closely
into cover, until, at a spot where the trees were clustered
along with underwood, into something like a copse, he
ordered a halt, and proceeded to arrange his men and
their weapons for active conflict. The war approached

at intervals, and an occasional shot whistled over the
heads of the party, conclusively proving the necessity
of their position. The Indians seemed to lie betwixt
them and the advancing Carolinians; and perceiving
this to be the case, Grayson threw the non-combatants
under shelter in such a manner as to interpose those
who fought in the way of the coming Indians, in the
event of their being driven back upon them. His
party in the meanwhile, well prepared, lay quietly
under cover, and with their weapons ready to take
advantage of any such event.

Harrison, as we may remember, had taken the command
of the greater body of the force which had been
brought up through the industrious and prodigious exertions
of Hugh Grayson. This young man, stung and
mortified as he had been by the rebuke of Bess Matthews,
with a degree of mental concentration, rather
indicative of his character—though hopeless of those
affections, which of all other human hopes he had most
valued—had determined to do himself justice by doing
his duty. Throwing aside, therefore, as well as he
might, the passionate mood, which was active in his
soul, he had gone forth from the house of the pastor,
resolute to make every exertion in procuring a force
which might protect the family from an attack, which
he had at length learned, as well as Harrison, greatly
to anticipate. His pride suggested to him the gratification
of saving the life of her who had scorned him,
as an honourable revenge, not less than a fair blotting
out of those errors of which, on her account, he had
suffered himself to be guilty. His efforts, so far, had
been crowned with success; but he had come too late
for his prime object. The dwelling of the pastor had
been sacked before his arrival, and, like Harrison, he
was under the most horrible apprehensions for her
safety. The latter person came upon him opportunely,
in time to keep him from falling into the ambuscade
through which he had himself so singularly passed in
safety—and with more knowledge of Indian strife,
Harrison took the command of a party, confident in his

skill, and, of necessity, with a courage heightened proportionably
when under his direction.

The cautious yet bold management of Harrison soon
gave him the advantage. The foresters, guided by
him, each took his tree after the manner of the Indians,
and with the advantage of weapons more certain to
kill, and equally, if not more certain, in aim. Apart
from this, the Carolinian woodman knew enough of the
savages to know that they were no opponents, generally
speaking, to be feared in a trial of respective muscular
strength. The life of the hunter fits him to endure
rather than to contend. The white borderer was
taught by his necessities to do both. He could wield
the axe and overthrow the tree—a labour to which the
Indian is averse. He could delve and dig, and such
employment was a subject of scorn and contempt with
the haughty aboriginal warrior. At the same time he
practised the same wanderings and the same felicity
of aim, and in enduring the toils of the chase, he was
fairly the equal of his tawny but less enterprising neighbour.
The consciousness of these truths—a consciousness
soon acquired from association—was not less familiar
to the Indian than to the Carolinian; and the former,
in consequence, despaired his charm, when opposing
the white man hand to hand. His hope was in the
midnight surprise—in the sudden onslaught—in the
terror inspired by his fearful whoop—and in the awful
scalp-song with which he approached, making the
imagination of his foe an auxiliar to his own, as he
told him how he should rend away the dripping locks
from his scull, while his eyes swam in darkness, and
the pulses were yet flickering at his heart.

From cover to cover—from tree to tree—the individual
Carolinians rushed on against their retreating
enemies. In this manner the fight became somewhat
pell-mell, and the opponents grew strangely mingled
together. Still, as each was busy with his particular
enemy, no advantage could well be taken of the circumstance
on either side; and the hatchets of the individual
combatants clashed under neighbouring trees, and

their knives were uplifted in the death-struggle over
the same stump, without any hope of assistance from
their friends in any form of their difficulty.

In this general state of things, there was one exception
in the case of Harrison himself. He was approached
resolutely in the course of the conflict by a
Coosaw warrior—a man of inferior size, even with his
tribe, the individuals of which were generally diminutive.
The dark eye of the swarthy foe, as he advanced
upon Harrison, was lighted up with a malignant audacity,
to be understood only by a reference to the history
of his people. That people were now almost exterminated.
He was one of the few survivers—a chief
—a bold, brave man—subtle, active, and distinguished
for his skill as a warrior and hunter. He recognised
in Harrison the renowned Coosah-moray-te—the leader
of the force which had uprooted his nation, and had
driven the warriors to the degrading necessity of merging
their existence as a people with that of a neighbouring
tribe. The old feeling of his country, and a
former war, was at work in his bosom, and through all
the mazes of the conflict he steadily kept his eye on
the course of Harrison. He alone sought him—he
alone singled him out for the fight. For a long time,
the nature of the struggle had prevented their meeting;
but he now approached the spot where Harrison stood,
holding at bay a tall Chestatee warrior from the interior
of Georgia. The Chestatee was armed with the
common war-club, and had no other weapon. This
weapon is chiefly useful when confusion has been
introduced by the bowmen into the ranks of an enemy.
It is about two feet in length, and bears at its end, and
sometimes at both ends, a cross-piece of iron, usually
without any distinct form, but sometimes resembling
the blade of a spear, and not unfrequently that of a
hatchet. Harrison was armed with a sword, and had
besides, in his possession, the knife—the same broad,
cimeter-like weapon—which had been given him by
Matiwan in his flight from Pocota-ligo. His rifle, which
he had not had time to reload, leaned against a tree, at

the foot of which stood Hector, with difficulty restraining,
and keeping back, with all his might, the impatient
dog Dugdale, which, by his master's orders, he had remuzzled.
This had been done in order to his safety.
It was only in pursuit that his services would have
been of avail; for though he might be of use in the
moment of strife, the chances were that he would have
been shot. Thus reposing, Hector was enabled to see
he approach of the Coosaw, and by an occasional exhibition
of his own person and that of the dog, to deter him
from the attack which he had long meditated. But the
strife between Harrison and the Chestatee was about
to cease. That warrior, aiming a fierce blow at the
person of his enemy, drove the spear-head of his club
into the tree, and failing at the moment to disengage
it, fell a victim to the quicksightedness of his opponent.
Harrison's sword in that instant was sheathed in
the bosom of the Chestatee, who, as he received the
wound, sprung upwards from the ground, snapping the
slender weapon short at the hilt, the blade still remaining
buried in his body. Harrison drew his knife,
and having for some time seen the purpose of the
Coosaw, he fortunately turned to meet him at the very
instant of his approach. Something surprised at the
fearlessness with which his enemy advanced to the
conflict, he spoke to him as they both paused at a few
paces from each other.

“Thou art a Coosaw,”—exclaimed Harrison,—“I
know thee.”

“Chinnabar is the last chief of the Coosaw. He
wants blood for his people.”

“Thou knowest me, then?” said Harrison.

“Coosah-moray-te!” was the simple response; and
the dark eye glared, and the teeth of the savage gnashed
like those of the hungered wolf, as the name stirred
up all the associations in his mind of that war of extermination
which the warrior before him had waged
against his people.

“Ay—the Coosah-moray-te is before thee.—Would
Chinnabar follow his people?” exclaimed the Englishman.

“Chinnabar would have much blood for his people.
He would drink blood from the scull of Coosah-moray-te—he
would show the scalp of the Coosah-moray-te to
the warriors of Coosaw, that wait for him in the Happy
Valley.”

“Thou shalt have no scalp of mine, friend Chinnabar.
I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I must—I can't
spare it. Come! I know you of old for a cunning
snake—a snake lying in the dried bush. The foot of
the Coosah-moray-te will trample on thy head.”

Harrison spoke fearlessly, for who, contrasting the
appearance of the two, would have thought the contest
doubtful? The Indian was scracely over five feet in
height, slender, and not well set; while his opponent,
fully six feet in height, a fine specimen of symmetrical
manhood, seemed able to crush him with a finger.
The Coosaw simply responded with something like a
smile of scorn,—throwing himself at the same moment
like a ball at the feet of his enemy—

“Good!—the snake is in the bush. Look! Coosah-moray-te—put
the foot on his head.”

The Englishman looked down upon him with something
like surprise mingled in with his contempt, and
made no show of assault; but he was too well acquainted
with Indian trick and manœuvre to be thrown
off his guard by this movement. Curious to see
what would be the next effort of one who had studiously
singled him out, he watched him carefully, and
the Indian, something balked that the enemy had not
taken him at his word and approached him while
in his prostrate condition, slowly uncoiled him from
his cluster, and had partially regained his feet, when
Harrison, who had been looking for him fully to do
so, was surprised in the next moment to find his
wily enemy directly between his legs. The suddenness
of such a movement, though it failed to throw
him, as the Coosaw had calculated, yet disordered his
position not a little; and before he could strike a blow,
or do more than thrust one of his feet down upon him,
his active adversary had passed from his reach, having

made a desperate effort with his knife to hamstring
his adversary, as he leaped aside and turned suddenly
upon him. The rapidity of Harrison's movement alone
saved him, though even then not entirely, since the
knife grazed his leg, inflicting a sharp, though not
dangerous wound. He barely turned in time to meet
the preparation of the Coosaw for a second assault of
similar character; and something more ready at this
novel mode of attack, and vexed at its partial success,
Harrison looked with some impatience for his enemy's
approach, and felt a thrill of fierce delight as he saw
him leave with a bound the spot upon which he stood.
Sinking upon his knee as the savage rolled towards
him, he presented his knife, edge upward, to his advance.
What was his surprise to find that in so stooping,
he had only evaded a blow upon his bosom, which,
from his position, and the direction which the Indian
pursued, had he stood, the heels of his foe would certainly
have inflicted. He saw from this that he must
now become the assailant; particularly as he perceived
that his mean were successfully pressing upon the enemy
in every direction, and that the battle was progressing
towards the river, and between it and the
Block House. Active as most men, Harrison was also
a man of ready decision; and with the thought came
the execution. With a bound he grappled the Coosaw,
who had not looked for an attack so sudden, and
no doubt had been fatigued by previous efforts. Harrison
drove him back against a tree with all the muscle
of an extended arm, and thus forced the combat upon
him on his own terms. But even then the subtlety of
the savage did not fail him. He evaded the grasp,
and contrived to double once or twice completely under
the body of his opponent, until, exasperated by his pertinacity
not less than at the agility with which the Indian
eluded him, without stooping to where he wriggled
like a snake around him, the Englishman leaped upon
him with both feet, striking his heel securely down
upon the narrow of his sinuous back, and in this way
fastening him to the earth. In another instant and the
knife would have finished the combat, when the conqueror
received a severe blow with a club, upon his
shoulder, from some unseen hand, which completely
staggered him; and before he could recover, he was
confronted by another warrior of the Coosaws, crying
to him in his own language in the exultation of success
deemed secure, and thus cheering his prostrate
chief, Chinnabar—

“Coosah-moray-te,—I drink his blood, I tear his
threat, I have his scalp—I hear his groan—Hi-chai!—
'tis a dog for Opitchi-Manneyto!”

At the cry, his former opponent rose from the
ground, not so much injured but that he could recommence
the battle. They advanced at the same moment
upon the Englishman, though from different
quarters. They came upon him with all their subtlety
and caution, for the two together could scarce have
contended with the superior strength of Harrison.
Taking his tree, he prepared for the worst; and with
his left arm so severely paralyzed by the blow that he
could do little more than throw it up in defence, he
yet held a good heart, and while he saw with what
malignity the two Coosaws had singled him out, he
had hope to meet them individually by the exercise of
some of those adroit arts which he too could employ
not less than the savage. But he was spared this trial.
The very instant of their simultaneous approach, a
gun-shot from the rear brought down the second assailant.
The surviver, Chinnabar, as if exasperated
beyond reason at the event, now precipitated himself
forward, tomahawk in hand, upon his foe, was foiled
by the ready agility which encountered him, put aside,
and almost in the same instant hurled like a stone to
the ground by the now fully aroused Englishman.

“Coosaw—thou art the last chief of thy people.
The cunning serpent will die by the Coosah-moray-te,
like the rest,” said Harrison, addressing the conquered
savage, who lay motionless, but still alive, at
his feet.

“The Coosah-moray-te will strike. Chinnabar is

the last chief of the Coosaw—his people have gone—
they wait for him with the cry of a bird. Let the pale-face
strike. Ah! ah!”

The knife was in his heart. Vainly the eyes rolled
in a fruitless anger—the teeth fixed for ever, while
gnashing in fury, in the death spasm. A short groan
—a word, seemingly of song—and the race of the
Coosaws was for ever ended.

Harrison rose and looked round for the person whose
timely shot had saved him from the joint attack of the
two warriors. He discovered him advancing in the
person of Hector, who, having fastened Dugdale to a
sapling, had reloaded the musketoon of his master,
and by his intervention at the proper moment, had no
doubt preserved his life. Unaccustomed, however,
to the use of gunpowder, the black had overcharged
the piece, and the recoil had given him a shock which,
at the moment, he was certain could not have been
a jot less severe than that which it inflicted upon the
Coosaw he had slain. His jaws ached, he bitterly
alleged, whenever, years after, he detailed the fight
with the Yemassee on the banks of the Pocota-ligo.

“Hector—thou hast saved my life,” said Harrison,
as he came up to him.

“I berry glad, mossa,” was the natural reply.

“Where's Dugdale?”

“In de tree—I hook 'em wid rope, when I load for
shoot de Injin.”

“Bring him, and set him loose.”

The black did as he was told, and harking him on
the track of the flying Indians, Harrison seized and
reloaded his rifle, while Hector possessed himself of
a knife and hatchet which he picked up upon the field.
They then proceeded hastily to overtake the Carolinians,
who, at a little distance, were pressing upon the
retreating enemy. Harrison came in time to give his
influence and energy where they were most needed.
The flying force were met by the party from the
Block House, under Ishiagaska and the pirate, and the
fight commenced anew—a sort of running fight, however,

for the Indians grew weary of a contest in which
they had none of those advantages of number or circumstance
which usually encourage them to war;
and so trifling was the force of whites now remaining
with them under Chorley, that their presence rather
induced despondency than hope. The pirate himself
was much discouraged by the nature of the strife, for
which he did not dream that the Carolinians would
have been so well prepared; and the loss which he had
sustained, so disproportioned to his force, had not a
little exaggerated his discontent. His disquiet was
destined to find still further increase in the new assault;
two more of his men, not so well sheltered as
they should have been, or more venturous, having been
shot down near a tree immediately adjoining that behind
which he stood; and though the Indians still continued
to fight, he saw that they could not be encouraged
to do so long; as, even if successful in killing, they
had no opportunity of obtaining the scalps of the slain,
the best evidence with them of their triumph. The
Carolinians still pressed on, their numbers greatly increased
by the presence of several slaves, who, volunteering
even against the will of their masters, had
armed themselves with knives or clubs, and by their
greater numbers held forth a prospect of ultimately
hemming in the smaller force of their enemy. This
was an ally upon which the Spaniards had largely
calculated. They had no idea of that gentler form of
treatment which, with the Carolinians, won the affections
of their serviles; and knowing no other principle
in their own domestic government than that of fear,
and assured of the instability of any confidence built
upon such a relationship between the ruler and the
serf, they had miscalculated greatly when they addressed
their bribes and promises to the negroes, as
well as to the Indians of Carolina. But few joined
them—the greater number, volunteering for their
owners, were taken actually into the employment of
the colony, and subsequently rewarded in proportion
to their services and merits.

The engagement became a flight. From point to
point the Carolinians pursued their enemy—Chorley
the seaman, and Ishiagaska, alone endeavouring, by
the most ardent effort, to stimulate the courage of
their followers, and maintain the show of fight. But
in vain. The whites pressed closely upon the heels of
the fugitives, who were at length suddenly brought up
by a severe fire directly upon their path from the concealed
party under Grayson. This completed their
panic; and each darting in the direction given him by
his fears, sought for individual safety. There was no
longer the form of a battle array among them, and the
negroes cleared the woods with their clubs, beating
out the brains of those they overtook, almost without
having any resistance offered them. The day dawned
upon the forest, and every step of the route taken by
the combatants was designated by blood.