University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.

Our tale becomes history. The web of fiction is
woven—the romance is nigh over. The old wizard
may not trench upon the territories of truth. He stops
short at her approach with a becoming reverence. It
is for all things, even for the upsoaring fancy, to worship
and keep to the truth. There is no security unless
in its restraints. The fancy may play capriciously
only with the unknown. Where history dare
not go, it is then for poetry, borrowing a wild gleam from
the blear eye of tradition, to couple with her own the

wings of imagination, and overleap the boundaries of
the defined and certain. We have done this in our
written pages. We may do this no longer. The
old chronicle is before us, and the sedate muse of history,
from her graven tablets, dictates for the future.
We write at her bidding now.

In safety, and with no long delay, Harrison,—or, as
we should now call him,—the palatine,—reached
Charlestown, the metropolis of Carolina. He found it
in sad dilemma and dismay. As he had feared, the
warlike savages were at its gates. The citizens
were hemmed in—confined to the shelter of the seven
forts which girdled its dwellings—half-starved, and
kept in constant watchfulness against hourly surprise.
The Indians had ravaged with fire and the tomahawk
all the intervening country. Hundreds of the innocent
and unthinking inhabitants had perished by deaths the
most painful and protracted. The farmer had been
shot down in the furrows where he sowed his corn.
His child had been butchered upon the threshold,
where, hearing the approaching footsteps, it had run
to meet its father. The long hair of his young wife,
grasped in the clutches of the murderer, became an
agent of torture, which had once been an attraction and
a pride. Death and desolation smoked along the wide
stretch of country bordering the coast, and designating
the route of European settlement in the interior. In
the neighbourhood of Pocota-ligo alone, ninety persons
were destroyed. St. Bartholomew's parish was ravaged—the
settlement of Stono, including the beautiful
little church of that place, was entirely destroyed by fire,
while but few of the inhabitants, even of the surrounding
plantations, escaped the fury of the invaders. All
the country about Dorchester, then new as a settlement,
and forming the nucleus of that once beautiful
and attractive, but thrice-doomed village, shared the
same fate, until the invaders reached Goose Creek,
when the sturdy militia of that parish, led on by Captain
Chiquang, a gallant young Huguenot, gave them
a repulse, and succeeding in throwing themselves be

tween the savages and the city, reached Charlestown,
in time to assist in the preparations making for its
defence.

The arrival of the palatine gave a new life and fresh
confidence to the people. His course was such as
might have been expected from his decisive character.
He at once proclaimed martial law—laid an embargo,
preventing the departure of any of the male citizens
and the exportation of clothes, provisions, or any thing
which might be useful to the colonists in their existing
condition. Waiting for no act of assembly to authorize
his proceedings, but trusting to their subsequent
sense of right to acknowledge and ratify what
he had done, as was indeed the case, he proceeded by
draught, levy, and impressment, to raise an army of
eleven hundred men, in addition to those employed in
maintaining the capital. In this proceeding he still
more signally showed his decision of character, by
venturing upon an experiment sufficiently dangerous
to alarm those not acquainted with the condition of the
southern negro. Four hundred of the army so raised,
consisted of slaves, drawn from the parishes according to
assessment. Charlestown gave thirty—Christ Church,
sixteen—St. Thomas and St. Dennis, fifty-five—St.
James, Goose Creek, fifty-five—St. Andrews, eighty—
St. John's, Berkley, sixty—St. Paul's, forty-five—St.
James', Santee, thirty-five—St. Bartholomew's, sixteen
—St. Helena, eight—making up the required total of
four hundred. To these, add six hundred Carolinians,
and one hundred friendly Indians or allies; these latter
being Tuscaroras,[1] from North Carolina, almost the
only Indian nation in the south not in league against
the colony. Other bodies of men were also raised for
stations, keeping possession of the Block Houses at
points most accessible to the foe, and where the defence
was most important. At the Savano town, a
corps of forty men were stationed—a similar force at

Rawlin's Bluff on the Edistoh; at Port Royal; on the
Combahee; at the Horseshoe—and other places, in
like manner, forming so many certain garrisons to the
end of the war. All other steps taken by the palatine
were equally decisive; and such were the severe and
summary penalties annexed to the non-performance of
the duties requried from the citizen, that there was
no evasion of their execution. Death was the doom,
whether of desertion from duty, or of a neglect to appear
at the summons to the field. The sinews of war
in another respect were also provided by the palatine.
He issued bills of credit for 30,000l. to raise supplies;
the counterfeiting of which, under the decree of the
privy council, was punishable by death without benefit
of clergy. Having thus prepared for the contest, he
placed himself at the head of his rude levies, and with
a word of promise and sweet regret to his young bride,
he marched out to meet the enemy.

War with the American Indians was a matter of far
greater romance than modern European warfare possibly
can be. There was nothing of regular array in
such confficts as those of the borderers with the savages;
and individual combats, such as give interest to
story, were common events in all such issues. The
borderer singled out his foe, and grappled with him in
the full confidence of superior muscle. With him,
too, every ball was fated. He threw away no shot in
line. His eye conducted his finger; and he touched
no trigger, unless he first ranged the white drop at the
muzzle of his piece upon some vital point of his foe's
person. War, really, was an art, and a highly ingenious
one, in the deep recesses and close swamps of
the southern forests. There was no bull-headed
marching up to the mouth of the cannon. Their pride
was to get around it—to come in upon the rear—to
insinuate—to dodge—to play with the fears or the
false confidence of the foe, so as to effect by surprise
what could not be done by other means. These were
the arts of the savages. It was fortunate for the Carolinians
that their present leader knew them so well.

Practised as he had been, the palatine proceeded
leisurely, but decisively, to contend with his enemies
on their own ground, and after their own fashion. He
omitted no caution which could ensure against surprise,
and at the same time he allowed himself no delay.
Gradually advancing, with spies always out, he
foiled all the efforts of his adversary. In vain did Sanutee
put all his warrior skill in requisition. In vain
did his most cunning braves gather along the sheltered
path in ambuscade. In vain did they show themselves
in small numbers, and invite pursuit by an exhibition
of timidity. The ranks of the Carolinians remained
unbroken. There was no exciting their leader to precipitation.
His equanimity was invincible, and he
kept his men steadily upon their way—still advancing
—still backing their adversaries—and with courage
and confidence in themselves, duly increasing with
every successful step in their progress.

Sanutee did not desire battle, until the force promised
by the Spaniards should arrive. He was in
momentary expectation of its appearance. Still, he
was reluctant to recede from his ground, so advantageously
taken; particularly, too, as he knew that the
Indians, only capable of sudden action, are not the
warriors for a patient and protracted watch in the field,
avoiding the conflict for which they have expressly
come out. His anxieties grew with the situation
forced upon him by the army and position of the
palatine; and, gradually giving ground, he was compelled,
very reluctantly, to fall back upon the river
of Salke-hatchie, where the Yemassees had a small
town, some twenty miles from Pocota-ligo. Here
he formed his great camp, determined to recede no
farther. His position was good. The river-swamp
run in an irregular sweep, so as partially to form in
front of his array. His men he distributed through a
thick copse running alongside of the river, which lay
directly in his rear. In retreat, the swamps were
secure fastnesses, and they were sufficiently contiguous.
The night had set in before he took his position.

The Carolinians were advancing, and but a few miles
divided the two armies. Sanutee felt secure from
attack so long as he maintained his present position;
and sending out scouts, and preparing all things, like
a true warrior, for every event, he threw himself,
gloomy with conflicting thoughts, under the shadow of
an old tree that rose up in front of his array.

While he mused, his ear caught the approach of a
light footstep behind him. He turned, and his eye
rested upon Matiwan. She crept humbly towards him,
and lay at his feet. He did not repulse her; but his
tones, though gentle enough, were gloomily sad.

“Would Matiwan strike with a warrior, that she
comes to the camp of the Yemassee? Is there no
lodge in Pocota-ligo for the woman of a chief?”

“The lodge is not for Matiwan, if the chief be not
there. Shall the woman have no eyes—what can the
eye of Matiwan behold if Sanutee stand not up before
it. The boy is not—”

“Cha! cha! It is the tongue of a foolish bird that
sings after the season. Let the woman speak of the
thing that is. Would the chief of the Yemassee hear
a song from the woman? It must be of the big club,
and the heavy blow. Blood must be in the song, and
a thick cry.”

“Matiwan has a song of blood and a thick cry,
like Opitchi-Manneyto makes when he comes from the
black swamps of Edistoh. She saw the black spirit
with the last dark. He stood up before her in the
lodge, and he had a curse for the woman, for Matiwan
took from him his slave. He had a curse for Matiwan—and
a fire-word, oh, well-beloved, for Sanutee.”

“Cha, cha! Sanutee has no ear for the talk of a
child.”

“The Opitchi-Manneyto spoke of Yemassee,” said
the woman.

“Ha! what said the black spirit to the woman of
Yemassee?” was the question of the chief, with more
earnestness.

“The scalps of the Yemassee were in his hand—

the teeth of the Yemassee were round his neck, and
he carried an arrow that was broken.”

“Thou liest—thou hast a forked tongue, and a
double voice for mine ear. The arrow of Yemassee
is whole.”

“The chief has a knife for the heart. Let the
well-beloved strike the bosom of Matiwan. Oh, chief
—thou wilt see the red blood that is true. Strike, and
tell it to come. Is it not thine?” she bared her breast
as she spoke, and her eyes were full upon his with a
look of resignation and of love, which spoke her truth.
The old warrior put his hand tenderly upon the exposed
bosom,—

“The blood is good under the hand of Sanutee.
Speak, Matiwan.”

“The scalps of Yemassee—and the long tuft of a
chief were in the hand of the Opitchi-Manneyto.”

“What chief?” inquired Sanutee.

“The great chief, Sanutee—the well-beloved of the
Yemassee,” groaned the woman, as she denounced his
own fate in the ears of the old warrior. She sunk
prostrate before him when she had spoken, her face
prone to the ground. The chief was silent for an
instant after hearing the prediction conveyed by her
vision, which the native superstition, and his own previous
thoughts of gloom, did not permit him to question.
Raising her after awhile, he simply exclaimed—

“It is good!”

“Shall Matiwan go back to the lodge in Pocota-ligo?”
she asked, in a tone which plainly enough
craved permission to remain.

“Matiwan will stay. The battle-god comes with
the next sun, and the Happy Valley is open for the
chief.”

“Matiwan is glad. The Happy Valley is for the
woman of the chief, and the boy—”

“Cha! it is good, Matiwan, that thou didst strike
with the keen hatchet into the head of Occonestoga—
Good! But the chief would not hear of him. Look
—the bush is ready for thy sleep.”

He pointed to the copse as he spoke, and his manner
forbid further conversation. Leaving her, he took his
way among the warriors, arranging the disposition of
his camp and of further events.

Meanwhile the palatine approached the enemy,
slowly, but with certainty. Confident, as he advanced,
he nevertheless made his approaches sure. He took
counsel of all matters calculated to affect or concern
the controversies of war. He omitted no precaution
—spared no pains—suffered nothing to divert him
from the leading object in which his mind was interested.
His scouts were ever in motion, and as he
himself knew much of the country through which he
marched, his information was at all times certain.
He pitched his camp within a mile of the position
chosen by the Yemassees, upon ground carefully selected
so as to prevent surprise. His main force lay
in the hollow of a wood, which spread in the rear of a
small mucky bay, interposed directly between his own
and the strength of the enemy. A thick copse hung
upon either side, and here he scattered a chosen band
of his best sharp shooters. They had their instructions;
and as he left as little as possible to chance, he
took care that they fulfilled them. Such were his
arrangements that night, as soon as his ground of encampment
had been chosen. At a given signal, the
main body of the army retired to their tents. The
blanket of each soldier, suspended from a crotch-stick,
as was the custom of war in that region, formed his
covering from the dews of night. The long grass constituted
a bed sufficiently warm and soft in a clime,
and at a season, so temperate. The fires were kindled,
the roll of the drum in one direction, and the mellow
tones of the bugle in another, announced the sufficient
signal for repose. Weary with the long march
of the day, the greater number were soon lulled into
a slumber, as little restrained by thought as if all were
free from danger and there were no enemy before them.

But the guardian watchers had been carefully selected
by their provident leader, and they slept not. The

palatine himself was a sufficient eye over that slumbering
host. He was unwearied and wakeful. He
could not be otherwise; his thought kept busy note of
the hours and of the responsibilities upon him. It is
thus that the leading mind perpetually exhibits proofs
of its immortality, maintaining the physical nature in
its weaknesses, renewing its strength, feeding it with a
fire that elevates its attributes, and almost secures it in
immortality too. He knew his enemy, and suspecting
his wiles, he prepared his own counter-stratagems.
His arrangements were well devised, and he looked
with impatience for the progress of the hours which
were to bring about the result he now contemplated as
certain.

It was early morning, some three hours before the
dawn, and the gray squirrel had already begun to scatter
the decayed branches from the tree-tops in which
he built his nest, when the palatine roused his officers,
and they in turn the men. They followed his bidding.
In quick movement, and without noise, they were marshalled
in little groups, leaving their blanket tents
standing precisely as when they lay beneath them.
Under their several leaders they were marched forward,
in single or Indian file, through the copse which
ran along on either side of their place of encampment.
They were halted, just as they marched, with their
tents some few hundred yards behind them. Here
they were dispersed through the forest, at given intervals,
each warrior having his bush or tree assigned
him. Thus stationed, they were taught to be watchful
and to await the movements of the enemy.

The palatine had judged rightly. He was satisfied
that the Yemassees would be unwilling to have the battle
forced upon them at Pocota-ligo, exposing their women
and children to the horrors of an indiscriminate fight.
To avoid this, it was necessary that they should anticipate
his approach to that place. The Salke-hatchie
was the last natural barrier which they could well oppose
to his progress; and the swamps and thick fastnesses
which marked the neighbourhood, indicated it
well as the most fitting spot for Indian warfare. This

was in the thought of the palatine not less than of
Sanutee; and in this lay one of the chief merits of the
former as a captain. He thought for his enemy. He
could not narrow his consideration of the game before
him, to his own play; and having determined what
was good policy with his foe, he prepared his own to
encounter it.

Sanutee had been greatly aided in the progress of
this war by the counsels of the celebrated Creek chief,
Chigilli, who led a small band of the lower Creeks and
Euchees in the insurrection. With his advice, he
determined upon attacking the Carolinian army before
the dawn of the ensuing day. That night arranged
their proceedings, and, undaunted by the communication
of his fate, revealed to him in the vision of Matiwan,
and which, perhaps—with the subdued emotions
of one who had survived his most absorbing affections
—he was not unwilling to believe, he roused his warriors
at a sufficiently early hour, and they set forward,
retracing their steps, and well prepared to surprise
their enemy. The voice of the whippoorwill regulated
their progress through the doubtful and dark
night, and without interruption they went on for a mile
or more, until their scouts brought them word that the
yellow blankets of the whites glimmered through the
shadows of the trees before them. With increased
caution, therefore, advancing, they came to a point
commanding a full view of the place of repose of the
Carolinian army. Here they halted, placing themselves
carefully in cover, and waiting for the earliest
show of dawn in which to commence the attack by a
deadly and universal fire upon the tents and their flying
inmates. In taking such a position, they placed
themselves directly between the two divisions of the
palatine's force, which, skirting the copse on either
hand, stood in no less readiness than themselves, with
their movement, to effect its own; and when the
savages advanced upon the unconscious camp, to come
out upon their wings and rear, taking them at a vantage
which must give a fatal defeat to their enterprise.

It came at last, the day so long and patiently looked

for by both parties. A faint gleam of light gushed
through the trees, and a gray streak like a fine thread
stole out upon the horizon. Then rose the cry, the
fierce war-whoop of Yemassee and Creek; “Sangarrah-me,
Sangarrah-me!” was the shout. Blood for the
Yemassee, blood for the Cherokee, blood for the Creek
—were the signals which, at a given moment, carried
forward the thousand fierce and dusky warriors of the
confederate nations upon the tents which they fondly
imagined to contain their sleeping enemies. The
shot penetrated the blankets in every direction—the
arrows hurtled on all sides through the air, and, rapidly
advancing with the first discharge, the Indians rushed
to the tents, tomahawk in hand, to strike down the
fugitives. In that moment, the sudden hurrah of the
Carolinians, in their rear and on their sides, aroused
them to a knowledge of that stratagem which had anticipated
their own. The shot told fatally on their
exposed persons, and a fearful account of victims
came with the very first discharge of the sharp-shooting
foresters. Consternation, for a moment, followed
the first consciousness which the Indians had of their
predicament; but desperation took the place of surprise.
Sanutee and Chigilli led them in every point,
and wherever the face of the foe could be seen.
Their valour was desperate but cool, and European
warfare has never shown a more determined spirit of
bravery than was then manifested by the wild warriors
of Yemassee, striking the last blow for the glory and
the existence of their once mighty nation. Driven
back on one side and another, they yet returned fiercely
and fearlessly to the conflict, with a new strength and
an exaggerated degree of fury. Chigilli, raging like
one of his own forest panthers, fell, fighting, with his
hand wreathed in the long hair of one of the borderers,
whom he had grappled behind his tree, and for whose
heart his knife was already flashing in the air. A
random shot saved the borderer, by passing directly
through the scull of the Indian. A howl of despairing
vengeance went up from the tribe which he led as
they beheld him fall; and, rushing upon the sheltered
whites, as they sought to reclaim his body, they experienced
the same fate to a man! For two hours
after this the fight raged recklessly and fierce. The
Indians were superior in number to the Carolinians,
but the surprise of their first assault was productive of
a panic from which they never perfectly recovered.
This was more than an off-set to any disparity of force
originally; and, as the position of the whites had been
well taken, the Yemassees found it impossible in the
end to force it. The rising sun beheld them broken—
without concert—hopeless of all further effort—flying
in every direction; shot down as they ran into the
open grounds, and crushed by the servile auxiliaries
of the whites as they sought for shelter in the cover
of the woods, assigned, for this purpose, to the negroes.

A brief distance apart from the melee—free from the
flying crowd, as the point was more exposed to danger—one
spot of the field of battle rose into a slight
elevation. A little group rested upon it, consisting of
four persons. Two of them were Yemassee subordinates.
One of them was already dead—from the
bosom of the other in thick currents, freezing fast, the
life was rapidly ebbing. He looked up as he expired,
and his last broken words, in his own language, were
those of homage and affection to the well-beloved of his
people—the great chief, Sanutee. It was the face of
the “well-beloved” upon whom his glazed eyes were
fixed, with an expression of admiration, indicative of the
feeling of his whole people, and truly signifying that
of the dying Indian to the last. The old chief looked
down on him encouragingly, as the warrior broke out
into a start of song—the awful song of his dying.—
The spirit parted with the effort, and Sanutee turned
his eyes from the contemplation of the melancholy
spectacle to the only living person beside him.

That person was Matiwan. She hung over the
well-beloved with an affection as purely true, as
warmly strong, as the grief of her soul was speechless
and tearless. Her hand pressed closely upon his
side, from which the vital torrent was streaming fast;
and between them, in a low moaning strain, in the Yemassee

tongue, they bewailed the fortunes of their
nation.

“The eye of Matiwan looked on, when the tomahawk
was red—when the knife had a wing. She saw
Chigilli, the brave of the Creeks—she saw him strike?”
inquired the chief of the woman.

“Matiwan saw.”

“Let the woman say of Sanutee, the well-beloved
of Yemassee. Did Chigilli go before him? Was
Sanutee a dog that runs? Was the hatchet of a chief
slow? Did the well-beloved strike at the pale-face
as if the red eye of Opitchi-Manneyto had looked on
him for a slave?”

“The well-beloved is the great brave of Yemassee.
The other chiefs came after. Matiwan saw him
strike like a chief, when the battle was thick with a
rush, and the hatchet was deep in the head of a pale
warrior. Look, oh, well-beloved—is not this the
bullet of the white man? The big knife is in the
bosom of a chief, and the blood is like a rope on the
fingers of Matiwan.”

“It is from the heart of Sanutee!”

“Ah-cheray-me—ah-cheray-me!” groaned the woman,
in savage lamentation, as she sunk down beside
the old warrior, one arm now inclasping his already
immoveable person.

“It is good, Matiwan. The well-beloved has no
people. The Yemassee has bones in the thick woods,
and there are no young braves to sing the song of his
glory. The Coosah-moray-te is on the bosom of the
Yemassee, with the foot of the great bear of Apalatchie.
He makes his bed in the old home of Pocota-ligo, like
a fox that burrows in the hill-side. We may not drive
him away. It is good for Sanutee to die with his people.
Let the song of his dying be sung.”

“Ah-cheray-me—ah-cheray-me!” was the only response
of the woman, as, but partially equal to the effort,
the chief began his song of many victories.

But the pursuers were at hand, in the negroes, now
scouring the field of battle with their huge clubs and

hatchets, knocking upon the head all of the Indians
who yet exhibited any signs of life. As wild almost as
the savages, they luxuriated in a pursuit to them so
very novel—they hurried over the forests with a step as
fleet, and a ferocity as dreadful—sparing none, whether
they fought or plead, and frequently inflicting the
most unnecessary blows, even upon the dying and the
dead. The eye of Matiwan, while watching the expiring
blaze in that of the old warrior, discovered the
approach of one of these sable enemies. She threw
up her hand to arrest or impede the blow, exclaiming,
as she did so, the name of the chief she defended. He
himself feebly strove to grasp the hatchet, which had
sunk from his hands, to defend himself, or at least to
strike the assailant; but life had only clustered, that
moment, in strength about his heart. The arm was
palsied; but the half-unclosing eye, which glowed
wildly upon the black, and arrested his blow much
more completely than the effort of Matiwan, attested
the yet reluctant consciousness. Life went with the last
effort, when, thinking only of the strife for his country,
his lips parted feebly with the cry of battle—“Sangarrah-me,
Yemassee—Sangarrah-me—Sangarrah-me!”

The eye was dim for ever. Looking no longer to the
danger of the stroke from the club of the negro, Matiwan
threw herself at length over the body, now doubly sacred
to that childless woman. At that moment the
lord palatine came up, in time to arrest the brutal blow
of the servile which threatened her.

“Matiwan,” said the palatine, stooping to raise her
from the body—“Matiwan, it is the chief?”

“Ah-cheray-me, ah-cheray-me, Sanutee—Ah-cheray-me,
ah-cheray-me, Yemassee!”

She was unconscious of all things, as they bore her
tenderly away, save that the Yemassee was no longer
the great nation. She only felt that the “well-beloved,”
as well of herself as of her people, looked forth,
with Occonestoga, wondering that she came not, from
the Blessed Valley of the Good Manneyto.