The Yemassee :: :: University of Virginia Library

she had told him. The strange vessel had indeed
taken up anchors and changed her position. Availing
herself of a favouring breeze, she ascended the
river, a few miles nigher the settlements of the
Yemassees, and now lay fronting the left wing of the
pastor's cottage;—the right of it, as it stood upon
the jutting tongue of land around which wound the
river, she had before fronted from below. The new
position could only have been chosen for the facility
of intercourse with the Indians, which, from the want
of a good landing on this side of the river, had been
wanting to them where she originally lay. In addition
to this intelligence, Harrison learned that which still
further quickened his anxieties. The wife of Granger,
a woman of a calm, stern, energetic disposition, who
had been something more observant than her husband,
informed him that there had been a considerable intercourse
already between the vessel and the Indians
since her remove—that their boats had been around
her constantly during the morning, and that boxes and
packages of sundry kinds had been carried from her
to the shore; individual Indians, too, had been distinguished
walking her decks; a privilege which, it was
well known, had been denied to the whites, who had
not been permitted the slightest intercourse. All this
confirmed the already active apprehensions of Harrison.
He could no longer doubt of her intentions, or
of the intentions of the Yemassees; yet, how to proceed—how
to prepare—on whom to rely—in what
quarter to look for the attack, and what was the
extent of the proposed insurrection;—was it partial,
or general? Did it include the Indian nations generally—twenty-eight
of which, at that time, occupied
the Carolinas, or was it confined to the Yemassees
and Spaniards? and if the latter were concerned, were
they to be looked for in force, and whether by land or
by sea? These were the multiplied questions, and to
resolve them was the great difficulty in the way of
Harrison. That there were now large grounds for suspicion,
he could no longer doubt; but how to proceed

in arousing the people, and whether it were necessary
to arouse the colony at large, or only that portion of it
more immediately in contact with the Indians—and
how to inform them in time for the crisis which he
now felt was at hand, and involving the fate of the infant
colony—all depended upon the correctness of
his acquired information, and yet his fugitive spy came
not back, sent no word, and might have betrayed his
mission.

The doubts grew with their contemplation. The
more he thought of the recent Yemassee discontents,
the more he dreaded to think. He knew that this discontent
was not confined to the Yemassee, but extended
even to the waters of the Keowee and to the Apalachian
mountains. The Indians had suffered on all sides
from the obtrusive borderers, and had been treated, he
felt conscious, with less than regard and justice by
the provincial government itself. But a little time
before, the voluntary hostages of the Cherokees had
been treated with indignity and harshness by the
assembly of Carolina; having been incarcerated in a
dungeon under cruel circumstances of privation, which
the Cherokees at large did not appear to feel in a less
degree than the suffering hostages themselves, and
were pacified with extreme difficulty. The full array
of these circumstances to the mind of Harrison, satisfied
him of the utter senselessness of any confidence in
that friendly disposition of the natives, originally truly
felt, but which had been so repeatedly abused as to be
no longer entertained, or only entertained as a mask to
shelter feelings directly opposite in character. The
increasing consciousness of danger, and the failure
of Occonestoga, on whose intelligence he had so
greatly depended, momentarily added to his disquiet,
by leaving him entirely at a loss as to the time, direction,
and character of that danger which it had been
his wish and province to provide against. Half soliloquizing
as he thought, and half addressing Granger,
who stood beside him in the upper and habitable room

of the Block House, the desire of Harrison thus found
its way to his lips.

“Bad enough, Granger—and yet what to do—how to
move—for there's little use in moving without a purpose.
We can do nothing without intelligence, and
that we must have though we die for it. We must
seek and find out their aim, their direction, their force,
and what they depend upon. If they come alone we
can manage them, unless they scatter simultaneously
upon various points and take us by surprise, and this,
if I mistake not, will be their course. But I fear this
sailor-fellow brings them an ugly coadjutor in the
power of the Spaniard. He comes from St. Augustine
evidently; and may bring them men—a concealed
force, and this accounts for his refusal to admit any of
our people on board. The boxes too,—did you mark
them well, Granger?”

“As well as I might, sir, from the Chief's Bluff.”

“And what might they contain, think you?”

“Goods and wares, sir, I doubt not: blankets perhaps—”

“Or muskets and gunpowder. Your thoughts run
upon nothing but stock in trade, and the chance of too
much competition. Now, is it not quite as likely that
those boxes held hatchets, and knives, and fire-arms?
Were they not generally of one size and shape—long,
narrow—eh? Did you note that?”

“They were, my lord, all of one size, as you
describe them. I saw that myself, and so said to
Richard, but he did not mind.” Thus spoke the wife
of Granger, in reply to the question which had been
addressed to her husband.

“Did you speak to me?” was the stern response of
Harrison, in a tone of voice and severity not usually
employed by the speaker, accompanying his speech by
a keen penetrating glance, which, passing alternately
from husband to wife, seemed meant to go through them
both.

“I did speak to you, sir,—and you will forgive me
for having addressed any other than Captain Harrison,”

she replied, composedly and calmly, though
in a manner meant to conciliate and excuse the inadvertence
of which she had been guilty in conferring
upon him a title which in that region it seemed his
policy to avoid. Then, as she beheld that his glance
continued to rest in rebuke upon the shrinking features
of her husband, she proceeded thus—

“You will forgive him too, sir, I pray you; but it is
not so easy for a husband to keep any secret from his
wife, and least of all, such as that which concerns a
person who has provoked so much interest in all.”

“You are adroit, mistress, and your husband owes
you much. A husband does find it difficult to keep any
thing secret from his wife but his own virtues; and of
those she seldom dreams. But pray, when was this
wonderful revelation made to you?”

“You were known to me, sir, ever since the Foresters
made you captain, just after the fight with the
Coosaws at Tulifinnee Swamp.”

“Indeed!” was the reply; “well, my good dame, you
have had my secret long enough to keep it now. I
am persuaded you can keep it better than your husband.
How now, Granger! you would be a politician
too, and I am to have the benefit of your counsels, and
you would share mine. Is't not so—and yet, you would
fly to your chamber, and share them with a tongue,
which, in the better half of the sex, would wag it on
every wind, from swamp or sea, until all points of the
compass grew wiser upon it.”

“Why, captain,” replied the trader, half stupidly,
half apologetically—“Moll is a close body enough.”

“So is not Moll's worser half,” was the reply. “But
no more of this folly. There is much for both of us
to do, and not a little for you if you will do it.”

“Speak, sir, I will do much for you, captain.”

“And for good pay. This it is. You must to the
Yemassees—to Pocota-ligo—see what they do, find
out what they design, and look after Occonestoga—are
you ready?”

“It were a great risk, captain.”

“Why, true, and life itself is a risk. We breathe
not an instant without hazard of its loss, and a plumstone,
to an open mouth at dinner, is quite as perilous
as the tenth bullet. Sleep is a risk, and one presses
not his pillow o'nights, without a prayer against
eternity before morning. Show me the land where
we risk nothing, and I will risk all to get there.”

“It's as much as my life's worth, captain.”

“Psha! we can soon count up that. Thou art
monstrous fond of thy carcass, now, and by this I
know thou art growing wealthy. We shall add to thy
gains, if thou wilt go on this service. The assembly
will pay thee well, as they have done before. Thou
hast not lost by its service.”

“Nothing, sir—but have gained greatly. In moderate
adventure, I am willing to serve them now; but not in
this. The Yemassees were friendly enough then, and
so was Sanutee. It is different now, and all the
favour I could look for from the old chief, would be a
stroke of his hatchet, to save me from the fire-torture.”

“But why talk of detection? I do not desire that
thou shouldst allow thyself to be taken. Think you,
when I go into battle, the thought of being shot ever
troubles me? no! If I thought that, I should not perhaps
go. My only thought is how to shoot others;
and you should think, in this venture, not of your own,
but the danger of those around you. You are a good
Indian hunter, and have practised all their skill. Take
the swamp, hug the tree—line the thicket, see and
hear, nor shout till you are out of the wood. There's
no need to thrust your nose into the Indian kettles.”

“It might be done, captain; but if caught, it would
be so much the worse for me. I can't think of it, sir.”

“Caught indeed! A button for the man who prefers
fear rather than hope. Will not an hundred pounds
teach thee reason? Look, man, it is here with thy
wife—will that not move thee to it?”

“Not five hundred, captain,—not five hundred,”
replied the trader, decisively. “I know too well the
danger, and shan't forget the warning which old Sanutee

gave me. I've seen enough of it to keep me back;
and though I am willing to do a great deal, captain, for
you as well as the assembly, without any reward, as I
have often done before,—for you have all done a great
deal for me,—yet it were death, and a horrible death,
for me to undertake this. I must not—I do not say I
will not—but in truth I cannot—I dare not.”

Thus had the dialogue between Harrison and the
trader gone on for some time, the former urging and
the latter refusing. The wife of the latter all the
while had looked on and listened in silence, almost unnoticed
by either, but her countenance during the discussion
was full of eloquent speech. The colour in
her cheeks now came and went, her eye sparkled, her
lip quivered, and she moved to and fro with emotion
scarcely suppressed, until her husband came to his
settled conclusion not to go, as above narrated, when
she boldly advanced between him and Harrison, and
with her eye settling scornfully upon him, where he
stood, she thus addressed him:—

“Now out upon thee, Richard, for a mean spirit.
Thou wouldst win money only when the game is easy
and all thine own. Hast thou not had the pay of the
assembly, time upon time, and for little risk? and because
the risk is now greater, wilt thou hold back like
a man having no heart? I shame to think of that thou
hast spoken. But the labour and the risk thou fearest
shall be mine. I fear not the savages—I know their
arts and can meet them, and so couldst thou, Granger,
did thy own shadow not so frequently beset thee to
scare. Give me the charge which thou hast, captain
—and, Granger, touch not the pounds. Thou wilt
keep them, my lord, for other service. I will go without
the pay.”

“Thou shalt not, Moll—thou shalt not,” cried the
trader, interposing.

“But I will, Richard, and thou knowest I will when
my lips have said it. If there be danger, I have no
children to feel my want, and it is but my own life, and
even its loss may save many.”

“Moll—Moll!” exclaimed the trader, half entreating,
half commanding in his manner, but she heeded him
not.

“And now, my lord, the duty. What is to be done?”
Harrison looked on as she spoke, in wonder and admiration,
then replied, warmly seizing her hand as he
did so.

“Now, by heaven, woman, but thou hast a soul—a
noble, strong, manly soul, such as would shame thousands
of the more presumptuous sex. But thy husband
has said right in this. Thou shalt not go, and thy
words have well taught me that the task should be
mine own.”

“What! my lord!” exclaimed both the trader and
his wife—“thou wilt not trust thy person in their
hands?”

“No—certainly not. Not if I can help it—but
whatever be the risk that seems so great to all, I should
not seek to hazard the lives of others, where my own
is as easily come at, and where my own is the greater
stake. So, Granger, be at rest for thyself and wife.
I put thyself first in safety, where I know thou
wishest it. For thee—thou art a noble woman, and
thy free proffer of service is indeed good service
this hour to me, since it brings me to recollect my own
duty. The hundred pounds are thine, Granger!”

“My lord!”

“No lording, man—no more of that, but hear me.
In a few hours and with the dusk I shall be off. See
that you keep good watch when I am gone, for the
Block House will be the place of retreat for our people
in the event of commotion, and will therefore most
likely be a point of attack with the enemy. Several
have been already warned, and will doubtless be here
by night. Be certain you know whom you admit.
Grimstead and Grayson, with several of the foresters,
will come with their families, and with moderate caution
you can make good defence. No more.” Thus
counselling, and directing some additional preparations
to the trader and his wife, he called for Hector, who

a moment after made his appearance, as if hurried
away from a grateful employ, with a mouth greased
from ear to ear, and a huge mass of fat bacon still
clutched tenaciously between his fingers.

“Hector!”

“Sa, mossa.”

“Hast fed Dugdale to-day?”

“Jist done feed 'em, mossa.”

“See that you give him nothing more—and get the
horse in readiness. I go up the river-trace by the
night.”

“He done, mossa, as you tell me:” and the black
retired to finish the meal, in the enjoyment of which
he had been interrupted. At dusk, under the direction
of his master, who now appeared gallantly mounted
upon his noble steed, Hector led Dugdale behind him
to the entrance of a little wood, where the river-trace
began upon which his master was going. Alighting
from his horse, Harrison played for a few moments
with the strong and favourite dog, and thrusting his
hand, among other things, down the now-and-then extended
jaws of the animal, he seemed to practise a
sport to which he was familiar. After this, he made
the negro put Dugdale's nose upon the indented track,
and then instructed him, in the event of his not returning
by the moon-rise, to unmuzzle and place him upon
the trace at the point he was leaving. This done,
he set off in a rapid gait, Dugdale vainly struggling to
go after him.