University of Virginia Library

2. II.

On the eastern banks of the Isundiga, or Savannah
river, there is a lofty tumulus, which the
insidious waters of the stream have long since begun
to undermine. On the summit of this tumulus,
the morning after the termination of this fatal
combat, stood a Yemassee warrior. The blood
upon his visage — his torn garments and broken
instruments of war, sufficiently testified to the recent
strifes in which he had been engaged. It
was Echotee, a valiant chief, who stood upon the
tumulus. His limbs were weary with toil and
flight — his eye was dim, and the melancholy sadness
of the Indian mouth was heightened into hate
and anguish. He busied himself in fitting new

sinews to his bow, and sharp flint heads to his arrows.
The hunting shirt which he wore — a finely
dressed buckskin of the brightest yellow, fantastically
inwrought with shells and beads — such decorations
as the tasteful woman, Hiwassee, his wife,
had fondly chosen for the purpose — was torn in
many places, and spots of the darkest red were
contrasted with the bright yellow of the garment.
Wounded, lone, and sorrowing, yet Echotee did
not despair. His eye had exile in it, but not fear;
neither did he despond. Firmness and manly
resolution shared with sorrow the habitations of
his soul. Anxiously, at moments, he looked towards
the forests behind him, as if in expectation;
but their dark intricacies uttered no sound or
voice, and he turned his eyes away in disappointment.
Then, after a brief pause, taking his way
down from the tumulus, he moved to a little streamlet
that trickled at the foot of the mound, and passing
partially through it, at length made its way to the
bosom of the Isundiga. Stooping to the stream,
he drank freely of its waters; then, returning hastily
to the mound, he proceeded, with a slender
shingle, with which he had provided himself, to dig
an opening in the hillock, as if contemplating a
place of sepulture. While he dug, he sang in a
low but unsubdued tone, a chant, in which he lamented
the fortunes of his fellows:—

“They are gone, and the night covers them.
My feet have no companion in the chase — the
hollow woods speak to me with the voices of
shadows — there is no life in their sounds. Where
art thou, Washattee — where speedest thou, whom
none yet has overtaken. On the far hills that rise
blue at the evening I see thee — thou hast found the
valley of joy, and the plum-groves that are ever in
bloom. But who, brother, shall gather thy bones —
who take care of thy spirit — where shall the
children look, when they seek for thy grave. Thou
art all untended in the green valleys, and the ghosts
of the slain bend over thee with many frowns.
Comes she, the maid of thy bosom, to dress the
board of the hunter? Brings she at evening thy
venison? When the night is dark, and the brown
vulture stoops on thy path, and snuffs up blood of
thy spilling, I fear for thee, my brother. Thou
canst not sit in the green valley, for the warrior
lives who has slain thee, and mine arrow may reach
him not. Yet will I sing for thee, Washattee — I
will sing for thee thy death-song, and tell the ghosts
who frown, of thy many victories; thou wert mighty
in the chase — the high hills did not overcome
thee. Thy boyhood was like the manhood of

other men — thou didst not creep in thy childhood.
From the first, thy feet were strong to walk, and
what speed of the warrior was like unto thine?
Well did they call thee the young panther — the eye
and the might of the young panther's mother was
thine. The strong tide, when thou swammest,
bore thee not back — thou didst put it by like an
infant. In the chase, thou wert an arrow which
laughs at the bird's wing — in the battle, thou wert
a keen tooth that goes deep in the heart. Thus
said the Muscoghee, when his eyes swam in the
cloud as he lay under thy knee — thus said the
Catawba, when thy hand struck through the long
willows by the lake of Sarattay. The ghosts of
the Muscoghee and the Catawba shall wait for thy
coming, and meet thee to serve, when thine eye
opens upon the green valley, and thy shadow darts
forward on the silent chase. But thou, oh Yemassee
— thou of the broad arrow and the big wing
— it is sad for thee when none but Echotee may
stand up for thy people. Thy wing is down
among the reeds that lie beside the river — thy
broad arrow is broken on the plain. Thy shadow
grows small upon thy tumulus, and I speak thy
name in a whisper. Opitchi-manneyto looks on
thee in wrath. He joyed in the last cry of Sanutee
— he joyed when the death-song came thick
from the lips of Chigilli — he joyed when the pale
faces cut the sinews in thy thousand arms. Who
shall sing thy greatness, Yemassee — what warrior
to come after? What woman with long hair shall
creep through the forest, looking in the evening
for thy scattered bones? Who shall scare the
wolf from thy carcass, as he tears thy flesh beneath
the moon. The fox burrows under the hearth of
the hunter, and there is no fire to drive him away.
Silence lives lonely in thy dwelling. Thou art
gone. Spirit of many ages! thy voice is sunk
into a whisper; and thy name, it is an echo on the
hill tops. Thy glories are the graves of many
enemies, but thy own grave is unknown.”

The death-chant of the warrior was broken. A
sudden cry of sorrow reached his ears from the
neighboring woods, and was immediately succeeded
by the appearance of about thirty other
Indians, of both sexes, emerging from the shadowy
umbrage. These were all that were left of his
nation. Echotee looked on them for an instant
with sudden interest, but his eyes were again as instantly
dropped upon the ground, and his hands
continued to labor upon the grave which he had
begun. Meanwhile the Indians advanced, bearing
along with them, from the woods, the dead body
of a warrior. This was Washattee, the warrior

whose death-song had been just sung by his brother.
Beside this, Echotee gave no other sign of
sorrow. No trace of that grief which might be
supposed natural to his uttered lamentations, was
visible in his action or face. His words seemed
to fall from lips of marble. His was the majesty
of wo, without its weakness.

Washattee had fled with the few survivors from
the fatal field of Pocota-ligo; but his wounds were
fatal, and he only fled from a quick to a protracted
form of death. He perished in the forests when
no longer in danger from the pursuing foe. They
were now to bury him. The ceremonies of burial
among the savages are usually simple. The warriors,
as they assisted to deposite their comrade in
the grave, chanted over him a song, not unlike
that which has already been recited. They enumerated
his victories over the Catawba, the Muscoghee,
and other nations — his particular successes
in the chase; and their only and common regret
was, that his death had not been avenged in the
blood of the victor. While they sang, Echotee,
who remained silent all the while, placed beside
him, in the grave, his bow, his arrows, knife, pipe,
and a plentiful supply of flint arrow-heads, to meet
the emergencies of the chase in the shady vallies,
to which, according to their faith, his steps were

already bending. This done, and the soft mould
heaped upon him, after a brief consultation, they
stepped one by one into the order of march known
as the Indian file, making but one footstep for the
eyes of the pursuer, and followed, at equal distances,
the guidance of the brave Echotee. By the
side of the latter, came, in tears, the young and
beautiful Hiwassee, the maiden who, but a little
time before, had broken with him the wand of
marriage — the sacred wand of Checkamoysee.
To the deeper western forests they bent their way,
and the shadows of evening soon sank behind them
like a wall, separating them forever from their native
homes.