University of Virginia Library

54. CHAPTER LIV.
THE BATTLE OF KIAWAH.

The harboring-place in which Calvert had posted Ligon, with
his remaining body of marines, had been chosen with singular
circumspection; at once with reference to concealment, and to the
maintenance of a watch upon the hollow tree in which the sheaf
of arrows had been hidden. He well apprehended that the first
visit of the old chief, Cussoboe, would be made to the tree, to ascertain
if his commands had been obeyed by his son; and, probably,
with the hope to meet him there, bringing the keys of the
barony and of all its offices.

Ligon, an old Indian-fighter as well as scout, lay close, grim as
death, and not so impatient for his prey as to peril his prospect
by any premature exhibitions. He had distributed his men along
and within a thick piece of underwood which formed a boundary,
as it were, between the original forests and the opened grounds
of the barony. He could there behold all who emerged from the
former, and yet obtain sufficient glimpses of the latter. His people
crouched low, or lay at length, in a line, almost within touch
of each other. It may be that some slept, in the two or three
hours of watch and weariness which they were compelled to endure.

But Ligon himself never closed an eye, but kept scouting in
short circuits, as the panther does about the farmyard. None of
his own men knew when he departed or when he returned, so
stealthy was his footstep; but in these circuits, which he continually
enlarged, he came upon the sleeping boy, Iswattee. The

starlight, feebly penetrating the massed boughs overhead, enabled
him to discover the prostrate boy only when he stood beside him;
for it was to one of the deepest covers of the thicket that the
youth had gone in which to pursue his regimen. Perhaps Ligon
would have failed to detect him when he did, had he not set his
foot down upon a small pile of smouldering ashes which were still
warm, and overturned the little earthen pot in which Iswattee had
made his root-decoctions. This led our scout to a close scrutiny,
and conducted him to the Indian boy, who was wrapped in sleep,
and murmuring in some fearful dream.

The first instinct of Ligon was to brain the sleeper with his
tomahawk; but he paused, reflecting that this stroke might lead
to a premature exposure of his presence and his party, and possibly
defeat the purpose for which his ambush had been set. Besides,
he knew not how many more sleepers might be found in
the same dense harborage. A stroke which should merely hurt
— one cry of the wounded youth — would awaken all! Our scout,
governed by these considerations, forebore the stroke, and contented
himself with removing the hatchet, knife, bow and arrows,
which lay beside the sleeper. These he bore away with him,
moving back to his ambush with as much caution as before, but
with more decided steps, as he discovered that the boy was sleeping
uneasily, had shown some restlessness while he was withdrawing
the weapons, and would probably soon awaken. Our
scout regained the copse in which his men were crouching, and,
with a touch of the hand on each shoulder, roused them to preparation.
He naturally fancied that the red men were all about in
the forest cover; and waiting, as is their wont, for the near approach
of dawning, to begin the assault. As the morning hour
is usually that when the deepest sleep falls upon men, so do they
train themselves to waken at that hour, the better to take advantage
of their enemies.

It might have been three quarters of an hour after this event,
when a dry branch was heard to break, and the dry leaves to
crinkle, as under an approaching footstep. Soon, Ligon beheld a
warrior, fully equipped, Indian fashion, for strife and massacre,
emerging from the shade and passing over a brief open space in
the woods, in the direction of the hollow tree. He was followed
by three others, who came out severally from the forest. The

first who appeared was old Cussoboe himself; the others were all
of them chiefs, and one of them his brother, well known to the
whites of that day for his prowess. This was Ocketee. He has
left his name to a swamp and river.

The old chief searched the tree, and uttered an exclamation of
rage and disappointment. He had grasped the remaining arrows
in his hand, six or seven in number, and held them up to his companions.
A perfect torrent of execrations, in the dialect of his
people, burst from his lips. A long and animated discussion followed
between the party; but, though Ligon knew the language,
he was not sufficiently near to distinguish the words. He could
only hear the sounds; and these, he observed, were warm, violent,
and very savage. The old chief crushed the arrows in his hands,
and dashed them to his feet. Then, as if the conference had
reached a conclusion, he put his hands to his mouth, and uttered
a deep, wailing cry, like that of some sea-fowl, in unison with its
own melancholy, and its wild abode of foam, and storm, and
ocean.

Such a cry, at once deep and shrill — well mistaken for that of
a sea-bird — might reach the barony, and the ears of all its inmates,
yet occasion no surprise to senses not familiar with the
capacity of the red men for imitating the cries of beast and bird,
and their habit of employing these as signals in stratagem and
war. Ligon readily concluded that the cry had some such signification.
It was easy for him, where he stood with his men, to
have rushed out upon the chiefs and butchered them, or to have
shot them down; but he knew not how many savages were harbored
in the woods, and was well aware that the first sound of
strife would bring forth all their myrmidons, supposing them to
be at hand. He itched to be busy with them, but had schooled
his passions to a wonderful patience and forbearance.

The cry of Cussoboe brought forth his warriors, perhaps two
hundred painted savages in all, and one group dragged along with
them the boy Iswattee, whom they had stumbled over, as Ligon
had done, and in less than half an hour after he had left him.

Iswattee came forward staggering, feeble with his regimen, and
perhaps half stupid still from his narcostics. He was bewildered,
but approached his father, who, at first, seemed not to know him.
Some one said, “Iswattee!” At the word, Cussoboe caught up

the broken arrows, still in the sheaf of rattlesnake-skin, and thrust
them in the very face of the boy; then, ere any one could conceive
his purpose, or interpose, he raised his hand suddenly and
smote him on the head with the hammer of his stone hatchet,
bringing him to the earth at a blow. He was about to repeat the
stroke, when Ocketee, the uncle of the boy, darted between, and
defended the body. Some sharp words passed between the parties,
and there was every chance of a violent quarrel, for old Cussoboe
raged like a tiger; but several of the other chiefs put in,
and appeased the disputants. Three of the red men took up the
senseless boy, and, after searching him — as Ligon supposed, for
the keys of the barony — they bore him away from his father's
sight, and hid him in the thickets, where one of them remained
with him.

A hurried consultation then followed among the chiefs, the result
of which was that three of them, old Cussoboe still in the
lead, emerged from the forest, taking the direction of the woods
and grounds about the barony. Suffering them to go ahead some
hundred yards, the main body of the red men advanced also, and
planted themselves along the very edge of the open grounds,
gradually spreading out on each hand; so that, at a given signal,
they might contract their wings, and cover every point of the settlement.

Watching every movement, and suffering the whole force of
the enemy to leave the forest, Ligon set his own squad in motion,
but halted them as soon as he had got them in line and order,
keeping them close in hand and still in cover. He then stole forward
himself sufficiently far to ascertain that the red men were
still in the wood, just on its edge, and perfectly concealed in its
shadows from the settlement. Subsequently, when they advanced
toward the houses, as they did at the signal of the chief, he brought
his men forward, so as to occupy the very place they had left,
on the edge of the woods, the background of shadow giving them
ample security from sight. Here he examined the priming of
every musket and pistol. All had been provided, from the cassique's
armory, with guns. Their pistols and cutlasses they had
brought with them from the ship.

“And now,” said Ligon, with a low chuckle, “ef we have n't
got these rascally red-skins in a tight place, then I never seed a

wolf in a steel trap. Only go to it, fellows, with a will, and you 'll
see the red feathers fly!”

Old Cussoboe, with his two companions, proceeded to the examination
of the several houses of the settlement. They stole,
like ghosts, silent as the grave, from tree to tree, always taking
shrewd care to secure a cover when they could. They went
round the armory, which was to them a special object of attention.
In the rear of it they had a long consultation, which the marines
within could hear, but not comprehend. They tried at the lock,
but it was fast. There was also some heavy weight, some bulky
article, against the door. This was a surprise to them. It argued
that some one slept within; more than one was not thought
of. There were holes in the sides of the building, which was
pierced for musketry; but no windows, no outlet but the one door.
After some minutes spent in consultation here, they stole, in like
cautious manner, to the dwelling-house, and that of the workmen.
The carriage-house and stables were left unexamined. They
seemed to know the grounds well, and up to a late moment had
evidently had their spies upon it. They found all the buildings
securely fastened; that is to say, so securely as to require some
degree of violence to break in. But they also found all silent as
death or sleep could make them. They could see no lights, except
in one chamber of the main dwelling, and this gleamed only
through a crevice in the shutter. It was in the chamber of Olive;
the windows had been quietly fastened by the cassique, at a moment
when Harry Calvert was kneeling by Olive's bedside, after
his first arrival.

As if satisfied with what they had seen, the old chief, Cussoboe,
gave a signal which brought up his men, two hundred at least,
who came forward into the open grounds as cautiously, one by
one — taking the trees severally for cover, the fences and houses
— as if their leaders had not already felt the way. They divided
into three parties, under as many chiefs. One party completely
encircled the dwelling, and squatted close to the basement around
it, waiting the word; another surrounded, in like manner, the building
where the workmen were stationed; while a third, old Cussoboe
at their head, placed themselves about the armory. This
building was especially their object, and here they made their
first demonstration. There was a small party that squatted beside

the line of unfinished pickets, which formed the beginning of
the covered way from the dwelling to the armory; and others,
again, individuals, occupied here and there a tree. After a few
words, three stalwart Indians advanced from Cussoboe's division,
and with their hatchets began to work, as quietly as possible,
upon the fastenings of the log-house. They had scarcely commenced,
however, when a pistol blazed through one of the musketholes,
tumbling one of the three incontinently over.

Then rose the whoop from the whole band, as if by a common
instinct — that fearful whoop of death, which had so suddenly
startled all in the chamber of the dying Olive, as we have already
seen. She had not so completely sunk into the lethargy which
was overspreading all her faculties, as to be unconscious of those
fearful howlings which had sent a thrill of horror through all the
rest. She started from her seeming sleep — for sleep she did not:
her eyes were only shut, while her mind enjoyed a sort of sweet,
dreaming reverie, strangely sweet and peaceful, as assured that it
was Harry Berkeley's hand which held her own. And, in this
consciousness of her mind, her fingers had failed to note that the
hand had been withdrawn. She started, and cried aloud:—

“Oh, that horrid noise! Ah, Harry, Harry! where are you?
Do not leave me, Harry! — not now! Hold me still, Harry!”

He was already at the door. He could hear, though the tones
were very feeble. One sad look did he give toward the couch;
then, dashing his hand across his eyes, he hurried away to the
basement. The cassique followed him as rapidly as possible.

“It is no time for tears, Edward. Yet, oh the horrors of such
a conflict, now — now! That such a blessed angel should take
her flight from earth in such a tempest!”

“Happy that she flies from all tempests, my brother!” answered
the cassique, solemnly.

At that moment Zulieme, who had followed both, caught our
rover's arm.

“O Harry, is it the red savages?”

“Yes, child! But get you back, out of danger, and keep away
from the windows. Do not leave Olive now, if you love me.”

“And you wish me to love you, Harry?” whispered the little
wife, pulling him down to her, while she threw her arms round
his neck and kissed him.

“To be sure, child! Yes, yes, Zulieme; if I have heart for
anything now, I love you.”

And, as if suddenly reflecting that, in the vicissitudes of the
night, he might be cut off, he was even tender in his embrace —
more tender than we have usually seen him; and when he put
her away, it was with a kiss.

“Now, back with you, child, and cling to Olive! You know
all now. Go, if you love me, and cherish her with love to the
last; and catch her dying words, her dying breath, and bring
them to me hereafter.”

She obeyed him without pause — was now quite satisfied to
obey. Poor little urchin! love — even her brute-husband's love
— was fast growing to be a necessity with her heart; a great craving,
at all events.

This episode occupied but a few seconds. When she was gone,
the cassique said:—

“I know none of your plans, Harry. There must be hundreds
of these savages, from that whoop!”

“There are! My arrangements are very simple, but, I think,
sufficient. We have, as so many citadels, your house, the armory,
the house of your laborers, and the carriage-house and stables.
These are all made tolerably secure, and each has its well-armed
garrison: judge if the Indians can penetrate here, without suffering
great slaughter. In addition, I have at least twenty sailors in the
woods, well armed with musket, pistol, and cutlass. The red men
have no firearms, unless they have procured them by some depredation.
They are not yet skilled in the use of them. Our
various posts cover all the space between the several houses.
Our force in the woods will reserve their fire to receive them,
when we shall have beaten them off. They know nothing of our
defences, and it must be rather a massacre than a fight. But it is
better that it is so. We must fill them with sudden terrors, by a
terrible punishment. Sharp punishment, at first, will shorten the
war. And now, leave it to me, Edward. I would beg you to go
and keep with Olive, but that I know—”

“How can you propose such a thing, Harry!”

“I do not propose it. I know that to propose it, to a man of
character, would be an insult. I should so hold it myself. What
I mean is this: that everything has been so thoroughly arranged,

you are not needed. I, in fact, am scarcely needed, but for signalling.”

“Hark! they are hammering at the entrance; and, save that
single shot, your men do not give fire.”

“I have ordered it so. I wish them to come on in body.
Your door is well bolted and barred now; though, when I first
came, it was so simply locked, that with a key I found entrance.
They will hardly find entrance so easy now. But they need to
be watched. Do you keep and watch the passage, while I go
below. If you find them making any rapid progress, which they
could only do with a two-pounder or a battering-ram, let me know.
Watch here, Edward, where they seem to be at work.”

Our cruiser went below, leaving the cassique in the passage.
The latter was armed — had caught up pistols and gun; his sword
was at his side. He was eager for strife, if only to escape from
thought; the silence of his wife's chamber still as solemnly calling
to him as did the clamors of the savages without. He was impatient
of the inaction which his situation forced upon him; and, for
awhile — so feeble was the agency employed by the assailants of
the door — they made no seeming progress. The door was a panelled
one, but heavy, and made of hard pine. The Indians, smiting
with their stone hatchets, did not aim, as the white men would
do, at the panels; but struck without discrimination, here and
there, and as frequently upon the cross as the panel. The door
was secured by a bar of lightwood as well as by the lock. But a
white man, with axe or hatchet, could have hewn it through in
twenty minutes. Our cassique listened to the strokes with growing
impatience; and, as if to answer his impatience, it was soon
evident that new assailants had come to the work. The blows
were now harder, made with a heavier implement, and delivered
with more judicious aim upon a single panel at a time. Watching
this progress, he at length hastened below, where the whole
body lay perdu, grimly silent, waiting their moment. Harry Calvert
met him at the door, and they spoke together in whisper.
The cassique said:—

“Their hatchet-strokes are telling above. The splinters begin
to fly. They have already beaten a hole through one of the
panels.”

“Ah! well, I am rather glad of that, for we may soon get a

chance at them, which we have not here. Situated as we are, we
do not command the immediate entrance, only the space five or
six feet from it. See here!—”

And he took him to the front, and, through a crevice, just wide
enough for the muzzle of a blunderbuss, he showed him the area,
where the red men were sufficiently visible, and scattered, skipping
about the scene, dotting the grounds in all directions between
house and arsenal, and in perpetual motion.

“You see,” said the cruiser, “that we should shoot unprofitably
while they are thus scattered. We have too few shot to throw
away any. We must make each bullet tell. I wait to see them
massed together. They wait to gain some advantage — to effect
an opening; and, this done, you may look to see them rush, in
headlong crowds, to the point. That will be our time. It is for
this we wait. Now, I shall be quite willing that they shall beat
in the panels. It will have two good results: we shall be able to
crack at them through the opening, and from the passage, where
for the present we can do nothing; and it will bring on their
masses tumultuously. Once let us have them massed! See this
blunderbuss! it carries a pound of slugs. I have another like it
here. Two blunderbusses and ten muskets, all crammed with
slugs, will be apt to create a sensation among the rascals.”

“Good heavens, Harry, it will be a massacre!”

“Exactly! If we do not make it so, we are lost! They can
overwhelm us with numbers — fire the house above our heads —
utterly destroy us — unless we can make it a massacre! We can
not afford to fight with them man for man. No! our hope is to
bring them on in masses, assailing every one of our garrisons at
the same time. With this object, I have specially instructed our
several leaders to reserve their fire, or so to fire as to persuade
the wretches that we have but a man or two in each. Now, let
them gain an opening, or get the promise of one, and they grow
mad with excitement; and you will see in what swarms the red
devils will rush toward us! Then, they shall have it!”

And he slapped the great brass barrel of the blunderbuss which
he carried, with an exulting and determined action.

“The miserable wretches!” groaned the cassique.

“Hark ye, good brother of mine, none of your philanthropy
now! Blood is the law of battle! We must show tooth and

nail. We must bite and rend. Get you above, Edward, and
report progress. Or, stay here, and keep my place, while I go
see.”

Without waiting for an answer, he stole up-stairs, advancing
cautiously along the passage, until he sheltered himself in the left
corner near the door, his right hand free. The passage was almost
wholly dark, save a little gleam from an opening which the
assailants had beaten through one panel. They were still at
work upon a second, which was yielding in splinters under their
stone hatchets. Calvert watched his moment, and lifted his blunderbuss;
but he instantly put it down.

“Not this!” he muttered to himself. “I must not waste its
contents upon a man or two.”

He pulled from his belt one of the ship's pistols, thrust it suddenly
forward, and drew the trigger. Down went the stalwart
savage who had been hammering at the door, with a brace of bullets
through his head. He was dead ere he fell!

What a yell followed from a hundred throats! There was a
rush of a score or more, some of whom eagerly seized the corpse
and bore it off, while others darted with their shoulders against
the door, as if to break in by the mere weight of their bodies;
and others, again, with their hatchets, renewed the strokes upon
the panels.

To two of these sturdy assailants the rest yielded the labor.
Only two could work profitably at the spot. But the crowd had
increased without. Enraged by the loss of one of their stoutest
warriors, they were yet encouraged by the fact that only a single
shot had been fired. This argued the presence of but one defender,
and perhaps but a single weapon. They had cut off the
connection with the arsenal and the house of the workmen; and,
though seemingly well aware that the garrison of the latter was
strong, they counted upon the helplessness of the two other places.
This emboldened them in their attacks. Calvert congratulated
himself on the approach of the moment when he could effect the
havoc which he desired.

“Thick grass,” he said, as he again went below — using the
very language of the Hun against Rome — “thick grass is easier
cut than thin.”

He said to the cassique, as he got below:—

“Now, Edward, get to your post again! Keep in cover, and
use your pistols only, and only when you can make your mark.
I have had a chance, and have used it. These red rascals will
be apt to come on now. They are thickening; they are getting
feverish and impatient. Just so soon as they get thoroughly enraged,
shall we have them on us; and then! — But go! Keep
in cover, for these fellows will deliver their arrows through a keyhole.”

The cassique promptly obeyed. Though quite as brave as his
brother, he yet, with all others, tacitly felt and acknowledged that
superiority of resource, that authority in command, which, in the
case of the latter, was the fruit of a long experience in strife.
Calvert had a motive for hurrying the cassique back to the passage,
the entrance to which he saw would, for some while yet,
baffle the assailants. But he also foresaw that the red men could
not much longer curb their impatience, and that they would almost
unconsciously accumulate about the several points of attack,
in numbers, irrespective of the commands of their leaders. They
were hammering at the door of the arsenal, even as at that of the
mansion. They had simply been stung and irritated by the single
shot from each, which had taken down its victim. Calvert
felt sure that he would soon enjoy his desired opportunity, in delivering
all his fire upon their masses.

“Two blunderbusses,” he counted again and again to himself —
“two blunderbusses and ten muskets!” He did not desire his
brother to be present at the discharge. He respected the error
(as he held it) of philanthropic tenderness for the red men which
the cassique entertained. He whispered all around among his
men:—

“They will soon make a rush! Wait my orders, and fire low!
You are on a line with them; your muzzles range with your
hips, and will cover their bodies. That will do. Shoot exactly
level, and just where the crowd is thickest. Blunderbuss” — to
the fellow who carried this second formidable weapon — “fire last,
and as they scatter!”

He had hardly spoken, when the rush was made, at once upon
dwelling-house and armory. The crowd pressed the persons before
them, mounted the steps of the dwelling to the door, and the
rear still kept thrusting on the front. There was a great shouting

— the war-whoop — a flight of arrows at every window, and tomahawks
were hurled against the shutters, in their rage. Calvert
watched every movement impatiently. His moment came at
last!

“Now,” said he, “let them feel you! Give it them!”

And, as he spoke, a burst of fire followed, which was echoed
seemingly from the several garrisons.

It was no echo! Each of these places had been assailed, in
the same manner, at the same moment; and each had poured
forth its treasured volley among the swarming assailants, with
like terrible effect. It was the first notification that the savages
had of any formidable force in preparation for them. They were
confounded. For a moment all was confusion and consternation.
One universal groan went up; cries of pain; shrieks of terror;
while, in front of each of the garrisoned places, lay one or more
piles of slain and wounded: the slain, prostrate on face or back;
the wounded, writhing to extricate their limbs from incumbent
bodies, and draw themselves, if possible, out of the melée. Ocketee,
the chief, had fallen, slain outright. Cussoboe, however, was
unhurt; and he came on again, raging like a tiger, and striving to
bring up his warriors a second time to the conflict.

But this was no easy matter. The red men quickly feel their
losses. They count a single warrior slain, as a defeat. They
stood appalled. They now felt that the barony had been prepared
against them, and with such a force as they hardly believed
to be anywhere embodied in the colony. But, as the cries of the
sufferers reached their ears; as the wounded dragged themselves
out of the scene, and became known to them; as they counted
and missed the persons slain — they grew furious; smote their
enemies in the air; howled to their gods in imprecation; practised
a thousand contortions; and strove to work themselves up to
a renewal of their frenzy, and a repetition of the attack.

Suddenly, a wild woman came among them from the rear, and
howling with the fury of a demon. She had followed or accompanied
the party, and her son was among the slain; and, with
dismal shrieks and imprecations, she rushed among the combatants,
exhorting them to havoc and revenge. She was powerfully
seconded by one of their Iawas, or priests — a conjuror, a magician
— who, gashing himself with a huge ocean-shell, and drawing

the wofullest sounds from a great conch, invoked upon their heads
the terrors of all their savage gods if they did not wreak vengeance
on their white enemies.

The appearance of this Iawa was frightful in the extreme. He
was of immense size and stature, nearly seven feet in height, muscular
and well limbed, but of little flesh, and he wore a headdress
of buffalo-horns in a fillet of feathers. His age was greater
than that of any of his people, yet not one exhibited such wonderful
agility, was so lithe, rapid, and powerful of limb and movement.
His contortions, savagely frantic and fantastic, as he threw
his hands up in air, and whirled through the masses, gashing his
breast till the blood issued from every part of it, struck awe and
terror even into the souls of those who had been wont to behold
his previous displays, and who had long been familiar with such
savage rites. With the woman as a Fury, such as haunted the
footsteps of Orestes, and the Iawa as a terrible necromancer, calling
up the dead and dismal inhabitants of the infernal abodes, we
may not wonder that a sort of madness seized upon the warriors
as they heard their invocations; and they rushed headlong, as it
were, upon Fate!

But what could their stone hatchets, macanas, or war-clubs,
avail against the defences of the white man? Again did the fiery
vengeance, from mansion-house and arsenal, hurtle terribly through
their ranks, rending, maiming, and destroying! The savage woman,
rushing desperately to the front, as the warriors came on,
was among the first to perish; falling, with one wild shriek, upon
her face, while the torrent of warriors, passing over her body,
trampled out what little life remained in her.

“It is a horrid massacre, Harry!” said the cassique, as it seemed
reproachfully.

“Can we escape it, brother mine?”

“No! I see no way. Nevertheless, it is horrible!”

“Very! But it is their blood or ours! Give it them again,
men! Now — rake the line of pickets, where you see them huddling
together! One more round, and we shall disperse the
wolves!”

And it blazed — that fiery tempest — blazed, charged with scores
of smiting bolts, from gun, and blunderbuss, and pistol, that swept
through the line of crouching savages, sending those who were

not stricken down, scattered and screaming over the area! Another
broadside from the arsenal; a third from the fortress of the
workmen; and the affair seemed to be at end. All was disorder
and panic among the savages.

Then it was that Cussoboe, that fierce old chief, who had hitherto
escaped every shot, though as much exposed as the meanest
of his followers, came rushing among them, perilling his person
everywhere, reckless of danger, and even smiting down the fugitives
with his stone hatchet as sternly as he had smitten down his
son! In his own wild gutturals, he cried to his people:—

“Ha! do you fear the white man? Do not be afraid. Be
strong! be strong! Kill! kill! Let us drink the blood of the
pale-faces; let us tear off the scalps from their skulls! Kill! kill!”

But his appeal helped them little — failed to restore order; and
they were still scattered and without purpose, until the savage
conjuror, the great Iawa of the tribe, reappeared upon the scene,
howling and practising those grotesque, almost demonic contortions,
which usually excited them to madness. Armed, now, with
an enormous macana, or war-club — a huge mace, five feet long,
of the hardest wood, into the sides of which were let, nearly its
whole length, double rows of sharp flint-stones, like arrow-heads,
but thrice as large and quite as keen — he led them himself
against the dwelling-house, from which so many fearful streams
of fire had issued, and, darting against the door, smote it with
thundering effect for entrance.

“We must get rid of that conjuror,” quoth Calvert to his men.
“Pick him out! give him half a dozen of your muskets at once!”

The fire was delivered; but the conjuror seemed to bear a
charmed life! He stood unmoved, tall as a tower, among the
crowd, smiting still as fearlessly as ever; and ever and anon crying
out to the band to avenge their gods and people. At that
moment, there rose a shout among the savages, as if stimulated
by some new cause of hope; and Calvert saw with anxiety a runner
approaching from the rear, who carried aloft a ball of blazing
tow, coated in the gum-turpentine, fastened to the end of a
spear, and burning furiously; while another followed him, with a
bundle of arrows similarly dressed with gum and tow, not yet
lighted, but ready for use!

Our cruiser at once understood what these preparations meant.

“See that every gun and pistol be charged,” he said to his men,
“and be prepared to follow me!”

Then, taking off his hunting-shirt, he made one of the sailors
wrap it tightly, in several folds, about his left arm. This done,
he grasped a heavy tomahawk, and, bidding all his men follow,
ascended from the basement to the passage-way. Here he met
the cassique, to whom he said:—

“We have a new danger to contend with, and the worst yet!
The rascals are about to assail the house with burning arrows!
We must end this matter as soon as possible, and by a desperate
effort, or we are lost!”

“What do you propose to do?”

“Make a sally. We must now make these red rascals feel us,
hand to hand! We might destroy many of them, shooting from
our defences, yet not prevent others from sending their flaming
arrows to every roof in the settlement. There is but one way to
prevent that. This conjuror, who seems to defy our bullets, must
be met. If we can slay him, we shall probably disperse the rest.
At all events, we can only disperse them by a concerted charge.”

“I will go with you, Harry!”

“You shall not! Who will defend the house, close the door,
make good the entrance, if you leave it? No! you must stay,
and keep the garrison. Remember Olive!.... When I have sallied
out with these men, secure the door after us, as before. Then
use your judgment for the defence! And — God be with you,
my brother!”

They embraced. It might be a final parting. The cassique
chafed; but there was no remedy. He felt that he could not
leave the dwelling. He shed bitter tears at the necessity. He,
too, was ready for death.

“Where is your horn?” said Calvert to one of his men. He
produced it from under his arm.

“The moment we sally forth,” continued he to the fellow, “do
you sound it thrice, with all your wind! Now — be ready to
second me! I will grapple with the conjuror. Do your work
among the masses. When you have delivered your fire, rush on
them with your cutlasses.”

The three bugle-blasts were a signal, agreed upon before, announcing
a common sally from all the garrisons. In a moment,

and while the Iawa was still thundering at the door with his macana,
the bar was quietly removed, the bolt shot back, and the
door thrown open — the Iawa staggering forward, only to receive
a heavy blow from Calvert, upon the shoulder, which drove him
out again.

Then the two met in conflict, at the very entrance, and upon
the steps of the house. The macana swung in air, a terrific
weapon, but difficult to manage. Calvert kept his enemy at close
quarters, the better to prevent its stroke, and for the more effectual
use of the short-handled tomahawk which he bore. It was in
vain that the Iawa receded, in order to deliver his blows. Our
rover clung to him closely, and drove him before him, with sharp,
sudden blows, frequent but slight, as not given with the full swing
of his arm. And this difficulty was one not easily overcome —
since, to avoid the formidable macana, Calvert, who had no shield,
but the coat wrapped about his left arm, was required to employ
his agility to the utmost, either by getting within the length of his
enemy's arm, or by dodging his club in its descent. One well-aimed
stroke from such a mace, falling upon head or arm, would
slay or disable him for ever. It was a battle of the middle ages.
The Iawa was no match for him in agility, however he might be
in strength. Calvert pressed him with his keenest purpose, restrained
simply by the necessity of keeping the closest watch, and
eluding every blow: no easy task, amid the din, the imperfect
light, and the sudden glare in his eyes from the blazing tow-balls,
which were now to be seen waving in several parts of the area.

But the single combat between the two leaders, though grimly
watched by many, on both sides, with all that gloating anxiety
which marks the spectators of any great gladiatorial conflict, was
not suffered to keep the rest idle. So far, it had been the work
of a few seconds only — the two rushing into conflict from the
moment when Calvert had emerged from the dwelling. But, so
soon as his ten musketeers could make their way out, and spread
themselves on either side of their chief, they delivered their fire,
full in the thick of the excited crowd! The two blunderbusses
roared and emptied their slugs; the muskets, huge enough, in that
day, of themselves, had also formidable masses of leaden mischiefs
to scatter abroad; and they did so, with most mischievous accuracy
of aim! Terrible were the shrieks and groans that followed;

and then, even as they had been ordered, the sailors drew
their cutlasses, and rushed among the bewildered masses, hewing
right and left with their sharp weapons and powerful arms!

But ere this movement was made, and just so soon as their volley
was delivered, the bugler thrice sounded his charge, the spirit-stirring
notes imparting a new life to the scene of death and massacre.

At that signal, for which the other garrisons had been impatiently
waiting, volley after volley was poured forth from each;
the combatants following up the effect of a most murderous discharge,
with their cutlasses, even as Calvert's party had done.

The red men who still kept their feet, and the field, found
themselves assailed, on all sides, by a force that seemed to spring
out of the earth. A wide-spread consternation seized upon their
host. Old Cussoboe raged in vain; and, even while delivering
his war-cry, was hewn, to his very teeth, by the cutlass of a common
sailor!

It was a curious illustration of that chivalrous instinct which
characterizes all truly brave people, that no one, of either side,
sought to meddle in the fight between Calvert and the Iawa. It
was seemingly a tacit understanding that the two champions
should have fair play. No single stroke or shot was aimed at
either. Their conflict constituted the closing scene of the contest.
All was fairly over, in the rest of the field, ere it closed with
them.

Never did Indian warrior or Magian more bravely or fiercely,
or with greater prowess, wield weapon for his gods or country.
His tall form was pre-eminent, even above the height of Calvert,
which was considered great among the whites; and his mighty
macana was whirled about in air, the whizzing sound of its motion
being heard for thirty feet or more! Its every descent made
the heart shrink and shudder — expecting to hear it crashing, the
next moment, among the bones of the head which it threatened!
But, hitherto, with the exception of two slight injuries, where the
club had grazed his bandaged arm, Calvert had escaped unwounded;
and he had succeeded, thrice, in giving more decided hurts
to his enemy. The Iawa was evidently growing feeble. His
strokes were less frequent. He raised his macana with more
effort and more slowly. He was staggered — twice by the strokes

of the tomahawk; and once, from no apparent cause. But he
made a final and powerful effort. He felt that it was probably
the last he could make; and, with a wild cry, uttering certain guttural
words in his own language — doubtless addressed to his false
gods — he whirled the macana about his head, and it sung fearfully
in the air as it descended!

It required all Calvert's dexterity to elude the blow, which
grazed him narrowly, smiting the cap from his head!

The force thrown into the stroke, bore the Iawa completely
about; while the heavy end of his mace sank in the ground.
Before he could recover himself, lift his weapon, or again meet
the eye of his enemy, the tomahawk had descended once, twice —
the first blow stunningly, the last fatally; the heavy steel crunching
deeply into the brain! The conjuror sank forward, with a
single yell, which found many a fearful echo among his people.
Down he went, like a great tower, and in his fall the conflict
ceased. The red warriors had no leader left. Subsequently it
was found that he had three musket-balls in his body. Yet he
had not faltered once!

All now was flight and confusion. Two or three flights of
fiery arrows had been discharged at the roof of the mansion-house,
but with such haste and excitement, that they went over it
in every instance. The red men were not suffered time to repeat
the attempt. The sally of the several garrisons was made at the
happy moment; and we have seen the effect. The tow-balls, all
on fire, were left blazing on the ground, and, by their ghastly
glare, served to light up the horrors of the closing scene. Old
Cussoboe, as we have said, was killed by a common sailor. When
told whom he had slain, he was so proud of the achievement, that
he cut off the old chief's head as a trophy, not having any adequate
experience in taking scalps. Ligon, afterward, bought the
trophy from him for a bottle of Jamaica, and performed the operation
secundum artem. But this aside.

All was not yet over with the wretched savages. They naturally
fled to the shelter of the thickets whence they had emerged,
only to be torn, and shattered, and sent howling to still farther
forests, by a deliberate volley — muskets and pistols doing fearful
execution — from the party which had been left “in air,” under
the charge of Ligon. In twenty minutes after the fall of the

Iawa, not a red man was to be seen upon the field, those only excepted
whose flight and battle were alike over; or such as had
been too severely wounded to hobble out of the action. More
than thirty were slain outright, twice as many wounded. The
dead were buried in the neighboring woods, by the whites, in three
several pits, and the earth heaped upon them into mounds, which
some of our antiquaries are prepared to ascribe to a far earlier
period. And thus ended the fierce battle of Kiawah, one of the
most sanguinary of the thousand fights of the old colonial periods
in our English settlements.

It is not our purpose to narrate the events of this petty war,
which the historians describe as “The War with the Stono Indians.”
It does not belong to this history. Enough, if we mention
that the timely provision of Calvert saved old Gowdey and
his fortress on the Ashley. He, too, was attacked the same night,
by a strong force of the savages; who, not suspecting his resources
in men, exposed themselves in numbers to his fire, and
were beaten off in like manner with those at Kiawah, with considerable
loss. Elsewhere, the settlements were not always so
fortunate. Several were broken up, like that of Lord Cardross
at Beaufort. The traders were butchered in large numbers; but
the rangers taking the field, and the Spaniards disappearing from
it, the insurrection was soon suppressed. The curious reader must
consult other pages if he would learn more of this history. Let
us confine ourselves to our own.