The Natches were a very considerable nation; they formed several
villages, that were under some peculiar chief, and these obeyed one
superior of the whole nation. All these chiefs bore the name of suns;
they adored that luminary, and carried his image on their breasts, rudely
carved. The manner in which the Natches rendered divine service to the
sun has something solemn in it. The high-priest got up at break of day,
and marched at the head of the people with a grave pace, the calumet of
peace in his hand. He smoked in honour of the sun, and blew the first
mouthful of smoke towards him; when he rose above the horizon, they
howled by turns after the high-priests, and contemplated it with their
arms extended to heaven. They had a temple in which they kept up an
eternal fire.
So proud were these chiefs, who pretended to trace their origin to the
sun, that they had a law, by which every Natchez, who had married a
girl of the blood of the suns, must follow her in death, as soon as she
had breathed her last. There was an Indian, whose name was Etteacteal;
he dearly loved a daughter of one of these suns, and married her; but
the consequence of this honour had nearly proved very fatal to him. His
wife fell sick: he watched over her day and night, and with many tears
he besought her not to die, and they prayed together to Wachil, or the
sun, that he would spare her life; at last he saw her at the point of
death, and then he fled: for the moment she ceased to breathe, he was to
be slain. He embarked in a piragua on the Mississippi, and came to New
Orleans. He put himself under the protection of M. de Bienville, the then
governor, who interested himself for him with the Natches; they declared
that he had nothing more to fear.
Etteacteal, being thus assured, resolved to return to his nation; and,
without settling among them, made several voyages thither; he happened to
be there, when the chief called the Stung Serpent, brother to the head of
the nation, died; he was a relation of the late wife of Etteacteal, and
the people resolved to make the latter pay his debt, and arrested him.
When he found himself in the hut of the grand chief of war, he gave vent
to the excess of his grief.
The favourite wife of the deceased Stung Serpent, who was likewise to be
sacrificed, and who saw the preparations for her death with firmness,
hearing the complaints and groans of Etteacteal, said to him, “Art thou
no warrior?” he said, “Yes, I am one.” “However,” said she, “thou criest,
life is dear to thee; and as that is the case, it is not good that thou
shouldst go along with me—go with the women.” Etteacteal replied, “True,
life is dear to me: it would be well if I walked yet on earth; wait, O
wait till the death of the great sun, and I will die with him.” “Go
thy way,” she said, “it is not fit that thou die with me, and thy heart
remain behind on earth; the warriors will obey my word, for now, so near
to the Spirit of life, I am full of power: go away, and let me see thee
no more.” He did not stay to have this order repeated; he disappeared
like lightning. Three old women, two of whom were his relations, offered
to pay his debt; their age and their infirmities had disgusted them with
life, none of them had been able to walk for a great while; but the hair
of the two that were related to Etteacteal, was no more grey than that
of young women; the third was a hundred and twenty years old; they were
sacrificed in the evening, at the going down of the sun.
The generosity of these women gave the Indian life again, acquired
him the degree of _Considered_, and cleared his honour, that had been
sullied by his fearing death. The hour being come for the sacrifice of
the favourite wife of the deceased chief, she came forth, and called her
children round her, while the people stood a little way off: “Children,”
she said, “this is the day on which I am to tear myself from your arms,
and to follow your father’s steps, who waits for me in the country of
the spirits; if I were to yield to your tears, I should injure my love,
and fail in my duty. I have done enough for you by bearing you next to
my heart, and by suckling you with my breasts. You that are descended of
his blood, and fed by my milk, ought you to shed tears? rejoice, rather,
that you are suns and warriors: go, my children, I have provided for
all your wants, by procuring you friends; my friends, and those of your
father, are yours too. And you, Frenchmen,” she added, turning herself
towards our officers, “I recommend my orphan children to you;—you ought
to protect them; we shall be longer friends in the country of the spirits
than here, because we do not die there again. And now the day is sinking
behind the hills; yet a few moments, my husband, and I come!”
Moved by these words, a noble woman came to join herself to the favourite
wife, of her own accord, being engaged, she said, by the friendship she
bore the Stung Serpent, to follow him into the other world. The Europeans
called her the Haughty Lady, on account of her majestic deportment,
and proud and beautiful features: on this account the French officers
regretted very much her resolve, and strove to dissuade her from it, but
in vain: the moving sight filled them all with grief and horror.
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