Where the beating heart of Virginia lies, there nature has built a
temple, and reared seven hills as high altars to the One True God.
As the James, rushing swiftly down its course, reaches this hallowed
spot it instinctively pauses and shatters its one clear melody into a
thousand exquisite harmonies on its rocky banks of keys.
On a gently sloping hill, overshadowed by huge forest trees, stood
some ten or twelve houses where the warriors of Powhatan had their
summer home. Somewhat apart from the others was the house of
Powhatan, King of Virginia. Built of the trunks of the cedar, and
thatched with the boughs of the pine, it formed a royal dwelling
place for that august chief. Nightly four tall warriors stood guard
around it to prevent a sudden surprise from their enemies who lay to
the westward.
“The pearl of Powhatan’s daughters lies sleeping within her shell,”
was the watchword passed at regular intervals from one to the other.
Dire was the vengeance of Powhatan if one failed to answer the salute
of the other.
On this bright June morning all of the inhabitants of the village
were abroad. The little embryo warriors, clad only in their
copper-colored skins, waged mimic warfare with one another. From
the low branches of the trees swung the papooses, like cocoons from
which the gay-colored butterflies were already emerging. Over the
fires hung many kettles in which the patient squaws, young in years
but old in hardships, were cooking the morning meal for their lords,
while near the beach, stretched at full length, lay the warriors,
smoking their long-stemmed pipes, and discussing the news which
Opechancanough had brought—news of the pale faces who had pitched
their wigwams far down on the banks of the river.
Calling him to them, he was again asked to recite the wonderful tale.
True, they had heard that many years ago there had been a tribe of
pale faces far down on Roanoke Island, and the Hatteras Indians even
now told strange tales of a pale face people who had once been there,
but not one of Powhatan’s warriors had ever seen them.
Sitting down, Opechancanough again recited the tale of the wonderful
tribe who had come among them.
“They wear curious mantles of many colors,” said he, “and one among
them has his body covered with a hard shining shell, which doubtless
the Great Spirit has given him. Their canoes have great white wings,
and hidden in each one is an evil spirit which sends forth fire and
thunder.”
In the midst of his story one of the warriors suddenly lifted his
hand for silence, and with head to one side and chin outstretched,
turned his gaze upon the river. The rest of the warriors followed his
example. Their keen ears quickly caught the sound of oars beating the
water with measured strokes, and presently there came into view a
boat with twenty-two pale faces in it, their gleaming muskets resting
on their knees.
“These are the pale faces Opechancanough has told you of. Receive
them in a friendly manner, for they are mighty and powerful,” said
that wily chief.
As the prow of the boat touched the beach all of the warriors went
down to meet it. Many gestures on the part of the Indians gave
Captain Smith and his party to understand that they were welcome.
“We would speak with your great chief,” said Captain Smith, who
instinctively acted as spokesman for the rest of the party.
“My brother Powhatan is not here,” said Opechancanough. “He has gone
to his winter home at Weriwocomoco. His chiefs and myself welcome you
in his stead. Opechancanough has told them of your coming and the
presents you bring.”
Still keeping their muskets by their side, the voyagers seated
themselves on the beach near to their boat. Then the squaws, who
had been curiously watching them, came forward at the command of
Opechancanough with food for their refreshment.
Willow baskets filled with flat cakes made of crushed acorns,
buttered with deer suet, were flanked by hot corn pone and hoe cake.
Broiled venison and sturgeon, together with wine made from last
year’s vintage, completed the repast.
With right good will the hungry voyagers fell to and did full justice
to the food set before them.
“Where is the source of this river you call Powhatan?” said Captain
Newport, addressing Opechancanough.
“Far away toward the setting sun, among the great mountains, it
begins, and gathering other streams into its embrace, swells into the
river gliding by,” he answered.
After the meal was over pipes and tobacco were brought, and Indian
and White man smoked the pipe of peace together.
“Who is your king, and where is your country?” asked Nantaquas, son
of Powhatan.
“Many days’ journey across the great waters lives a mighty chief
called James,” replied Captain Smith. “Thousands of warriors obey his
commands and speed on his errands. He has sent us to seek out the
friendship of his brother king, Powhatan, and bring him presents as
tokens of his love.”
“It is well,” said Opechancanough. “Dearly will Powhatan love his
brother and his presents.”
Just then came the sound of voices lifted in song, broken now and
then by shouts of laughter. Not knowing what this might portend, the
white men grasped their muskets and turned toward the direction from
whence came the sound.
A gently sloping hill crowned with a dense growth of sycamores,
gradually thinning out near the bottom, lay directly behind them.
Forth from the trees on the brow came a group of twelve maidens
whirling and bending in a sinuous circle around a young goddess in
their midst. Raising their arms aloft they showered her with great
white daisies inset with hearts of gold, then bending their knees in
homage, uplifted their voices in plaintive chant, while she in turn
bent her body in graceful salute. On went the whirling dance and
battle of flowers, in and out among the sycamores, until they reached
the foot of the hill.
Then, catching sight of the stranger guests, the maidens paused with
uplifted arms as if stiffened into stone. Opechancanough went toward
them and informed them of the coming of the pale faces in their
absence.
Quickly the links of the chain fell apart and ranged themselves
behind the maiden who had been in the center. Like a young aspen
against a background of autumn-tinted foliage stood Pocahontas,
daughter of Powhatan and Virginia Dare. All of the girlish abandon
with which she had whirled down the hill had vanished. In its place
was the royal bearing of the queen.
Clouds of blue-black hair swept down her back, bound about the
temples with a rope of pearl, which reached to her waist. A short
skirt of soft doeskin fringed with the quills of the fretful
porcupine met long leggins embroidered in beads of many colors, and
on her bared arms gleamed burnished copper bracelets. Her rounded
bosom still rose and fell with the exertion of the dance.
Walking slowly forward with Opechancanough by her side, and her
maidens following, she now came to greet the colonists. Pausing
before them she closely scanned their faces, and as she held out her
hands to Captain Smith the tender smile of Virginia Dare rippled like
sunshine over her features.
“Welcome to the home of Powhatan, O pale face brother. Have my people
treated you well, and served you with food?”
“Well and kindly have we fared,” said Captain Smith, “and have also
smoked the pipe of peace. Let there be friendship between your people
and mine, and in token of our love, receive this string of beads,
whose color is that of the sky.”
Instantly Pocahontas was the child again as she eagerly accepted the
blue beads and turned to show them to her maidens.
“We will also plant a sign of the love there is between us.” Turning
to one of his men, Captain Smith bade him bring axe and spade from
the boat. A young aspen no higher than a man soon measured its length
upon the ground and was quickly stripped of its branches, one of
which, with the silvery grey leaves still quivering upon it, he
nailed across the trunk. Then a hole was dug and the “Sign” placed
within it. Turning to Pocahontas, he told her that she must hold it
upright while the men banked the earth.
With a joyous laugh she threw her arms over the beams of the cross
and leaned her weight against the trunk. A sob rose in the throat of
the young soldier as he looked upon the picture of savagery clinging
to the Hope of all the world. Surely the Holy Ghost was brooding over
her on that Pentecost Day.
Perceiving that they could not ascend the James farther on account
of the cataracts, the party prepared to return home. Captain Smith
turned to bid good-by to Pocahontas. Taking her hands in his, he
smiled down into her uplifted eyes.
“Will Pocahontas be my friend and come to Jamestown to see me? There
I will show her many strange things and tell her of the land of the
pale faces.”
“Pocahontas will come, and she will also be your friend. Already her
heart turns to your people, and much she loves them.”
As they sailed down the river, Captain Smith said to Newport, “Did
you notice the bearing of Pocahontas? No maiden of our court is
more queenly. She has not the cunning and wily look of her people;
frankness and kindness sit enthroned upon her brow. If it were not
for the color of her skin and her Indian features I could almost
believe she was a daughter of our people.”