Fall, clad in gorgeous robes of crimson and yellow, fled before
the moaning chant of winter as she wrapped her winding-sheet of
glistening snow around her skeleton form. Her biting breath had
forced the colonists to build log cabins for shelter. Roaring fires
in the great chimney places gave warmth to their bodies, but could
not satisfy the cravings of hunger. Most of their ammunition had been
squandered along with their provisions, and only the daily visits of
Pocahontas now saved them from starvation.
Few among the colonists had any love for Captain Smith. True, his
popularity had been great for a while after he had forced Wingfield
to abandon the pinnace a second time; but it soon waned, and his days
were made miserable with suspicion and taunts.
“I will leave them to their fate and go in search of the South Sea,
which men say is only two hundred miles to the westward,” he said to
himself.
Acting upon this determination, he took six men and two Indian
guides, and started up the James. Soon he came to the Chickahominy,
upon whose chocolate-colored breast the wild geese and swans were
floating.
At the same time he left Jamestown an Indian was traveling with all
speed to carry a message from Wingfield to Opechancanough.
“Father Smith comes your way. Kill him, and twenty guns will be your
reward,” was the message.
Seeing a column of smoke rising from among the trees, Captain Smith
commanded his men to row him ashore. Perhaps there might be an Indian
village there, where he could learn something about the route to the
South Sea. Taking with him the two Indian guides, he ordered the
others to row to the center of the stream and await his coming.
Hardly had he disappeared when his orders were disobeyed. Robinson
and Emry refused to row back. They would do some exploring on their
own account.
Opechancanough had received the message sent by Wingfield. As soon as
Captain Smith was out of sight, his men pounced down upon Robinson
and Emry and added their scalps to their belts. Then they started in
pursuit of Smith.
Not suspecting the danger dogging his footsteps, Captain Smith was
horrified to see one of the Indians drop to the ground. Catching hold
of the other, he bound him in front of himself, and turned to face
the enemy. Arrows flew like hail, wounding him in the thigh. Throwing
off the Indian, he plunged into the stream, hoping to escape his
pursuers. In his disabled condition he was soon captured, and taken
by the gloating savages to Opechancanough.
Although expecting every minute to be killed, he did not lose his
presence of mind, but began devising plans for delaying death, if
only for a short while.
Taking from his pocket a little ivory compass, he handed it to the
cunning chief.
“Look at this, Opechancanough. Turn it about and try to touch the
little moving point.”
Opechancanough did so, and tried to put his finger upon the quivering
needle, but found a hard substance came between. Still he could see
through it, and turn it whichever way he would, the needle always
swung to the same spot.
A grunt expressive of admiring awe burst from the chief and was
echoed by his men as they gazed in amazement upon the wonderful
thing.
Opechancanough and his warriors then drew aside to hold a
consultation as to the disposal of their prisoner. At the end of a
few minutes four warriors came forward, and seizing the prisoner
bound him to a tree. The rest then took their positions in front of
him, with arrows strung ready to end his life.
Resigning hope, and commending his soul to God, the unhappy soldier
awaited the fatal signal from Opechancanough. Just as the warriors
raised their bows, the chief held up the compass and they unstrung
their arrows.
“We will take the pale face to Powhatan; unbind him,” said
Opechancanough.
Smith, with his hands tied behind him, was placed between two guards
and the journey to Weriwocomoco was begun. This place was the chief
home of Powhatan. Here he had his treasure-house filled with skins,
copper beads, and long ropes of pearls, and bows, arrows, and the
deadly tomahawk lay heaped together. On the one side lay greed; on
the other, death. The whole history of his dealings with the colony
lay in those two piles.
When Smith arrived there he was carried into a large room with
mats of woven rushes upon the floor. In the center a roaring blaze
sent its puffing breath in wreathing clouds to form a canopy over
the bedstead throne placed beside it. Two hundred warriors entered
and ranged themselves in double rows around the walls. From behind
them peeped the squaws dressed in fantastic garb. Their faces and
shoulders were crimsoned with the juice of the pokeberry. Tufts of
downy heron feathers swayed above their jetty locks, and strings of
white beads encircled their necks.
As Powhatan entered, an unearthly shout split the air and sent cold
shivers over the prisoner.
Tall and gaunt as a blasted pine was the King of Virginia. Sixty
years had etched their passing in numerous fine lines upon his
features. Crafty eyes, partially obscured by half-closed lids, gave a
sinister look to his countenance. A magnificent robe of raccoon skins
covered his majestic form, and the great bushy tails ringed in black
waved as he walked. Four youthful maidens acted as his bodyguard, for
the decrepit chief greatly loved the young and gay.
As John Smith looked upon this living piece of granite, hope died
within him.
Calling around him the priests of Okee, Powhatan inquired of them the
will of the Terrible One concerning the prisoner.
“Let it be as Okee wills,” said the King. “Bring a stone and lay his
head upon it.”
A huge stone was placed in front of the old war-horse. Dragging Smith
forward, his head was laid upon its cold bosom. The savage warriors,
with uplifted clubs, crowded around to have a share in beating out
his brains.
From among the women in the background sprang Pocahontas, and threw
herself at her father’s feet.
“O Powhatan, spare the life of the stranger. Beware lest you anger
the Great Spirit of the pale face. He is mightier than the Okee of
the ‘real man.’ Will Powhatan not listen to Pocahontas, daughter of
the Water Lily?”
At the sound of that loved name, Powhatan’s eyelids flickered for an
instant, but no sign of relenting showed upon his face.
“The pale face shall die; Powhatan has spoken.”
Bending her body, she clasped the head of Captain Smith to her
beating bosom and faced her father. Then the soul of Virginia Dare
battled with Powhatan for the life of the captive.
“Powhatan takes the life of the stranger; he shall also slay his
best-loved daughter. Pocahontas has spoken.”
With a passionate movement she laid her face against that of the
prisoner, and her cloud of hair covered them both with its dusky
mantle.
For three long minutes a deathlike silence hung over the crowded
room. Only the falling of a crackling branch sawn asunder by the
fiery tooth of the flame disturbed the pulsating air. Powhatan moved
on his throne and the spell was broken.
“Pocahontas has saved the pale face from death. He shall be kept a
prisoner to make hatchets for Powhatan and beads for Pocahontas.”
Captain Smith was then removed to a lonely house in the woods, under
a guard of four warriors.
Each day Pocahontas came with food for the young soldier, and as he
ate he told her many stories of the lands across the sea.
“To the eastward lies the land of the pale faces. There they live in
great houses, tall as trees. Many openings for the sunlight to come
in are filled with a substance clear as water, but hard and brittle.
The walls are hung in great pieces of cloth to keep out the winter’s
cold. When the warriors go a-journey they ride upon a four-legged
animal called a horse. Also the squaws and maidens cover their whole
bodies.”
“Here and here?” said Pocahontas, touching her bared breast and arms.
“Yes,” replied the courageous Captain. “Not even an arm can be seen.”
“Tell Pocahontas what lies beyond the setting sun.”
“To the westward live a people whose skin is much like that of
Pocahontas. Perhaps in the beginning of things your people wandered
from that land to this. There they walk with their feet pressed
against ours.”
Pocahontas marveled much at his wonderful narratives, and the child’s
love for the pale face grew in strength every day.
“O Pocahontas,” came in accents tremulous with emotion, “you have
saved my life and given back hope to my heart. You are as dear to me
as a daughter to her father; hereafter I will be your father and I
shall call you child.”
Seizing his hands, she pressed her lips upon them and her happy heart
made answer.
“Pocahontas is content, for then she will be a child of the pale
faces.”
After two days’ imprisonment a horrible figure dressed as Satan
appeared before Smith. Unearthly yells, such as lost souls doubtless
utter, came from the throats of two hundred black figures who
accompanied this apparition. Powhatan and his warriors had come to
see if they could make the Captain tremble before the terrors of the
devil.
Not a muscle of Captain Smith’s face moved, although an icy hand
gripped at his heart. His composure astonished Powhatan. Truly this
was a wonderful warrior whom not even Okee could force to cringe. It
were better to have his friendship than his enmity. No doubt he was
an oracle of the Great Spirit.
So Powhatan left off his incantations and sat down before the
prisoner. He was now, he said, the friend of Father Smith, whom he
would henceforth love as a son, and would give him land over which to
rule. He should go back to Jamestown and send him two great guns and
a grindstone.
This the Captain gladly promised to do.