Black billows of rolling clouds, their ragged edges gold-rimmed by
the full-orbed moon, raced with mighty speed across the heavens.
Hidden in a mass of dense trees whose matted branches were interwoven
with tangled vines stood the temple of Okee. The rank vegetation
exhaled poisonous vapors which were absorbed by the stagnant waters
of the slimy marsh, and wild yells of demons came in weird and faint
echoes to the ears of the English voyagers on the banks of the
Pamunkey.
“Now what on earth can that be?” cried Adam. “Surely all the angels
of Satan must be in that swamp.”
“We will reconnoiter,” said Smith.
“Have you gone daft, man? Do you want them to seize you by the hair
and bear you off to toast on a pitchfork?”
“You should not be afraid of your familiar friends,” returned the
Captain, his brown eyes twinkling. “Pocahontas said you were the
chief of the terrible tribe. Who will go with me to reconnoiter?” he
added.
“I will go,” spoke up Adam, “I might just as well be scalped there as
here.”
“I thought you were afraid!” taunted a fellow voyager.
“I am safer with Smith than with you. He is worth all the rest of the
colony put together.”
“Now listen to my instructions, men,” said the Captain. “If any
danger threatens us, I will cry ‘Saint George,’ and do four of you
fellows come to our aid, while the rest stand ready to push off the
boat.”
Armed with their muskets and powder-horns, Captain Smith and Adam
Clotworthy started on their perilous adventure through the dark
swamp. Knowledge of danger was to Captain Smith like the scent of
battle to the pawing war-horse. His spirits rose at every step.
Not so the worthy Adam; his courage drained down to his toes as he
stumbled along over deceitful hillocks showing dimly under the fitful
light of the moon. Choosing an eminence covered with lush grass, he
stepped upon it. Immediately it gave away and he slid down into a
pool filled with black, slimy ooze.
“They have got me!” he wailed under his breath. “I can feel their icy
claws upon my feet. Lord have mercy upon my sinful soul! Don’t let
the devil have me! You know I am not fit to die. Only let me get out
and I swear I will never utter another oath, and I will go to church
regularly every day. Indeed I will!”
Captain Smith caught him by the shoulders just under the arms, and
bracing himself against a tree, gave a mighty jerk. Forth came the
bedraggled Adam, smeared in slime up to his breast. The ludicrous
sight filled the Captain with silent mirth as he plodded along beside
him and listened to the slimy water slushing in his boots at every
step.
After an hour of arduous toil they came out upon firm ground. There
before them rose the temple. Trees planted thickly together formed
the walls; their branches twisted and matted together, the roof.
Countless passion-flowers crept in and out among the trunks, and
spread their purple flowers in a thick coverlet over the entire
structure. A yellow glare from pitch pine torches within gleamed
through the many crevices, like millions of fireflies.
Adam would not stir a step until with much labor he had gotten off
his boots and emptied out the mud and slime.
Not an Indian was to be seen as they stole toward the house, and,
avoiding the door, made for an opening in the wall through which a
broad beam of light streamed out. This opening was so large that both
Smith and Adam could gain a clear view of the interior without being
seen themselves.
As Adam opened his mouth to utter a groan of horror, Smith clapped
his hand upon it and whispered, “Do you want to be scalped? Keep
still if you value your life.”
Such an awful picture they had never looked upon before. Here in the
midst of the American wilderness was Dante’s Inferno. At the end of
the temple opposite the door, high up on a framework of reeds, lay
the shriveled remains of past kings and priests. The bodies were
painted and decorated in a fearful manner, their claw-like fingers
still grasping the bow and arrow. At their feet crouched the stuffed
bodies of favorite hounds. Occupying the center of the room was the
image of Okee, his frightful face painted in red and black stripes.
Ropes of pearls as large as peas hung around his neck, and from
the crown of his head stood up a tuft of eagle feathers dyed green
and red. His staring eyes, enclosed in broad white circles, gazed
unwinkingly upon the priests surrounding him.
Their naked bodies, clothed only in an apron of skin, were painted
red and black in imitation of the god. Writhing green snakes, hanging
in holes bored in their ears, hit viciously with arrow-head tongues
at their foaming lips as they whirled in the devil’s dance.
Rattling pebbles shut up in conch shells, together with the hollow
boom of membrane stretched over gourds, added their deafening din to
the confusion.
In the background knelt the squaws with buckhorns bound to their
heads. Their sobs and lamentations rose to shrieks as the frenzied
warriors, black as midnight, tore the suckling babes from their
clinging arms to offer them in sacrifice to Okee.
“Let me get behind you, Smith, for mercy’s sake! I see a howling
devil glaring right in this direction. Your armor will blunt his
arrows before they get around to me,” whispered the irrepressible
Adam.
Again the whirling dance and sacrifice went on until the exhausted
madmen fell to the ground. In the lull that ensued, Powhatan, seated
near his departed ancestors, raised his hand for silence.
“The priests of Okee crave another offering, else the Terrible One
will send the warriors when they die to Popagosso under the fiery
sun, burning low in the west. The pale face has come among us, taken
our lands, and killed our warriors. Okee demands the blood of the
white captive at our hands.”
Captain Smith’s hair stood on end with horror, for he realized that
the little white boy, given by Newport to Powhatan, was to be the
propitiatory victim. The Captain’s mind traveled like lightning over
various plans for the release of the child.
While Powhatan was speaking, Pocahontas, sick with the sight of
flowing blood, crept noiselessly out. Would not the Great Spirit
of the pale face send succor to the unfortunate boy, soon to be
slaughtered? she wondered. She would pray to Him. Perhaps He might
heed the prayer of an Indian maiden. Her “father” had said the Great
Spirit could do all things.
Kneeling down and clasping her hands as she had seen Captain Smith
do, she lifted pleading accents to the God of the Indian and the
white man.
“O Great Spirit of my ‘father,’ let not Powhatan take the life of the
little pale face brother. Pocahontas will give in return the blue
beads her ‘father’ gave her.”
“Pocahontas,” whispered Smith, “it is I, your father. Do as I bid you
and the boy will be saved.” Then he rapidly whispered directions in
her ear.
“Pocahontas understands and obeys. My father will not hurt Powhatan
and her people?”
“No, Powhatan and your people shall live,” he answered; but to
himself he muttered, “If it were not for the women and children, I
could murder every fiend.”
Looking now through the crack, he saw the lad dragged forth toward
the priests. His cries for mercy were met by the taunting “Ohe, Ohe,”
of his tormentors. No time was to be lost. Turning to Adam he said,
“Give me your powder-horn.”
“Take heed what you do, Smith,” implored Adam, his teeth clashing
together like castanets, and the knob on his nose working like a
pig’s snout with excitement.
“Keep still, and hand me your horn. Stir not from this spot, no
matter what happens.” So saying, Captain Smith and Pocahontas
disappeared, leaving Adam alone. Now and then curiosity overpowered
fear, and he would look again through the crack, only to fall back
and begin petitions for deliverance.
Running around to a spot in full view of the door, Captain Smith
emptied the powder in Adam’s horn into a piece of clay pipe lying
near. Then inserting a lighted fuse, he took to his heels. Fleeing
around the corner he ran full tilt into the unconscious Adam, with
his eye glued to the crack, and both rolled to the ground. Not
knowing what had assaulted him, Adam let out a yell that would have
wakened the dead kings lying in state, had it not been drowned in the
explosion of the gunpowder.
A roar of thunder split the air, followed by blinding flashes of
flame. For a moment a deathly silence hung over the Indians, then
shrieks and yells burst from the painted demons. Pandemonium reigned
as they fled from the temple. Leading the vanguard was Powhatan,
clinging to a litter borne on the shoulders of four warriors who sped
away in the darkness.
In the midst of the confusion, Pocahontas snatched the white boy
up and made for the place where Captain Smith was vainly trying to
pacify the terrified Adam, who was now wallowing on the ground.
“Stop your howls, or I will leave you to the mercy of the Indians!
Get up, we have not a moment to lose. Pocahontas is here with the
boy. We must hasten to the boat for our lives.”
Leading the way as guide, with the boy clasped in her strong young
arms, Pocahontas plunged into the swamp. Over morass, through matted
vines, she went with unerring instinct, followed by Smith, trundling
the unwieldy form of Adam before him. Down into a hole went Adam for
the second time, leaving a boot as a memento of the adventure. As
he hobbled painfully along, sick with misery and fear, his strength
gave out, and with a moan he pitched forward. Losing no time in an
examination of the unfortunate man, Smith merely rolled him over,
and catching him in the back of his collar, dragged him along in his
flight.
He heaved a sigh of thankfulness as he saw the boat through an
opening in the trees. “Saint George!” he shouted, and the men on
the beach ran forward to meet him. Picking up the body of Adam as
if he were a log of wood, they sped to the boat and dumped him in.
Pocahontas placed the boy in Smith’s arms and vanished.
“Row for your lives, men! Death lies in the swamp,” urged Smith.
Bending to their oars, they sent the boat plunging down the stream in
reckless haste, nor did they cease to row until the broad York was
left behind, and the prow of their barge dipped its nose in the salty
waters of the Chesapeake.