“There are moments in life of real sorrow, when we judge things by
a higher standard, and care vastly little what people say.”--J. H.
EWING.
“And the forests dark and lonely,
Moved through all their depths of darkness,
Sighed, ‘Farewell.’”
LONGFELLOW.
Manteo was a wise and brave chief, as well as a good and thoughtful
one, and was much loved by his people. The dozen Englishmen who yet
remained as the remnant of the Roanoke settlers could not understand
the reverence with which the savages treated their leader. His word was
law. His decisions were just, without regard to whom he was judging.
One autumn the twelve white men sat at their work of hollowing wooden
bowls. As they worked, they talked about their future, and the prospect
of seeing England again, which all confessed was very small.
“I tell you,” said one, who looked strangely like Jack Barnes, and was,
in fact, his brother, “I tell you what it is, fellows, we’ll never see
England if we wait for those lazy cowards to come over for us. We must
go over ourselves if we are ever to get there.”
The men all laughed; and one, Bill Smith, said, “Why don’t you tell us
to swim over the big pond? We’re nothing but slaves here, anyway, and
I’m sick of it. Having to obey a red savage, an old heathen dog!”
A third one, who really had the best face in the crowd, replied, “I
tell ye, lads, it’s a bad business, and that’s true enough. But ye’re
not bettering it by muttering about it. Manteo is not a bad one, and ye
forget he is not a heathen; was he not christened by Master Bradford?”
“That’s all quite as you say; but it takes more’n a few drops of
water to make his ugly, copper-colored skin clean, and a heap more to
make him a Christian, I’m thinking. I tell you, Gray, you’re easily
taken in,” Barnes said, laughing. “I tell you what it is, lads,” he
continued, “if we’re ever to go to England, we must take the bull by
the horns in the shape of Manteo, and get rid of him. These red fellows
will not know what to do if he’s gone, and we can make ’em obey us. And
we’ll set ’em to work at building a craft to carry us home.”
As the men sat at work, their evil imaginations and plans were making
mischief faster than their hands were making bowls. At the same time,
not a great distance off, Virginia sat under the old willow-tree,
working at the rude spinning that Mistress Wilkins had taught her. The
day was beautiful, and she felt a strange sense of joy even in living.
The world all about was so beautiful; as she spun, she sang, first one
of the wild Indian songs, then an old English hymn that she remembered,
though imperfectly. She sang and worked, as the sun played with her
yellow hair and turned it into gold.
Her thoughts went far across the water. That great longing for her
mother, then for her father, crept into her heart. Her hands rested
idly. She must look out on the water. What if those great canoes should
be coming in sight even now! There seemed to be an odd stillness,
as if something were going to happen. She wandered along a little
wood-path to a hill, beyond which she could see the clear water. There
was the great blue sea, sparkling and dancing in the sunlight. Iosco
had chanced to see the slight figure climbing the hill; he now stood
watching her as the breeze played with her golden hair, and the clear
blue sky formed a background. He knew what she was looking for, and he
was pained. Could she never be happy with his people in their simple
lives? How could he expect it? But what was wrong? The color suddenly
died out of Owaissa’s cheeks; she clasped her hands as if in pain, and
sprang forward, out of his sight.
Hurrying up the hill, Iosco could see nothing but Virginia’s waving
hair. She turned her head, and even far away as he was, he could see
that her face was as white as the dove’s down in her mantle. Iosco
caught only one glimpse of it, then she was out of sight. He was an
Indian; one sight was enough. He knew Owaissa was in trouble, and
bending his body slightly, he went swiftly across the little knoll.
Surely it must be the canoes with the pinions, that he so much dreaded.
There was the sea, clear and blue, no sight of anything good or bad on
it; but a strange and awful sight was before him, one which he never
forgot.
There was Manteo’s tall figure tied to a tree like any mean captive. By
him stood Barnes and two or three of the roughest white men. A little
way off stood Gray and one or two others, who seemed dissatisfied and
distressed at what was happening. In front, flushed with anger and
indignation, was Virginia. She was speaking, he could hear her, more
like an eagle defending her young, than a dove: “Shame on you, Barnes!
Shame on you! Shame on you all, to touch the man who has saved our
lives, and cared for us all these years! You are worse than the savages
you despise. We have been safe, going in and out among them, and you
dare to harm their chief. I’m ashamed to be one of you people!”
It would have taken a good deal to shame Barnes. He only muttered, “You
are nothing better than a heathen savage yourself.”
She turned fiercely towards him. Iosco could see her eyes flashing as
she replied, “You make me ashamed of the white people who are left
here. As you say, I am no better than these Indians, who are Christians
indeed. They have given us food and shelter all these years, and what
do we give them? No better? I wish I were half as brave, half as noble,
as some of them are. You are not worthy to touch the old man whom you
have bound. One cry would bring ten times your number of Manteo’s men,
who would kill you all, should they see their chief in danger.” And she
added, her eyes gleaming with excitement, “I will give the cry, if
Manteo will not. And if one man is found here he will be killed, as he
deserves.”
Barnes drew a knife from his belt as he came towards her, saying, “If
you dare open your mouth, I will soon silence you. Try me!”
A slight rustle, a swift movement, and Iosco stood before Barnes, who
shrank before the tall figure, and every white man fled. Virginia
sprang to Manteo. With Iosco’s knife she cut the cords that bound him
to the tree. She kissed his hand where the cord had torn the flesh.
The old chief was moved by her gentle, caressing care, and showed more
feeling than when he was threatened with death. She knelt there by
the old man, trying to show her love. Iosco stood at a distance, with
folded arms, looking far away. He was thinking, surely this would make
Owaissa forget the canoes with wings, when a sudden cry made him turn.
It was Virginia; she sprang up as if to shield Manteo, who tottered a
moment, then fell heavily to the ground.
“An arrow, Iosco, an arrow!” she cried, as she knelt by the prostrate
form. Iosco bent down, his expression unchanged, save for a strange
look in his dark eyes. He heard his father heave a deep sigh, then all
was still.
Manteo was dead. The arrow had pierced his heart; but where had it
come from? Iosco sprang up, the savage thirst for vengeance throbbing
through his veins. With his hand on his tomahawk, one moment he stood
looking down on his dead father, by whom Virginia knelt, her face rigid
with horror. Looking up, she saw Iosco so changed she hardly knew him.
He was staring at her, though he did not see her. She thought his anger
and vengeance were turned on her. The scene of horror had changed her
from a merry girl to a woman. The voice in which she spoke was deep and
clear.
“Iosco,” she said, “kill me if you will. I would die a hundred times
over if I could bring back the life of the great and good Werowance who
saved us. God will reward him. I know he will; and he will punish us.
Nothing you can do to me will be hard or cruel. I will die any death
you choose.”
Iosco turned quickly away. He had forgotten Virginia until she spoke;
he was absorbed in the dreadful thought of his father’s death, and the
idea that he had been killed by men whom he had not only saved, but had
treated with every kindness. His only comfort lay in the thought of
vengeance. But Virginia’s words brought back his better self. He could
not look at her, and turned away to hide his grief. There came before
him the memory of Mrs. Dare sitting under the willow-tree, while he,
Virginia, and the other children listened to her telling a story. He
thought he could hear her saying, “Those very men whom he came to save,
whom he loved and lived for, nailed him to the tree, pierced his dear
hands and feet, and while they were doing it, they mocked and spit at
him, and called him vile names. He was greater than any chief you ever
saw or heard of. But he did not get angry. He was only so sad. Even
in the moment of greatest pain, he looked up to his Father, the Great
Spirit, and said, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do.’”
Iosco felt he could have forgiven anything done to himself. But was it
right to think of forgiving his father’s murderers?
The answer seemed to come in Mrs. Dare’s words again: “The dear Jesus
could have killed every one of those men, and come down from off the
cross; but he would not, for he loved us so much he was willing to bear
all, to teach us how we could forgive each other. He not only forgave
them, but asked his Father to forgive them also.”
The breeze, the morning sunlight, the little birds, and the dancing
waves, all seemed to be saying over and over to him, “The dear Jesus
could have killed every one of those men; but he loved us all so much
he was willing to bear all that to teach us how we could forgive each
other.” Was it, then, such a great thing to be able to forgive? He
knew he could have every one of those pale-faces killed; every one
would expect it. He never for one moment included Virginia when he
thought of the white people. To him she was a being all by herself. As
he turned, he saw her kneeling by the dead body, her hands clasped,
her face upturned. It was white as marble. She must be speaking to
the Great Spirit. Those treacherous hands could strike her from where
they had struck his father. For the first time Iosco saw they were in
danger, and he sent forth a great cry into the forest, which he knew
would bring his people. Virginia knew what it meant. She rose and stood
waiting.