anywhere, though winter had begun, and the climate in that section is
sometimes severe. A strong breeze was blowing from the eastward, and the
craft moved easily forward without calling the oars into use. Most of
the course of the Chickahominy is through a swampy section, choked by
fallen trees, where navigation is difficult. Captain Smith had sailed
for a few miles above its mouth some weeks before, but the region was
unknown to him. Because of this fact it was the more pleasing, for, as
you know, the prospect of stirring adventure was one which he was never
able to resist. During his stay in Virginia he explored so many waters
in the neighborhood of Chesapeake Bay, that the distance covered was
equal to the breadth of the Atlantic between Liverpool and New York.
It was yet early in the day when the barge turned to the right and
entered the broad mouth of the large branch of the James. The sun,
shining in a clear sky, moderated the cold, so that with their blankets
about their forms the men were comfortable. The two Indians used only
the deerskin jackets of covering for the upper part of their bodies.
Thus clothed, they would have felt no discomfort had the temperature
been at zero. Each had his bow and arrows, the white men being provided
with the snaphaunce muskets or old-fashioned flintlocks.
Captain Smith seated himself at the stern, just back of the little
cabin, his hand resting on the end of the tiller, which was held between
his elbow and side. In this position it was the easiest thing in the
world to direct the course of the boat. The others placed themselves as
fancy prompted, all ready for any work when called upon.
Seated thus, the explorer was in a good position to study the country as
they moved between the banks. The woods had a sameness, though they
could never lose their interest to the crew, who knew they were the
first of their race to gaze upon the forests, with the matted vines, the
trees bending far over the surface, while rotting log, interlocked
limbs, and fragments of trunks were mixed in such confusion that the
boat had not gone far when the Captain had to change his direct course
to a winding one so as to have a clear passage. Looking over the gunwale
he saw that in most places the water was clear, though the color of the
soil at the bottom gave it a dark appearance. Sometimes this depth was
eight or ten feet, and then it became so slight that he was not
surprised to feel the process slacken, and then cease so gently that few
noticed it. The boat had grounded upon a marshy spot, and the wind could
carry it no further.
Captain Smith spoke to his men, and four of them seized each a pole and
rose to their feet. When the ends were thrust against the oozy bottom
they sank deep into the mud. Instead of trying to push the craft ahead,
they shoved so as to drive it back into deeper water. This was not
difficult, the chief work being that of withdrawing the ends of the
poles from the soft earth, so as not to bring the hull back to its
former place. When the depth had increased the boat was steered to one
side of the shoal, and the sail not having been lowered, it moved on
again, though at so moderate a speed that some minutes passed before
even Captain Smith was certain they were really advancing.
All this time the occupants of the barge were on the watch for Indians.
Our friends were entering the hunting-grounds of the red men whose
tribal name was that which was given to the river, and it was not to be
expected that they would long remain ignorant of the coming of the
visitors. Nothing would have been easier than for some of these
warriors, lurking in the wooded depths along shore, to launch a shower
of arrows that would be likely to do harm, even though Smith and those
of his race were protected by rude coats of mail. But while this might
have guarded their limbs and bodies, their faces were left without any
shield whatever.
When the sun was overhead the two men seated nearest the cabin brought
out the black, coarse bread and cold venison. With the aid of knives
these were cut into rough pieces and divided among all. Butter, pepper,
and salt were not thought of, and those who wished to wash down their
food did so by dipping up water from the river in the palm of the hand,
or, in the case of the Captain, by lifting it in a small tin cup.
About the middle of the afternoon the breeze fell, and the flapping sail
told the navigators that they must use the oars. Four were slipped into
place, and two pairs of sturdy arms bent to the task, the others
awaiting their turn. The Indians who sat near the bow, silent and
watchful, were not expected to take part in the labor, for it was of a
nature with which they were not familiar. The Captain had told them to
use their woodcraft to detect any danger, and the two were scanning the
shores as they opened out before them, on the alert for the first
warning sign.
Suddenly one of the red men uttered a hissing sound. Faint as it was all
heard it. The rowers instantly stopped, and Captain Smith looked
inquiringly at the Indians. The one who had emitted the signal pointed
in advance and to the right bank. The river at this place was more than
two hundred yards broad, the trees growing close to the shore and many
in the water itself. Several white oaks curved out almost horizontally
over the surface before turning upward and becoming upright. Many
interlocking vines showed, but it was the season of the year when the
foliage was absent, and only here and there was an evergreen seen.
Not a white man could discover the cause of the warning. So far as they
were able to see, they were the only living creatures in the
neighborhood. As yet they had not caught sight of a deer, bear, or even
a fowl, and more than one began to believe that a disappointment awaited
them over the supply of game. That the dusky guard had detected
something, however, was certain. In answer to Smith’s inquiry he said,
speaking in his own tongue, that an Indian was near them on shore. There
might be more, but certainly there was one. After a minute’s pause the
Captain ordered the men at the oars to renew work. As they did so he
steered the boat a little to the left, but, like everyone else, kept his
attention upon the spot where it looked as if danger was lurking.
The guard was right, for, when nearly opposite the place, all who were
on watch saw not one warrior, but two partly hidden, by the trees and
undergrowth. Their position was slightly crouching, and their attention
was fixed upon the white men. They had the bows and arrows of their
people, and one of them seemed to be fixing a missile to the string of
his weapon.
While all were watching the Indian, not really certain as to his
intention, he suddenly aimed, and let his arrow fly. It flashed in the
sunlight, but was so poorly directed that it passed ten feet over the
heads of the crew, and dropped into the water beyond.
Hardly had it done so, when Captain Smith reached down and caught up his
musket lying at his feet. He aimed at the daring warrior, and, pausing
only a moment, pulled the trigger. He was a better marksman then the
other, who was struck by the bullet, which, if it did not inflict
serious hurt, caused a twinge which threw the fellow into a panic. With
a yell he whirled on his feet and dashed into the wood, his equally
frightened companion crashing through the undergrowth at his heels. The
crew broke into laughter, and two or three would have fired at the
fleeing couple had the Captain permitted it.
Smith had done a prudent thing, for, had he made no reply to the attack,
his foes would have thought it due to fear, and would have pressed the
white men. Nothing further of that nature was to be feared from the two,
nor from any of their friends whom they could tell of the occurrence.
The men at the oars now gave place to others, and the ascent of the
Chickahominy continued until night began closing in. By that time they
had reached the edge of the famous White Oak Swamp, where some of the
severest battles were fought during the great Civil War of 1861–5. They
found it composed of lagoons, morasses and stretches of wide-spreading
ponds or lakes choked with trees, and abounding with shallow places,
where the expanses of sluggish water were so broad and winding that it
was hard to keep to the channel. The barge was anchored in the middle of
one of these small lakes, the Captain deeming it unsafe to camp on
shore, though nothing further had been seen of Indians. After partaking
of a frugal meal the men lay down for the night, two of their number
mounting guard. The Captain longed for a smoke, but there was danger of
the light drawing the attention of their enemies, and again he set a
good example to his friends.
After night had fully come, the anchor was gently lifted, and with the
aid of the long poles, the position of the craft was shifted a number of
rods down stream. This was meant to make it hard for any warriors
prowling in the vicinity to find the boat. They would naturally seek it
where it was last seen in the gathering gloom, and failing to discover
it, would have to look elsewhere.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER VIII.
PARTING COMPANY
It happened that the two men who were first to mount guard were our old
acquaintances, Smith and Bertram, who had gone ashore with Captain Smith
some months before, when the first named tried to abduct Pocahontas, the
daughter of Powhatan, and might have succeeded but for the interference
of the Captain.
Bertram’s position was at the bow, while Smith was at the stern, near
the small cabin. When the Captain gave them this duty he warned both to
be on the alert during every minute of the time. The Indians were so
cunning that if they knew of the presence of the barge in the river they
would try some trick upon the whites, and the deception might take any
one of a score of forms. The important order to the sentinels was that,
whenever they saw anything suspicious, they were to fire upon it, for,
in doing so, they could not fail to teach their enemies an important
lesson.
“And,” significantly added the leader, “gunpowder is valuable. _Don’t
waste it._”
Bertram sat with his blanket wrapped about his shoulders and his musket
resting beside him, where it could be caught up at a moment’s warning.
His companion did the same at the stern. The night was cold, and since
they were prevented from warming their blood by moving about, they felt
the chill despite the protection. When it seemed to them that midnight
had come, they were to call two of their friends and change places with
them.
Soon after the couple had gone on guard, a gentle wind arose. It sighed
dismally among the leafless branches on shore, and caused a faint
rippling against the hull, which added to the loneliness of the place.
No sound of wild animal or signal of men was heard amid the chilling
solitude around them. The lowering of the temperature was so recent that
the boat had met no ice on its way, though a few needlelike points began
putting out from the swampy shore, and more of it was likely to form
within the next few days.
Bertram had held his place for nearly two hours without hearing or
seeing anything to cause misgiving. Deep, impenetrable darkness shut in
the boat. In no direction could the watchers catch the faintest outline
of the shore. The sky was partly cloudy, and the new moon was hidden,
though a few stars twinkled overhead without adding any light to the
impressive scene.
There was no danger of either of the men falling asleep while at his
post. They might have done so had they tried to watch until daybreak. As
it was, they continued as vigilant as if pacing to and fro in front of a
camp fire.
At the end of the time named Bertram heard a sound that he knew meant
danger. It was so faint that he was neither sure of its nature nor of
the point whence it came. He shoved down the top of the blanket from his
ears and listened. Fancying that the noise had been on his right, he
leaned forward in the effort to penetrate the gloom, and closed one hand
about the barrel of his musket.
Five or ten minutes of silence followed, when he heard the noise
again—still faint, but distinct enough to show its nature as well as its
direction. It was made by the dip of a paddle, and his first impression
of the point whence the sound came was right. Beyond a doubt, a party of
Indians in a canoe were hunting for the barge.
Bertram did not signal to his companion, for he might be held by some
discovery of his own. He leaned farther over the gunwale and peered into
the darkness. He lifted his gun so that it lay across his knee, and
smothering the click made by the lock, drew back the clumsy hammer, with
the bit of yellow flint clutched in its maw.
Thus gazing, he made out a shadowy something, which looked like a
section of the gloom, resting on the water. It was moving very slowly,
neither approaching the barge nor receding from it, but seemingly making
a circuit of the craft. It was a canoe, but instead of completing the
circuit on which it had started, it paused when just in front of the
bow.
The sentinel thought that it would not stay motionless long, but would
pass on, probably coming nearer the larger boat; but minute after minute
passed without any change of its position. Several times when Bertram
was intently looking he was sure there was nothing in sight; but, upon
shifting his gaze for a moment and bringing it back again, his doubt
vanished. The canoe was there, though he could not tell how many persons
it contained.
Perplexed and uncertain of what he ought to do he emitted a cautious
call to his companion, who stealthily made his way to his side.
“Have you seen anything amiss?” asked Bertram.
“Naught whatever. How is it with you?”
“A few yards in front of us a canoe has halted, but it is so dimly seen
that I am in doubt whether to fire or not. What do you make of it?”
With one hand on the shoulder of his friend, Smith leaned as far over as
he could, and gazed into the gloom.
“It is there,” he whispered; “and, if I am not mistaken, it is full of
warriors.”
“Then I will do as the Captain commanded.”
“And I will await the result before I fire.”
The hammer of Bertram’s gun being already raised, he softly brought the
stock to his shoulder, first dropping the blanket so as to leave his arm
free. He sighted carefully, but was checked by the same difficulty as
before; as he fixed his vision on the target it seemed to melt in the
darkness, and he could not make sure of his aim.
“I cannot see it,” he muttered in vexation. “Do _you_ fire.”
“It is idle; it has gone.”
This was true. During the brief moments taken to aim, the canoe had
glided off in the gloom, and the keenest scrutiny on the part of both
could not locate it. Smith picked his way to the stern, and the two kept
watch until well beyond midnight. Then they roused two of their friends,
and told them what they had seen, and urged them to unusual vigilance.
But, though they obeyed, they discovered nothing to cause alarm, nor
were the canoe and its occupants seen or heard of again. It was fair to
believe that the warriors, after studying the large boat as best they
could in the gloom, agreed that it was too dangerous for them to attack,
and went away.
The two succeeding days were marked by toil and discouragement. Only for
a brief time did the sail give any help, and there were hours when the
oars were useless because of the many obstructions. Three times the crew
had to saw their way through the logs and branches, and more than once,
after poling hard for a long while, they could not see that they had
made any progress. Fortunately the Indians did not disturb them. It was
on the second day that a solitary warrior was noticed. He was leaping
from log to log on his way across one of the many streams, knowing
nothing, as it seemed, of the presence of the strange visitors. Not once
did he turn his head, but whisked out of sight the moment his moccasin
rested on dry land, as if he had business that would not admit of delay.
Finally, it was seen that the large boat was of no further aid in going
up the Chickahominy. Use must be made of the small one trailing at the
rear, which had served when they had to chop and saw their way through
the obstructions. Smith would have been warranted in turning back and
giving his energies to the exploration of other branches of the James,
but such was not his nature. He said he would take the two Indians and a
couple of his own men with him, and go up the stream as far he could.
The day was so near at its close that he decided not to start until the
next morning. The chief thing to be feared was the red men, who were
known to roam and hunt through the region. The fact that, after the
exchange of shots several days before, they had seen only the single
warrior, was good evidence that nothing of the kind threatened; but
Captain Smith was not quite satisfied. He sent his friendly red men
ashore with orders to scout the woods in every direction for signs of
their countrymen, while he urged upon the guards to use sleepless
vigilance throughout the night.
The disturbing feature must be borne in mind. Near the spot where the
Captain had decided to part company with his companions they had seen an
Indian leaping across the logs. What more likely than that he had
friends in the neighborhood, whom he had joined shortly after observing
the barge, and had told them of his discovery?
What would be done by these warriors? Would they give no attention to
the white men, or would they join in a plan for their destruction? These
were the questions which Smith could not answer, and which explained why
he sent the friendly Indians to land with orders to scour the woods on
every hand.
The result quieted the fears of the Captain. His scouts did not come
back till late at night when they reported that they had not seen any of
their own people, nor a sign of their presence in the vicinity.
Furthermore, his men who kept watch on the boat did not discover
anything to cause misgiving. This seemed to mean that no danger
threatened, and yet it might mean one or two other things that were by
no means so pleasant to think upon. The enemies, observing the hunt made
for them, would have had little trouble in keeping out of sight. A still
darker theory was that the scouts knew that a large number of warriors
was in the woods, and possibly reached an understanding with them.
Whether this was true or not can never be known, but the fact remains
that there was at that very time a large party of red men near by, and
the conduct of one of the friendlies some time after makes the theory
named reasonable.
The barge was rowed to the middle of a broad expanse of water, where the
woods were quite far off in every direction, and the anchor was dropped
into the soft bottom. Smith meant to take the two Indians and the same
number of his own men with him. His namesake and Bertram asked the
privilege of being his companions, but he declined. He had not felt very
friendly towards them since the affair with Pocahontas, and in the event
of trouble with any of Powhatan’s tribes, the presence of the two as his
comrades might prove dangerous to himself.
Before leaving he addressed the four who remained in charge of the
barge.
“No matter what happens after I am gone, not one of you must go ashore.
You cannot do so without working the boat to land, and that is, perhaps,
what the red men are waiting for you to do. Stay here till I come back.”
“But suppose, Captain,” said Bertram, with a grin, “you do _not_ come
back?”
“Wait for three days, if you see nothing of me then, turn the prow down
stream, and make all haste for Jamestown.”
“And what shall we say when we get there?”
“Say what you please,” replied the Captain impatiently. “I don’t doubt
you will sprinkle plenty of falsehood in your words.”
It was so much easier to go up the Chickahominy in the smaller boat,
that Smith thought it likely he would continue the ascent of the river
for several days. He meant to press on as far as he could go in the
craft. Whether he should venture beyond that on foot must depend upon
circumstances.
Thus five men entered the small boat, which, you remember, was provided
with two pairs of oars, but had no sail. The white men did the rowing,
while the Indians stoically looked on, willing, if asked, to take one of
the blades in hand, and ply it as they were accustomed to use their own
paddles.
At the moment of starting a slight flurry of snow carried the flakes
against their faces, but it ceased in a few minutes, and the weather
became more moderate than at any time since leaving Jamestown. This was
pleasant, for no ice of account showed in the stream in which they must
remain for some time to come.
Captain Smith had not been gone half an hour when those left behind in
the barge boat gave voice to their discontent over the command he had
laid upon them.
“It is unbearable to stay here for two or three days,” said his
namesake, who was seated at the bow, looking with a glum expression at
his companions. “How shall we spend the weary hours?”
“We might fish,” said Bertram with a grin.
“That would answer for a little while, but the fish do not bite readily
in this wintry weather, and we shall grow tired.”
“The scouts who spent so much time ashore told us that no Indians were
near; _that_ ought to satisfy us. Let us go ashore, where we can stretch
our limbs and perhaps find game.”
The proposal was in direct disregard of the order of their leader, but
it was agreeable to each of the four men. They can hardly be blamed for
feeling as they did over the prospect of remaining in virtual
imprisonment so long, but their act, none the less, was wrong. Bertram
and Smith rose to their feet and began plying their poles. The water was
five or six feet in depth, and under their efforts the craft began
sidling toward land. While the couple were toiling the others scanned
the wooded bank which they were nearing. They must have felt a
misgiving, for each laid his musket across his knee, and one of them
wrinkled his brows and shook his head, but said nothing, and the poles
were used with a vigor that steadily lessened the fifty yards or more it
was necessary to pass to reach land.
The point at which the boat was directed was an open space, several
square yards in extent, and favorable for stepping ashore from the
craft. Beyond and on the two sides stretched the wood, with its rank
undergrowth and matted vines. If there was any current it was too
sluggish to be noted.
The side of the boat was so near the bank that it was a slight leap for
any one. Smith was standing with his pole motionless, and on the point
of making the jump, when one of his friends, who had also risen, gun in
hand, called out in an excited undertone:
“Back—quick! The woods are full of Indians!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IX.
HARD PRESSED
It was fortunate, that when the Indians warriors swarmed out of the
woods to attack the boat so near shore, the four white men on board did
not lose their presence of mind. This was partly due to the feeling
which had come, more or less, to every one, that they were doing a
dangerous thing in thus disobeying the order of Captain John Smith. Thus
they were partly prepared for that which broke upon them with so much
suddenness.
Smith and Bertram used the poles to the utmost, despite the arrows
whizzing about them. They pushed so hard that the boat quickly yielded,
and the space between it and the land widened with every moment. Their
companions aimed their muskets at the crowding forms, and fired with
such skill that each brought down a warrior.
The effect of this check upon the others was instantly noticed. It
scared them into darting back among the trees, but instead of keeping up
their flight they whisked behind the trunks, from which they continued
to launch their arrows at the men in the boat.
Now, if the Indians, who certainly numbered a hundred, had done any one
of several things, it would have proved a bad day for our friends. It is
strange that the red men did not wait a few minutes longer until the
four stepped ashore. Then, from behind the trees, they could have
brought them down without danger to themselves. Or, if when they made
their rush they had kept on, they might have leaped aboard the barge and
crushed the defenders. Perhaps they did not know that after the white
men had fired their terrible weapons it took some time to reload them.
Be that as it may, they fell back, and the chance that the invaders
needed was given them.
No one could have shown more bravery than Bertram and Smith. They plied
the poles, paying no regard to the missiles flying around them; while
their companions, first firing the guns of the couple, reloaded and
discharged their own as fast as the chance offered. When the craft
reached the middle of the broad space little was to be feared from the
Indians, for the distance was too great for them to gain good aim.
It was at this moment that a strange thing took place. The clothes of
every one of the defenders had been pierced by arrows—some in several
places, and two had been wounded, though not severely. No one could have
been more exposed than Bertram, standing out as he did in full view
while helping to pole the boat. He was glazed more than once by the
missiles, but was the only one of the four who was not so much as
scratched. Smith had been hit, but was smiling over his good fortune,
when he pitched forward on his face, pierced to the heart by an arrow
that was among the last fired at the boat.
The body was tenderly laid at the stern, and then, while two were alert
with their weapons, the third used the oars. There was no thought now of
staying where they were until Captain Smith came back. They did not
believe he ever would come back. So they kept on down stream as best
they could. Fortunately for them the large body of Indians did not
follow along the banks; and with the help of the current, after passing
the obstructions below, they made good progress. In due course they
glided out of the mouth of the Chickahominy into the James, and,
reaching Jamestown, told their story. Among the settlers there was not
one who expected ever to see Captain John Smith or his companions again.
Meanwhile the Captain was having stirring times. You remember that he
set out to go still farther up the stream in the little boat, which was
just bouyant enough to carry him, the two white men, and the friendly
Indians. Its light draught made the work so easy that they kept on for a
dozen miles before meeting their first check. The party heard the faint
reports of the guns of their friends left behind in the barge. Smith
thought it more than likely they were in trouble, but he had no idea of
going to their help, since no one but themselves was to blame.
About noon he reached a point where he saw the little boat had become
useless. He suspected the truth: he had strayed from the river itself,
and was following one of its branches. He did not care for that; but
telling the oarsman to turn to the left bank, all stepped out, and the
boat was drawn up nearly clear of the water.
“You are weary from rowing,” he said to the two who had taken turns at
the hard work; “and you may wait here while I go a little farther in
quest of game.”
“Can’t we help you?” asked one, who added that they were not tired. Both
would have been glad to take part in the hunt.
I have said that Captain Smith was fond of hunting alone, and he told
his friends to stay where they were. He meant to be with them before
dark, when they could broil the game which he was sure of bagging, and
they would spend the night in comfort by the camp fire in the depth of
the forest.
Despite what the men said they were quite worn out from rowing the boat
for several miles. So, with the help of a flint and steel, they kindled
a big fire, wrapped their blankets around them, and lay down with their
feet toward the blaze. By and by they sank into deep, restful sleep, for
the air was nipping and cold, and they were well guarded against the
chill.
It grieves me to say that neither of them ever awoke. At the end of an
hour, while they lay dreaming, the same party of Indians that had
attacked the larger boat came upon them, and quickly ended their lives.
Now, I need not remind you that in England, like all other countries
governed by a monarch, the eldest son comes to the throne on the death
of the ruler. Should King Edward die—and we all hope he will not be
called away for a long time to come—the Prince of Wales, who is his
eldest son living, would become the sovereign, and in the event of _his_
death, his eldest son would inherit the crown. Such is the rule of
descent in Great Britain.
It was not thus with Powhatan, the Emperor of many tribes of red men.
The next heir to his throne, if we may call it such, was his eldest
brother. If he had had no brothers, the descent would have passed to the
sons of Powhatan’s sisters. But Powhatan had several brothers, and one
was Opecancanough. If he outlived Powhatan and the eldest brother he
would become Emperor. I may say that this chief did become ruler, and
lived to be nearly a hundred years old.
Opecancanough never liked the English, and he urged Powhatan and his
fellow warriors to destroy them before their numbers became too great to
be overcome. He was active and had much to do with the enmity the older
brother often showed to the settlers. He was the leader of the band
which attacked the large boat, when one of the white men was killed and
the others had a narrow escape.
Opecancanough was pursuing Captain John Smith. He knew he was the
leading man at Jamestown, and that it was more important to slay him
than to put twenty other Englishmen out of the way. When he learned of
the voyage up the Chickahominy he gathered more than a hundred of his
warriors, and secretly followed the boat for many miles, watching for a
chance to destroy the crew, but especially to slay Captain Smith. It
proves how cunning he was that he did this for many miles without any of
the white men learning the fact. The two who exchanged shots with the
crew did not belong to his party, though they afterwards joined it.
A strange fact which it is hard to understand, was, that when Captain
John Smith and his companions started up the branch of the Chickahominy
they were not seen by either the chief or any of his band. The Indians
were on the other side of the broad expanse of the water, and were not
looking for anything of that nature; but it is singular, indeed, that
some of them did not observe the departure of the small craft with its
five occupants.
When the barge began working toward shore, Opecancanough believed Smith
and his friends were on board. His eagerness to slay them led to a haste
in the attack, which was the means of saving all except one man. During
the fight the chief discovered that five of the crew, including the
Captain, were absent. He must have noticed also, that, the small row
boat which had been towed at the stern was gone. These facts told him
the truth: Captain Smith had started up stream with four companions, who
were already quite distant.
If the chief had made a bad slip in the first case, he now met with a
piece of good fortune, due to the fine woodcraft of himself and his
warriors. A study of the different outlets of the expanse of water
showed where a slight disturbance was caused by the passage of the small
boat. These signs became clearer as they pressed along the shore, and
left no doubt that they were on the right course. Thus it came about
that they arrived at the camp where the two white men lay asleep with no
dream of danger. After the fatal halt it remained for the Indians to
push on after Captain Smith, who had started to shoot some fowl or game
for the supper of himself and friends.
From this point it was necessary to trail the Captain. It was not hard
to do so, since he could not go through the forest without leaving the
prints of his shoes, which were as easy to follow as if he had been
walking over a dusty road. You must remember, too, that he had two
companions in the persons of the friendly Indians. I have said that
there is no knowing whether they were true to the leader or not. I
cannot help doubting the loyalty of one of them, and think you will soon
agree with me.
Captain Smith had no thought of danger. The fact that he had come thus
far in the wilderness without harm led him to think that what had seemed
to threaten him once or twice on the way had passed, and he need feel no
alarm. Only one incident, after he had gone a little way, caused
misgiving. He kept the lead; the Indians following him in single file,
as is their custom. With his musket resting on one shoulder, the sturdy
fellow tramped forward, sometimes turning to the right or left to avoid
a dense growth of underbrush, or pool, or marsh. He was peering among
the branches of the trees and along the ground in front and on either
hand in quest of game, and grew impatient because he did not discover
any. With a half-angry word upon his lips he suddenly saw a movement
among the trees a little to the left, which he knew was caused by some
animal. Uttering a guarded “_Sh!_” to his companions, he stopped short
and looked keenly at the point where he had seen the slight flutter.
The next moment he caught the outlines of a noble buck stalking among
the trees, with his side turned towards the hunter, whom, of course, he
did not see, though he was sure to detect him in a twinkling. Afraid
that one of the Indians might not understand the delicate situation,
Captain Smith turned his head to whisper a warning.
As he did so he saw only one of his men. He who had been walking at the
rear was gone. The discovery caused such a thrill of distrust that
Captain Smith forgot the buck moving a little way from him, and asked:
“Where is Pete?”
He used the name he had given the fellow in place of his difficult
native title. Jim, as the second was called, flashed his head about, and
seemed as much astonished as the white man. He answered in his own
tongue:
“He was walking behind me; I do not know what has become of him.”
Both glanced among the trees to the right and left and the rear, without
seeing anything of the missing one. A crashing noise made them turn to
the front. It was caused by the buck, which having observed the hunter,
was off like the wind. No danger of his serving for a meal that evening.
The Captain turned round again. Jim was standing with his back to him,
his long bow in his left hand, while his profile showed over the right
and then over the left shoulder as he searched for his late comrade. It
looked as if he was as much puzzled as the white man. If so, we must
believe he was loyal to the Captain, though we cannot think the same of
the other.
Smith was angry. Before he could express his feelings he saw directly
beyond Jim a disturbance among the trees, so similar to what he had
noticed a short time before, that he thought it came from a similar
cause, and that the game he was seeking was within his reach.
But he was mistaken. While he was looking an Indian appeared, coming
cautiously toward him. Then another showed on the right of the red man,
a third on his left, and beyond, around and among these the stained
faces and dangling hair of others were quickly revealed, with still more
coming into view. A band was approaching the startled Captain, who knew
he was caught in a bad plight. The party which had slain three of his
friends and had been pursuing him over so long a distance had caught
with him at last.
The leaders of the Indians were almost as quick to discover their man as
he had been to see them. A score of signals passed from one to the
other, and the band pressed towards the Captain, who held his ground.
Smith said there were three hundred of them, but it must have been less,
though they were numerous enough to show that little or no hope remained
to him.
That there should be no doubt as to their intentions, fully a score sent
their arrows hurtling among the trees and branches at the white man.
Some went wild and clipped off the twigs near him, but two of them
nipped his clothing. He fixed his eye on the foremost Indian, who had
come near piercing him with his missile, and noting that he was in the
act of fitting a second one to his string, he took careful aim at the
warrior and shot him dead.
During these stirring moments Jim stood as if so overcome that he was
unable to move or speak. Although he held a fine bow in one hand and his
quiver was full of arrows, he made no attempt to use them. It was too
much to expect him to assail his own race, when there was no chance of
helping the white man by doing so. Captain Smith did not ask him thus to
seal his own fate, but his own quick wit saw a way in which he might be
made to aid him.
Two strides brought the Captain so near that he could have touched the
back of his dusky friend, who still seemed dazed.
“Stand where you are! Don’t move!” commanded Smith, in his most
impressive voice. “They won’t shoot through you to reach me!”
The Captain was a larger man than his shield, and he took a crouching
pose, peeping over each shoulder in turn and around the sides of Jim at
his enemies, who were baffled for the moment. While doing so Smith
carefully reloaded his musket. It was hard to pound the powder in place
with the ramrod, shove the bullet after it, and then pour the grains
into the pan, for, while thus occupied, he had to “keep one eye” on his
foes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER X.
A PRISONER
Despite the trying situation of Captain Smith, he managed to reload his
gun, and at the same time to keep his body quite well shielded by that
of his dusky friend. Several causes made it possible to do this. Jim
showed a real desire to help his master, for, when it would have been
easy to break from him and join his countrymen, he allowed himself to be
handled at will by the white man. The warriors showed by their actions
that they did not wish to hurt Jim. More than once, when one of them had
drawn his bow-string and pointed the arrow, he held it back, seeing that
if he should discharge it he was likely to hurt the man who stood in
front of the crouching Englishman. More than all, however, was the dread
which the band, large as it was, felt of the fearful weapon that had
stretched one of their number lifeless on the ground. Most of them tried
to keep the trunks of the trees between them and him, even when aiming
their primitive weapons. Smith had only to turn the muzzle of his musket
towards the most daring of his enemies to make them dodge back to their
protection and cringe in fear.
The Captain saw that the right course was not to fire until he had to do
so to save himself. So long as his assailants knew that their leader was
sure to fall they would hold back. How long this would last remained to
be seen.
Now, it is hard to think of a situation more hopeless than that of
Captain Smith at this time. When attacked, his back was toward the camp
where he had left his two companions some time before. He hoped to be
able to retreat until he joined them, when the three with their firearms
might be able to hold off their foes. But it was quite a way to the
camp, and he could not believe he would be permitted to reach it. His
foes were so numerous that by spreading out they would be able soon to
surround him. He could not protect himself from all sides by the body of
Jim. It would seem that the best and only thing for him to do was to
surrender before he had increased the enmity of the Indians by slaying
more of them.
Standing close behind Jim, he gave his orders in a low voice. After he
had reloaded his gun he grasped his friend’s girdle at the lower part of
his back, and jerked upon it when ready to retreat a few steps.
“Step slowly,” he said, “keep with me. Not too slow!”
In this way the withdrawal was kept up till they had gone several rods.
Smith glanced to the right and left, and saw that his enemies were
spreading apart, so as to surround him. He must prevent this, or it
would soon be all over with him. In truth, the position of the Indians
would be better for themselves when they had formed a semicircle than
after the circle was completed; for an arrow discharged from directly
behind Smith would be liable to hit Jim, in the line of its flight,
while the danger of doing this was less if fired from either the right
or left.
You do not need to be told that Captain John Smith was one of the
bravest of men, and he would fight as long as the slightest hope was
left to him. When he had doubled the distance named he began to think
that he might reach the camp of his companions and beat off his
assailants, who felt such a dread of his gun. But while doing so, with
Jim still serving the part of shield, he saw that the danger he had in
mind at first had come upon him. One warrior, more than six feet in
height, with his face stained with puccoon, and his crown stuck full of
dyed eagle feathers, had worked so far to the right of the white man
that the latter could not screen himself behind his friend without
inviting a shot from most of the others. Smith was able to keep his
chief foe in his field of vision while watching the actions of the main
party.
This warrior must have had a clear plan in mind, for, darting from one
tree to another and holding his arrow, he gained the advantage he was
seeking. In order to make his aim certain he stepped from behind the
trunk which had sheltered him, and carefully sighted at the slowly
retreating Englishman. Before he could draw the shaft to a head he
uttered a loud cry, leaped high in air, and pitched forward with his
long bow bent under him. Smith had fired again, and not a second too
soon.
The shot was so unexpected that the warriors were checked for a minute.
Smith expected it, and, standing behind Jim, hastily reloaded his
musket. No harder situation can be thought of, for it was certain that
his foes would soon rally, and press him closer than before. With a
coolness that was amazing, he poured the powder into the pan of his gun
from his horn, grasped the weapon firmly, and took a couple of steps to
the rear.
“Come on, Jim,” he said, having loosed his hold. “Keep moving till I
tell you to stop.”
It was at this juncture that Smith made a startling discovery. One of
the Indians—he who stood nearest the one that had just fallen—had an
English musket in his hands! Less than ten paces from him a second
warrior held a similar weapon.
Smith knew what it meant; his two friends whom he had left in camp had
been slain. He had no one now to fall back upon.
Even the brave Englishman did not then yield. He would have continued
retreating and fighting until brought to the ground. Nor did he give up
when one of the arrows, better aimed than the others, pierced his thigh,
and made a slight wound. He noticed that his comrade who had served him
so well thus far had also been hit. His countrymen were growing
impatient because he kept them back so long, and were beginning to
launch their shafts with less care for his safety. His life would not be
spared unless he stepped aside.
With a chivalry for which Captain Smith deserved the highest credit, he
pushed his friend so strongly to one side that he had to take several
paces to keep from falling.
“Thank you, Jim; you can serve me no longer.”
The Captain retreated faster, with his eyes on his enemies, meaning to
hold his fire as long as he could, but ready to use the musket the
instant it was needed. Afraid that he would soon be surrounded, he paid
no heed to Jim, who paused a little way from him, and stared around as
if bewildered. The Englishman could not look where he placed his feet.
The right foot went down on the ground, but instead of finding the firm
support it had had all along, the leg sank to the knee in the soft mud.
Smith made a desperate effort to wrench it free, when the left foot went
down as far as the other. He struggled with might and main, but sank
farther, until both legs were imbedded in the ooze almost to his thighs.
This brought the end. It seemed to him that the clinging mud was colder
than ice itself. He must perish, even if the Indians left him alone, and
they were sure not to do that. He flung his musket from him, and threw
up his hands.
“I yield! I surrender!” he called in the tongue of the red men.
Even then, when his helpless situation was plain to all, most of the
warriors were afraid to draw nearer to him. All knew him as the most
important member of the colony, and what they had seen him do filled
them with dread of the great magician. Fortunately, there were a few
with more sense. They went to where Smith was still floundering and
grasping his outstretched hands, drew him out upon hard ground.
The Captain had learned from his experience among these people. He knew
their weak side. In a voice of authority, he asked as he looked around
in the stained faces, for their chief. At the same time he took hold of
a small compass in an ivory case, which he earned at his side. Deftly
untying the string, he held the little instrument in his hand, so that
all could see the tiny needle flickering back and forth under the glass
covering. They crowded around like so many children, gaping in wonder,
and not knowing whether to retreat or hold their ground.
Finally, one braver than the others, timidly reached his forefinger and
tried to place it on the dancing needle. But lo! something stopped the
finger point before it touched the restless bit of metal. With a gasp of
affright the warrior recoiled, ignorant of what it meant.
That which had checked his action was the thin covering of glass. Not
one of the Indians had ever beheld the metal, and the bit before the
curious one was so transparent that he did not see even that. Those of
his people who had visited Jamestown observed the windows protected with
oiled paper. Glass was before them for the first time.
Only one of the Indians was brave enough thus to try to touch the
magnetic needle, and despite the shock he received, he tried it again,
only to be repulsed as before. He bent his head farther over the
compass, as if he suspected the hard substance which stopped him.
His head almost touched the chin of Captain Smith. The latter looked
more closely at him. He saw that, while he was dressed much the same as
the others, he had more stained eagle plumes in his dangling black hair,
and he wore a broader and finer sash around his waist. Gazing downward,
Smith noted also that his leggings had numerous ornamental fringes, and
there were more beads on his moccasin—all these being in the line of the
Englishman’s vision.
Noting these, it flashed upon Smith that this warrior was the chieftain
for whom he had asked a few minutes before. At the same moment he
recognized him. He was Opecancanough, brother of Powhatan, next to him
in importance, heir to the throne, and a leader who was destined to act
an important part in the early history of Virginia.
When the sachem straightened up, after he had learned why he could not
touch the needle, Smith offered the compass to him. He smiled and shook
his head. His courage was not yet sufficient to take the marvellous
thing in his palm. He looked into the face of the Captain, as did all
the others, who crowded round, as if inviting him to tell them something
about the instrument.
In describing this odd incident Captain Smith relates something which,
with all our fondness for the good fellow, we cannot quite believe. He
says that by means of the compass he demonstrated the roundness of the
earth, the skies, the sphere of the sun, moon, and stars; “and how the
sunne did chase the night round the world continually; the greatnese of
the land and sea; the diversitie of nations; varietie of complexions,
and how we were to them, antipodes, and many other such matters.”
Perhaps the lecture was given as described, but little or nothing of it
was understood by his hearers. In the first place, his knowledge of
their tongue was slight, and the facts themselves were profound. But by
this time Smith was in a bad condition. He was smeared with icy mud to
his waist, and so chilled that his teeth chattered. His captors showed
unexpected kindness. They rubbed the stuff from his clothes, and led him
back to the camp where his dead friends lay. The fire was burning
strongly, and he was soon able to warm himself.
But Smith had killed two of the warriors, and when the others had had
time to recover from the spell of his seeming magic they talked
together. After all, he was a man the same as themselves, though the
color of his skin was different, and he did not dress like them. They
were so numerous that he gave up all thought of resistance, since his
weapons were in their hands, and they enclosed him on all sides. Two of
them came forward, each taking him by an arm, and led him to a tree, to
which he was bound with deer thongs. Then the company formed a circle,
and each Indian slowly drew an arrow to its head, with the point
levelled at him. Smith closed his eyes, and uttered a prayer to heaven.
Opecancanough was not among those who thus made ready to bury the
missiles in his body. He stood a little apart from the others, and
before they could launch their deadly arrows he commanded them in a loud
voice to stop. At the same moment he held up the compass, which he had
at last taken from the captive. His men were prompt in obeying, and all
lowered their weapons.
Hope was renewed in the breast of Smith, though he could not help
fearing that his death had been merely postponed. His captors knew who
he was, and, since he had slain two of their number, they would not
forgive him, even though the Indians had shot three of the whites to
death.
The order of march was formed with Opecancanough in the center, and the
English swords and muskets carried as trophies before him. Next to him
walked Smith led by two savages, each of whom held one of his arms,
while on either side marched six in single file.
Thus the procession moved through the forest till it reached Orapakes, a
hunting home of Powhatan, on the northern side of Chickahominy Swamp.
This village contained about two score mat houses. The women and
children swarmed out of the dwellings and stared in amazement at the
prisoner, the like of whom few had ever seen before. The warriors began
a grand war-dance around Smith and Opecancanough, who stood in the
middle. When the savages had tired themselves out they led the prisoner
to a large matted wigwam, into which he passed, while twenty of the
leading Indians mounted guard on the outside. Smith was unbound, and he
seated himself on a bearskin near the entrance to the lodge, wondering
what was to come next.
Before long a couple of warriors appeared bearing cooked venison and
Indian bread, which they placed on the ground before the captive, who
was so hungry that he ate his fill. After this enough was left for a
dozen men. His attendants put it into baskets, and swung them from the
roof over his head, but to Smith’s surprise ate nothing themselves.
The wintry afternoon was drawing to a close, and the Captain was so
exhausted that he stretched out on the bearskin and soon fell asleep. A
fire had been kindled on the farther side of the wigwam, which so filled
it with warmth that he was comfortable, though naturally his mind was
greatly disturbed. Before closing his eyes he saw the shadowy forms of
men, women and children, who kept coming to the entrance and peeping in.
The door consisted of the skin of a bear, which was frequently drawn
aside, and then the Captain saw several pairs of bright eyes studying
him. He heard their whispers, after which they withdrew, and their
places were taken by others as curious as they.
About midnight Smith awoke. Someone threw more wood on the fire, and by
the light that filled the apartment he saw two others bearing venison
and bread, which they placed at the head of his couch. The prisoner
smiled.
“I have eaten enough to last me till tomorrow,” he said. “You may take
this away, and wait till I am hungry again.”
But they gave no heed, and, having set down the food, passed softly out
into the open air.
“Why are they feeding me so well?” he asked himself. “They must know I
have had my fill—and therefore do not need any more—”
A dreadful suspicion flashed over him.
“They are fattening me like a pig, so that I shall be in good condition
for them to eat!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XI.
THE FRIEND IN NEED
Now, if a boy, while eating a fine dinner, should suddenly form the
belief that the men who gave the food to him meant it to make him
plumper, so that he would form a better dinner for _them_, I am sure he
would not have much appetite left. Captain John Smith came to this
belief not many hours after finishing a bountiful meal provided by his
Indian captors, and he made up his mind not to eat another mouthful. If
they meant to feast upon their prisoner, they should find him in the
poorest condition possible.
It is easy for anyone to form such a resolve when he has no craving for
food, but with the next morning it seemed to Smith that he was never
hungrier in his life. And there were two big baskets of pone and
venison. After thinking over the question he decided that he might as
well eat what was set before him, and begin his fasting after that. By
and by it was not hard to persuade himself that it would really make no
difference as to what would be finally done with him. So he gave over
all thought of punishing himself by going hungry when there was nothing
to be gained by it.
The Indians spared his life so long that Captain Smith began to hope
they would let him return to Jamestown. When he was taken before a sick
man he told the friends he could get his medicine at the settlement that
would make the patient well, but they were too cunning to let him go
after it.
The next proposal of his captors was that he should help them in
destroying Jamestown. They told him nothing could save the place, for
the tribes had determined not to allow a white man to remain alive. They
promised to give Smith all the lands he could ask, with liberty to
choose as many wives as he pleased. He assured the Indians that it was
out of their power to hurt the settlement, and that those who tried to
do so would suffer awful consequences. His words produced the effect he
intended, and the plan was given up.
Smith next did a thing that filled the red men with astonishment. He
tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and with a piece of red chalk,
whittled to a point, he wrote several sentences. Holding up the slip
with the writing on it, he said to the staring warriors:
“The words I speak to you have been put on this paper; they ask my
friends at Jamestown to give you the articles which I name. Let some of
your messengers take this to Jamestown and show it to my people there,
and you will see that I have spoken with a single tongue.”
Not believing what he said, two of fleetest runners set out for the
settlement. It was the depth of winter, when there was a good deal of
snow on the ground, and the weather was very cold. But the messengers
made the journey, and handed the paper to the persons there, who
straightway gave them the trifling articles called for, to the unbounded
astonishment of the runners, who could not understand how the strange
thing was done.
It need hardly be said that the paper contained more on it than the
writer had read to the Indians. He told his friends of the plan of the
red men to destroy the place, and urged upon them to use the utmost
diligence against surprise. In order to impress their dusky visitors,
the settlers fired several of their cannon among the ice-laden trees.
The shots made a great racket, and sent the branches and bits of ice
flying in all directions. When the runners came back to their people and
told what they had seen, and proved that the prisoner had really spoken
by means of the paper to his friends many miles away, their amazement
was beyond words.
Now followed several weeks during which Captain Smith was on exhibition.
He was paraded through the country, with crowds swarming to look at him,
as we do in these times when some new and strange animal is shown in the
museums. No harm was offered him, but he could never feel secure against
death, and he was always looking for a chance to escape. Not once,
however, did he dare make the attempt. His captors were so watchful that
he knew he must fail, and they would be sure to punish him, probably by
slaying him at once.
During these troublous times Smith kept looking for Pocahontas or her
brother Nantaquas. They must have known of the kindness he had shown the
girl, and it would seem that gratitude would lead them to do all they
could for him. But he saw nothing of either. His excursions were through
the lands that were directly ruled by Opecancanough. The old Indian
capital was on York River, about twenty-five miles below the present
village of West Point. The spot was known as the “Chief Place of
Council,” the Indian name being Werowocomoco.
Finally, as if Opecancanough could not decide for himself what should be
done with the captive, who had been exhibited through the country, he
was taken to Werowocomoco, before the mighty Powhatan himself. There the
great question was to be settled by the most powerful Emperor of all the
Indians.
The scene was striking. The tall, glum, haughty Powhatan sat on a
framework or couch, suggestive of a throne, covered with mats, and in
front of a large fire. He was wrapped in a robe of raccoon skin. On each
side sat a young woman who was his wife, and along the sides of the
royal lodge stood two rows of men, with the same number of women
standing directly behind them. The faces and shoulders of all the
females were stained red, most of their heads were adorned with white
down, and strings of white beads were around their necks. It was
fortunate for the women that such a large fire was burning in the
wigwam, for they had very scant covering on their bodies.
As Captain Smith was brought before this imposing company, naturally he
was filled with wonder as to what the end would be. He knew that the
grim, gaunt Emperor was about to decide his fate—or, rather, would make
it known, for the prisoner had been led thither to hear his sentence.
As the Captain made a grave obeisance to Powhatan he cast searching
looks around the lodge in quest of Pocahontas and her brother Nantaquas,
and saw the latter. He was standing on the right of the Emperor, at the
head of the double line of warriors, which was the place of honor. All
these men had their weapons with them. Knives and tomahawks showed in
their girdles, and the end of each bow, as tall as themselves, rested on
the floor, being grasped around the thick portion in the middle.
Smith noticed that the stature of Nantaquas was the equal of the warrior
next to him, though, in truth, he was only a boy. His eyes met those of
Smith, but there was not the slightest change of expression. Whatever
his feelings might be, the youth dared give no sign in the presence of
his stern father.
But where was Pocahontas? Twice, Smith searched hurriedly among the
group, all of whom he saw despite the rows in front, but that fair,
pitying face was not among them. The prisoner’s heart sank. He gave up
hope. A woman known as the “Queen of Appomattox” was ordered to bring a
wooden bowl of water, in which he washed his hands. Another woman handed
him a soft bunch of feathers, which he used as a towel. After this came
a barbarous feast for the hapless captive, and then a long consultation.
It is probable that Powhatan and his brother chiefs would have spared
Captain Smith, but for the fact that he had slain two of their number.
That was an offence which could not be forgiven, and he was sentenced to
death. Two warriors appeared at the entrance of the lodge, each bearing
a heavy stone. It was the most they could do to carry them to the open
space in front of the chieftain, where they were laid on the ground,
beside each other.
At a sign from Powhatan half a dozen of his men sprang to where Smith
stood, watching the dreadful preparations. He was dragged and pushed
forward, his hands tied behind his back and then flung to the ground,
and his head forced down, so that it rested on the larger of the two
stones. He did not resist, for this man of so many strange adventures
felt that the last of them all had come.
Hardly had his head been placed on the rough support, when most of the
warriors fell away, leaving one ranged on either side of the prostrate
captive. These stood near his shoulders, and each grasped a huge club,
the large end swinging clear of the ground, in position for them to draw
it back and bring it down on the head of Smith with such force that no
second blow on the part of either would be needed.
It was an awful moment. Intense silence reigned in the lodge. No one
seemed to breathe, and only the soft rustle of the fire and the moaning
of the wintry wind outside the wigwam broke the stillness. The position
of everyone was rigid, and all eyes were fixed upon the captive and his
executioners. Not a sign of pity showed on the face of anyone. The
countenance of Powhatan was like that of a graven image, but his black
eyes gleamed. To him the tragedy was one of fine enjoyment. He did not
give any command or speak, for it was not needed. The couple with the
clubs knew their duty.
At this moment of tense emotion a movement was heard on the left of the
Emperor, and just behind the wife who was standing at the head of the
row. With a gasping exclamation, Pocahontas dashed between the men in
front of her, thrusting them out of her path, and, bounding like a fawn
across the intervening space, dropped on one knee, placed an arm on
either side of the Captain’s head, and with tears streaming down her
cheeks, looked up at her father.
“You must not kill him! He is my friend! He was kind to Pocahontas!
Spare his life, dear father, for _me_!”
No one moved or spoke. Powhatan glared angrily at his daughter for
neither she nor anyone had ever dared to do a thing like this before.
Had it been anyone else, he would have struck the person dead at his
feet.
But he could not raise his hand against the loved child of his heart. He
started to rise, but changed his mind and sank back again. The
executioners looked at him, awaiting his command, and paying no
attention to the girl kneeling between them, with her arms still about
the neck of Captain Smith, who looked up into her dark, pitying eyes. A
warm tear fell on his bronzed forehead. With one hand Pocahontas brushed
back the heavy brown hair which had dropped over his eyes, and smiling
through her grief, said:
“You shall not be harmed! Your life is spared!”
“How can you know that, my good friend?”
“Do you not see?” she asked in turn, grasping one of his bound arms
above the elbow, as if to help him to his feet.
At this moment Captain Smith saw what she meant by her question. The
warriors with their huge clubs had stepped away from the two. Powhatan
could not deny the prayer of Pocahontas, and had signalled to them to
spare the life of the white man.
When the Captain stood erect, his face flushed with embarrassment. Not
knowing what to do, he did nothing, but stood with his eyes on the
ground. Pocahontas fluttered about him like a bird. She tried to untie
the knots that bound his wrists behind his back, and though she would
have succeeded in a few minutes, she was impatient. She beckoned to her
brother Nantaquas, who came hastily forward and cut the thongs with his
knife. He turned inquiringly to Powhatan, who motioned for his son to
take the man away. Clasping the hand of the prisoner in his own, the
youth led him through the door to the outside of the wigwam. Pocahontas
did not follow, but did another thing that astonished the group gathered
round. Forgetful of all kingly dignity in the stress of her feelings,
she bounded to the throne, flung her arms about the neck of her parent,
and laying her head on the gaunt shoulder, sobbed with thankfulness,
murmuring words which only Powhatan could hear.
And for the moment he forgot that he was King. He stroked the masses of
black hair until she regained command of herself, when he told her in a
low voice that he had spared the prisoner because he could deny nothing
to the one who asked it. She faced about with glowing countenance, on
which the tears still shone, and moved back to the place she had held
before doing the noble act.
Meanwhile Nantaquas guided Captain Smith to his own lodge, which stood
at the eastern end of the village. It was small, for only he dwelt
there. It was hardly a dozen feet in length, and no more than two-thirds
of that in width, but a fire was smouldering at the farther end, the
skins of animals were spread on the ground, and his favorite bow leaned
in one corner. On the ridge pole of the wigwam were hung the furs of
bears, deer, and wolf. Primitive as was the dwelling, it was as
comfortable as it could be.
Captain Smith was not a “gushing” man. In this respect he was like
Nantaquas. The Indian youth had learned the white men’s custom of
greeting one another by shaking hands. When the Captain, therefore,
offered his hand to his friend, it was grasped by him.
“I shall always be thankful to you, Nantaquas.”
“Your thanks belong to my sister,” was the gentle reply.
“I know that, and she will ever dwell in my heart. Does this mean that
my life is spared for a short time only?”
“I will learn; wait till I come back.”
Lifting the flap of the lodge, the dusky youth slipped outside. Captain
Smith sat down on one of the furs spread on the floor, and gave himself
over to thinking of the strange things that had come to him in the past.
He was sitting thus, sunk in meditation, when his friend returned.
Nantaquas had talked with Powhatan, who told him that Smith was to stay
among the Indians, and give his time to the making of moccasins, bows
and arrows, robes and pots, and especially to the manufacture of beads,
bells, and copper trinkets for Pocahontas. The Captain accepted the
proposal with great pleasure, for he knew that the end, sooner or later,
would be his return to Jamestown. What a contrast between the many
stormy scenes he had passed through and this quiet toiling in the depths
of the American woods! He took up the task with the same energy he put
in everything, and pleased Nantaquas; who showed a real friendship for
him. Powhatan was also well satisfied, and Pocahontas, who often came to
the little workshop and watched the sturdy Captain at labor, was
delighted. She would sometimes sit for a long time on a mat in front of
him, noting with childish interest the movements of the sturdy fingers
that were more used to handling the sword than to fashioning the
delicate ornaments and trinkets. She could not restrain her happiness as
the articles gradually took form. When the Captain completed a pair of
moccasins that were as dainty as the slippers of Cinderella, she slipped
them on her feet, clapped her hands, and danced about the wigwam, just
as any little English or American girl would have done. Nantaquas and
Captain Smith smiled at the pretty picture, and the brave and good
Captain felt well rewarded for his trouble. Indeed, could he ever repay
this sweet daughter of the forest for what she had done for him? He
often asked himself the question, and the answer was always a soft but
earnest “_No!_”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER XII.
CONCLUSION
Powhatan left no doubt of his friendly feeling towards Captain Smith
when, six weeks after he started on his voyage up the Chickahominy, the
sachem allowed him to return under guard to Jamestown. He received a
warm welcome from his countrymen, and the Indians who had come with him
were sent back to Powhatan with many presents for themselves, and still
more for the American Emperor himself.
It is one of the many proofs of the fine character of Captain John Smith
and of his great service to the colony, that, brief as had been his
absence, the settlement had reached the verge of ruin. The little church
had been burned, and the good minister held religious services under the
trees. Of the more than a hundred men who had come across the ocean a
few months before, only forty were alive. On the very day that Smith
arrived at the settlement, the new President Ratcliffe and several of
his friends had seized the pinnace—the only boat left—and were about to
sail for England. This was the third attempt of that kind, and it was
defeated again by Smith, who would have shot every man of them had they
not come back to land and surrendered.
Now, what do you suppose was the next step of those wicked persons? You
must remember that they had other friends, base as they were. They said
that under the old Levitical law Smith was guilty of the deaths of the
men that had been slain by Indians. They would have hanged him on the
charge, had he not ended the business by arresting his accusers, and
warning them that, if they caused him any more trouble, he would hang
them all.
Woeful times now came to Jamestown. You would think they could be no
more dreadful than those through which the settlement had already
passed, but the poor people, besides quarrelling among themselves, began
starving to death. The gaunt, famished settlers staggered along the
single street, too feeble to rise when they stumbled and fell. All they
could do was to creep into their cabins and lie down, moaning and
waiting for death to end their sufferings. It looked as if not a man
would be left alive, and about the only one who kept his feet and moved
freely about was Captain Smith. He was always cheery and hopeful, and
helped others by his good spirits, which seemed never to leave him.
But the day came when even this brave man saw no hope. He did not know
where to get the next mouthful of food without going among the Indians,
and his companions were too worn and weak to be taken with him. He would
not leave them to their sad fate, but was ready to die among them, as he
had been from the first.
Standing moodily on the outside of the palisades, with arms folded and
looking off along the trail that led into the forest toward York River,
he suddenly saw a strange sight. A girl came out from among the trees,
bearing a basket of corn on her shoulder. He had hardly time to
recognize her as Pocahontas when he saw she was followed by other
Indians. On came the procession, until he counted eighteen. The one next
to her was Nantaquas, and, filing after him, were other warriors, every
one of whom carried a basket of corn or a haunch of venison. Providence
had moved their hearts with pity for the perishing white men, and their
timely visit with food saved them when, but for such kindness, all must
have perished.
No wonder the grateful English ever after referred to the good maiden as
“the dear and blessed Pocahontas.” She came once or twice a week for
months, bringing supplies through the woods from the York River to
Jamestown. It was she who took the first step in this good work, and
Powhatan was willing, for he felt friendly at the time towards the
whites. Years after, in a letter to the Queen, Captain Smith referred to
these acts of Pocahontas in the following quaint words:
“During the time of two or three years she next under God, was still the
instrument to preserve this colony from death, famine, and utter
confusion, which, if in those days had once been dissolved, Virginia
might have lain as it was at our first arrival to this day.”
I have not the space to tell you the later history of Virginia. Its
troubles were by no means ended, and many dark days followed—days when
it looked as if nothing could save the colony from passing away. I have
aimed rather to show something of the great services of Pocahontas,
daughter of Powhatan, who ruled over thirty tribes of Indians, She never
showed any weakening of her friendship for the white people. Sometimes
her father became offended with them and went to war, but nothing could
shake her good will. He even grew angry with her, but, though parent and
child could not quarrel the maiden only became more guarded in her deeds
of kindness, when Powhatan happened to be in one of his ugly moods.
There was a time when the chieftain’s enmity against Smith became so
deep that he used every means he could think of to have him put to
death. The Captain was ready to fight the Emperor, when nothing else was
left. He set out one day with a strong company to surprise Powhatan. He
had not been gone long when nine of those whom he had left at home went
out in a boat in a severe storm. The craft was capsized and the whole
party drowned. Smith had ordered these men to hold themselves ready to
join him whenever he sent for them. It was important that he should be
told of the calamity as soon as possible, so that his own expedition
might not fail through lack of the aid he might need.
The task of reaching Smith through the many miles of wilderness was so
dangerous that only one man in the colony was willing to make the
attempt. He was captured by Indians and taken before Powhatan at
Werowocomoco, and the chieftain ordered him to be put to death. Without
drawing suspicion to herself, Pocahontas got him a short distance away
in the woods, and hid him among the bushes. He would have been found and
brought back by the warriors who set out to search for him had she not
cunningly led them in a wrong direction. The man gained enough start to
join Smith, and tell him of the sad accident to the men whom he had
counted upon for help.
Some time later, when matters seemed to have quieted, a party of
colonists went among Powhatan’s people to trade, but all except one was
massacred. Pocahontas succeeded in saving his life, and he lived many
years, secure in her friendship, among the Indians.
In 1609 Captain Smith, while on one of his exploring expeditions, was so
painfully burned by the accidental explosion of a bag of gunpowder, that
he suffered great agony. Good medical treatment could not be given him
at Jamestown, and he sailed for England. He never came back to Virginia,
which was a great misfortune, since no man could be found fitted to take
his place. Of the five hundred whom he left behind, only sixty were
alive at the end of six months. History refers to this fearful period of
Virginia as “the Starving Time.”
When, at last, conditions improved through the steady coming of
immigrants, Captain Argall started on a cruise up James River. He
invited Pocahontas to visit his vessel, and she, dreaming of no evil,
came aboard with an Indian woman, who had been bribed to play her part,
under the promise of Argall that no harm should befall the girl. The
woman was allowed to go ashore, but Pocahontas was kept as a prisoner.
The expectation of Argall was that Powhatan would be glad to pay a large
ransom with corn for her return to him. Instead of doing so, the furious
sachem prepared to wage a savage war against the colony.
During these troublous weeks Pocahontas stayed at Jamestown, where
everyone treated her kindly. John Rolfe, a member of a good English
family, became interested in the maiden, and she returned his affection.
He was a good Churchman, and talked to Pocahontas about the true
religion. She listened with deep interest, and soon showed that no one
understood the mysteries of the Christian faith better than she. She was
truly converted, and asked that she might be baptized. In the quaint
little chapel at Jamestown, whose columns were the rough pines from the
forest, whose pews were fragrant cedar, and whose communion table and
pulpit were of black walnut, this Princess of the Woods knelt before the
font hewn out of a log, made the responses in broken English, and
received the baptismal name of Rebecca.
Rolfe and Pocahontas were married in the month of April, 1613. Although
Powhatan did not attend the ceremony, he cheerfully gave his consent,
and sent his brother and two of his sons to represent him. One of these
was our old friend Nantaquas, who was highly pleased with the marriage.
The uncle of Pocahontas gave her away in accordance with the Anglican
ritual. The windows of the chapel were festooned with evergreens, wild
flowers, and crimson hollyberries. The communion table was covered with
spotless white linen, and on it rested bread from the wheat fields and
wine from the native grapes. The settlers and Indian visitors crowded
the small building, and gazed with deep interest upon the beautiful
picture.
When the bride and groom appeared, she was dressed in a simple tunic of
white muslin, with her comely arms bared to the shoulders. Sir Thomas
Dale had presented her with a rich robe, which she had herself
embroidered. Her abundant black hair flowed down her back, and was
encircled by a fillet, filled with the bright plumage of birds, and
holding in its fastenings a cloudlike, misty veil. A few simple articles
of jewelry gleamed on her wrists. Modest, loving, and beautiful, she
made a charming bride.
Nor must we forget the groom. He had a manly figure, and with his short,
full beard, an attractive countenance. He was dressed like an English
cavalier, and wore a short sword on his thigh as a mark of distinction.
The two stood upon the chancel steps, which had no railing, and there
the clergyman, with impressive voice and manner, amid the breathless
hush of the spectators, made the two man and wife.
This union was a happy one in every respect. Husband and wife devotedly
loved each other, and Powhatan became the true friend of the English,
and so remained to the close of his life. When Governor Dale sailed for
England in 1616, he took Rolfe and Pocahontas with him. She was called
“Lady Rebecca,” and surely it was proper that she should wear such
honor, for was she not the daughter of the Greatest American King of his
time? She received marked attention from the court and leading
dignitaries in England, and everything was done to make her feel happy
in a land so new and strange to her.
It was natural that Pocahontas should feel anxious to meet her old
friend Captain Smith. He was the first whom she asked about, but, to her
grief, she was told that he was dead. While mourning for him, the
Captain called upon her. She was so shocked that she burst into tears,
and asked why the deception had been used. All sorts of explanations and
excuses were made; but you will agree with me that none was sufficient
to justify such cruel treatment.
She soon regained her cheerfulness, and the two sat down and had a long
talk over their lives in the land, three thousand miles away, in the
depth of the American woods. She called the Captain “father,” and he
returned by speaking to her as “daughter.”
Since I know you feel an interest in the brave Captain John Smith, I
will say in this place that he sailed along the coast of New England in
1614, and gave the name of Boston to the principal city in that region,
besides partially exploring the country. He spent his last years in
London, engaged in writing his histories. He died in 1631, and was
buried under the chancel of St. Sepulchre’s Church. The opening of the
poetical inscription is, “Here lies one conquered, that hath conquered
kings,” and the close of the prayer is, that “with angels he might have
his recompense.”
Rolfe and his wife had made ready to sail for the New World, when, at
the beginning of the year 1617, she fell ill at Gravesend, and died at
the age of twenty-two years. She left an infant son, Thomas, who was
taken to London and educated by his uncle, Henry Rolfe. When he reached
manhood he returned to America, gained a large fortune, and became a
gentleman of distinction. From him some of the leading families in
Virginia today are proud to trace their descent.
By the way, I may add, as an interesting coincidence, the fact that the
home of _Little Folks_, “LaBelle Sauvage,” was thus named in honor of
Pocahontas, the “Princess of the Woods.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
EDNA’S SACRIFICE
-------
BY FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN
------------------------------------------------------------------------
EDNA’S SACRIFICE
-------
IT was a cold night in September. For three days the rain had fallen
almost unceasingly. It had been impossible for us to get out; and no
visitors had been in. Everything looked dreary enough, and we felt so,
truly. Of course the stoves were not prepared for use; and this night we
(that is, Nell, Floy, Aunt Edna, and myself) were huddled in the corners
of the sofa and arm-chairs, wrapped in our shawls. We were at our wits’
end for something to while the hours away. We had read everything that
was readable; played until we fancied the piano sent forth a wail of
complaint, and begged for rest; were at the backgammon board until our
arms ached; and I had given imitations of celebrated actresses, until I
was hoarse, and Nell declared I was in danger of being sued for scandal.
What more could we do? To dispel the drowsiness that was stealing over
me, I got up, walked up and down the floor, and then drew up the blind,
and gazed out into the deserted street. Not a footfall to be heard,
neither man’s nor beast’s; nothing but patter, patter, patter. At
length, after standing fully fifteen minutes—oh, joyful sound!—a coming
footstep, firm and quick. My first thought was that those steps would
stop at our door. But, directly after, I felt that very improbable for
who was there that _would_ come such a night? Papa was up north with
mamma: Nell and Floy were visiting Aunt Edna and me, the only ones home,
save the servants. Neither of us had as yet a lover so devoted or so
demented as to come out, if he had anywhere to _stay in_.
On and past went the steps. Turning away, I drew down the blind, and
said: “Some one must be ill, and that was the doctor, surely: for no one
else would go out, only those from direst necessity sent.”
A deep sigh escaped Aunt Edna’s lips, and although partially shaded by
her hand, I could see the shadow on the beautiful face had deepened.
Why my aunt had never married was a mystery to me, for she was lovable
in every way, and must have been very beautiful in her youth. Thirty-six
she would be next May-day, she had told me. Thirty-six seemed to me,
just sixteen, a very great many years to have lived. But aunt always was
young to us; and the hint of her being an old maid was always resented,
very decidedly, by all her nieces.
“Aunt Edna,” I said, “tell us a story—a love-story, please.”
“Oh, little one, you have read _so_ many! And what can I tell you more?”
she answered, gently.
“Oh, aunty, I want a _true_ story! Do, darling aunty, tell us your own.
Tell us why you are blessing our home with your presence, instead of
that of some noble man, for noble he must have been to have won your
heart, and—hush-sh! Yes, yes; I know something about somebody, and I
must know all. Do, please!”
I plead on. I always could do more with Aunt Edna than any one else. I
was named for her, and many called me like her—“only not nearly so
pretty” was always added.
At last she consented, saying:
“Dear girls, to only one before have I given my entire confidence, and
that was my mother. I scarce know why I have yielded to your
persuasions, little Edna, save that this night, with its gloom and rain,
carries me back long years, and my heart seems to join its pleading with
yours, yearning to cast forth some of its fulness, and perchance find
relief by pouring into your loving heart its own sorrows. But, darling,
I would not cast my shadow over your fair brow, even for a brief time.”
With her hand still shading her face, Aunt Edna began:
“Just such a night as this, eighteen years ago, dear child, my fate was
decided. The daughter of my mother’s dearest friend had been with us
about a year. Dearly we all loved the gentle child, for scarcely more
than child she was—only sixteen. My mother had taken her from the cold,
lifeless form of her mother into her own warm, loving heart, and she
became to me as a sister. So fair and frail she was! We all watched her
with the tenderest care, guarding her from all that could chill her
sensitive nature or wound the already saddened heart. Lilly was her
name. Oh, what a delicate while lily she was when we first brought her
to our home; but after a while she was won from her sorrow, and grew
into a maiden of great beauty. Still, with child-like, winning ways.
“Great wells of love were in her blue eyes—violet hue _he_ called them.
Often I wondered if any one’s gaze would linger on my dark eyes when
hers were near? Her pale golden hair was pushed off her broad forehead
and fell in heavy waves far down below her graceful shoulders and over
her black dress. Small delicately formed features, a complexion so fair
and clear that it seemed transparent. In her blue eyes there was always
such a sad, wistful look; this, and the gentle smile that ever hovered
about her lips, gave an expression of mingled sweetness and sorrow that
was very touching. You may imagine now how beautiful she was.
“Her mother had passed from earth during the absence of Lilly’s father.
Across the ocean the sorrowful tidings were borne to him. He was a naval
officer. Lilly was counting the days ere she should see him. The good
news had come that soon he would be with her. At last the day arrived,
but oh! what a terrible sorrow it brought! When her heart was almost
bursting with joy, expecting every moment to be clasped in those dear
arms—a telegraphic dispatch was handed in. Eagerly she caught it, tore
it open, read—and fell lifeless to the floor.
“Oh! the fearful, crushing words. We read, not of his coming to Lilly,
but of his going to her, his wife, in heaven. Yes, truly an orphan the
poor girl was then.
“In vain proved all efforts to restore her to consciousness. Several
times, when she had before fainted, mother was the only physician
needed. But that night she shook her head and said:
“‘We must have a doctor, and quickly.’
“It was a terrible night. Our doctor was very remote. Your father
suggested another, near by.
“Dr. ——, well, never mind his name. Your father said he had lately known
him, and liked him much.
“Through the storm he came, and by his skilful treatment Lilly was soon
restored to consciousness, but not to health. A low nervous fever set
in, and many days we watched with fearful hearts. Ah! during those days
I learned to look too eagerly for the doctor’s coming. Indeed, he made
his way into the hearts of all in our home. After the dreaded crisis had
passed, and we knew that Lilly would be spared to us, the doctor told
mother he should have to prescribe for me. I had grown pale, from
confinement in the sickroom, and he must take me for a drive, that the
fresh air should bring the roses back to my cheeks. Willingly mother
consented. After that I often went. When Lilly was able to come
down-stairs, this greatest pleasure of my life then was divided with
her. One afternoon I stood on the porch with her, waiting while the
doctor arranged something about the harness.
“‘Oh! _how_ I wish it was my time to go!’ she whispered.
“‘Well, darling, it shall be your time. I can go tomorrow. Run, get your
hat and wraps,’ I said, really glad to give any additional pleasure to
this child of many sorrows.
“‘No, no, that would not be fair. And, Edna, don’t you know that
_tomorrow_ I would be so sorry if I went today? I do not mean to be
selfish, but, oh, indeed, I cannot help it! I am wishing _every time_ to
go. Not that I care for a ride—’ She hesitated, flushed, and whispered:
‘I like to be with my doctor. Don’t you, Edna? Oh! I wish he was my
father, or brother, or cousin—just to be with us all the time, you
know.’
“Just then the doctor came for me, and I had to leave her. As we drove
off I looked back and kissed my hand to her, saying:
“‘Dear little thing! I wish she was going with us.’
“‘I do not,’ the doctor surprised me by saying.
“I raised my eyes inquiringly to his. In those beautiful, earnest eyes I
saw something that made me profoundly happy. I could not speak. After a
moment he added:
“‘She is a beautiful, winning child, and I enjoy her company. But when
with her, I feel as if it was my duty to devote myself entirely to
her—in a word, to take care of her, or, I should say, to care for _her_
only. And this afternoon, of all others, I do not feel like having Lilly
with us.’
“That afternoon was one of the happiest of my life. Although not a word
of love passed his lips, I knew it filled his heart, and was for me. He
told me of his home, his relatives, his past life. Of his mother he
said:
“‘When you know her, you will love her dearly.’
“He seemed to be sure that I should know her. And then—ah, well, I
thought so too, then.
“Lilly was waiting for us when we returned. He chided her for being out
so late. It was quite dark. Tears filled her eyes as she raised them to
his and said:
“‘Don’t be angry. I could not help watching. Oh, why did you stay _so_
long? I thought you would never come back. I was afraid something had
happened—that the horse had run away, or—’
“‘Angry I could not be with you, little one. But I don’t want you to get
sick again. Come, now, smile away your tears and fears! Your friend is
safe and with you again,’ the doctor answered.”
Taking her hand, he led her into the parlor.
“He had not understood the cause of her tears. Only for him she watched
and wept.
“‘_Do_ stay,’ she plead, when her doctor was going.
“He told her he could not, then; there was another call he must make,
but would return after a while.
“She counted the minutes, until she should see him again. Never
concealing from any of us how dearly she loved him. She was truly as
guileless as a child of six years.
“From the first of her acquaintance with him, she had declared ‘her
doctor’ was like her father. Mother too, admitted, the resemblance was
very decided.
“This it was, I think, that first made him so dear to her.
“Several times, after the doctor returned that evening, I saw he sought
opportunity to speak to me, unheard by others. But Lilly was always
near.
“Ah! it was better so. Better that from his _own_ lips I heard not those
words he would have spoken. Doubly hard would have been the trial. Oh,
that night when he said, ‘good-byee!’ He slipped in my hand a little
roll of paper. As Lilly still stood at the window, watching as long as
she could see him, I stole away to open the paper. Then, for a while, I
forgot Lilly, aye, forgot everything, in my great happiness. He loved
me! On my finger sparkled the beautiful diamond—my engagement ring—to be
worn on the morrow, ‘if I could return his love,’ he said.
“Quickly I hid my treasures away, his note and the ring—Lilly was
coming.
“She was not yet strong, and soon tired. I helped her to get off her
clothes, and as she kissed me good-night, she said:
“‘I wish we had a picture of him—don’t you?’
“‘Who, dear?’ I asked.
“‘My doctor! Who else? You tease. You _knew_ well enough,’ she answered,
as she nestled her pretty head closer to mine.
“Soon she was sleeping and dreaming of him. Sweet dreams at first I knew
they were; for soft smiles flitted over her face.
“I could not sleep. A great fear stole in upon my happiness. Did not
Lilly love him too? How would she receive the news which soon must reach
her? Was her love such as mine? Such as is given to but one alone? Or
only as a brother did she love him? I must _know_ how it was. Heaven
grant that joy for one would not bring sorrow to the other, I prayed. I
had not long to wait. Her dreams became troubled. Her lips quivered and
trembled, and then with a cry of agony she started up.
“‘Gone, gone, gone!’ she sobbed.
“It was many minutes ere I succeeded in calming and making her
understand ’twas but a dream.
“‘Oh, but _so_ real, so _dreadfully_ real. I thought he did not care for
me. That he had gone and left me, and they told me he was married!’
“Telling this, she began to sob again.
“‘Lilly, dear, tell me truly—tell your sister, your very best friend—how
it is you love your doctor?’ I asked.
“‘How?’ she returned. ‘Oh, Edna, more than all the world! He is all that
I have lost and more; and if he should die, or I should lose him, I
would not wish to live. I _could_ not live. He loves me a little, does
he not, Edna?’
“I could not reply. Just then there was a terrible struggle going on in
my heart. _That_ must be ended, the victory won ere I could speak. She
waited for my answer and then said, eagerly:
“‘Oh, speak, _do_! What _are_ you thinking about?’
“Pressing back the sigh—back and far down into the poor heart—I gave her
the sweet, and kept the bitter part, when I could answer.
“‘Yes, dear, I _do_ think he loves you a little now, and will,
by-and-by, love you dearly. God grant he may!’
“‘Oh, you darling Edna! You have made me so happy!’ she cried, kissing
me; and still caressing me she fell asleep.
“Next morning I enclosed the ring, with only these words:
“‘Forgive if I cause you sorrow, and believe me your true friend. I
return the ring that I am not _free_ to accept.’
“I intended that my reply should mislead him, when I wrote that I was
not free, and thus to crush any hope that might linger in his heart.
While at breakfast that morning, we received a telegram that grandma was
extremely ill, and wanted me. Thus, fate seemed to forward my plans. I
had thought to go away for a while. I told mother all. How her dear
heart ached for me! Yet she dared not say aught against my decision. She
took charge of the note for the doctor, and by noon I was on my journey.
Two years passed ere I returned home. Mother wrote me but little news of
either Lilly or her doctor after the first letter, telling that my note
was a severe shock and great disappointment. Three or four months
elapsed before grandma was strong enough for me to leave her. An
opportunity at that time presented for my going to Europe. I wanted such
an entire change, and gladly accepted. Frequently came letters from
Lilly. For many months they were filled with doubts and anxiety; but
after a while came happier and shorter ones. Ah, she had only time to be
with him, and to think in his absence of his coming again.
“When I was beginning to tire of all the wonders and grandeur of the old
world, and nothing would still the longing for home, the tidings came
they were married, Lilly and her doctor, and gone to his western home to
take charge of the patients of his uncle, who had retired from practice.
Then I hastened back, and ever since, dear girls, I have been contented,
finding much happiness in trying to contribute to that of those so dear.
Now, little Edna, you have my only love-story, its beginning and
ending.”
“But, aunty, do tell me his name,” I said. “Indeed, it is not merely
idle curiosity. I just feel as if I must know it—that it is for
something very important. Now you need not smile. I’m very earnest, and
I shall not sleep until I know. I really felt a presentiment that if I
knew his name it might in some way affect the conclusion of the story.”
“Well, my child, I may as well tell you. Dr. Graham it was—Percy
Graham,” Aunt Edna answered, low.
“Ah! did I not tell you? It was not curiosity. Listen, aunty mine. While
you were away last winter, papa received a paper from St. Louis; he
handed it to me, pointing to an announcement. But I will run get it. He
told me to show it to you, and I forgot. I did not dream of all this.”
From my scrap-book I brought the slip, and Aunt Edna read:
“DIED.—Suddenly, of heart disease, on the morning of the 15th, Lilly,
wife of Doctor Percy Graham, in the 34th year of her age.”
Aunt Edna remained holding the paper, without speaking, for some
minutes; then, handing it back to me, she said, softly, as if talking to
her friend:
“_Dear_ Lilly! Thank heaven, I gave to _you_ the _best_ I had to give,
and caused you naught but happiness. God is merciful! Had _he_ been
taken, and you left, how _could_ we have comforted you?” And then,
turning to me, she said: “Nearly a year it is since Lilly went to
heaven. ’Tis strange I have not heard of this.”
“’Tis strange from him you have not heard,” I thought; “and stranger
still ’twill be if he comes not when the year is over. For surely he
_must_ know that you are free—” But I kept my thoughts, and soon after
kissed aunty good-night.
One month passed, and the year was out. And somebody was in our parlor,
making arrangements to carry away Aunt Edna. I knew it was he, when he
met me at the hall door, and said:
“Edna—Miss Linden! _can_ it be?”
“Yes and no, sir—both—Edna Linden; but, Doctor Graham, not _your_ Edna.
You will find her in the parlor,” I answered, saucily, glad and sorry,
both, at his coming.
Ah, she welcomed him with profound joy, I know. He knew all; papa had
told him. And if he loved the beautiful girl, he then worshipped that
noble woman.
“Thank God! Mine at last!” I heard him say, with fervent joy, as I
passed the door, an hour after.
How beautiful she was, when, a few weeks after, she became his very own.
I stood beside her and drew off her glove. How happy he looked as he
placed the heavy gold circlet on her finger! How proudly he bore her
down the crowded church aisle!
Ah, little Lilly was no doubt his dear and cherished wife. But _this_
one, ’twas plain to see, was the one love of his life.
THE END.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
End of Project Gutenberg's Campfire Girls' Lake Camp, by Irene Elliott Benson