The Natches were a very considerable nation; they formed several
villages, that were under some peculiar chief, and these obeyed one
superior of the whole nation. All these chiefs bore the name of suns;
they adored that luminary, and carried his image on their breasts,
rudely carved. The manner in which the Natches rendered divine service
to the sun has something solemn in it. The high-priest got up at break
of day, and marched at the head of the people with a grave pace, the
calumet of peace in his hand. He smoked in honour of the sun, and
blew the first mouthful of smoke towards him; when he rose above the
horizon, they howled by turns after the high-priests, and contemplated
it with their arms extended to heaven. They had a temple in which they
kept up an eternal fire.
So proud were these chiefs, who pretended to trace their origin to the
sun, that they had a law, by which every Natchez, who had married a
girl of the blood of the suns, must follow her in death, as soon as she
had breathed her last. There was an Indian, whose name was Etteacteal;
he dearly loved a daughter of one of these suns, and married her; but
the consequence of this honour had nearly proved very fatal to him. His
wife fell sick: he watched over her day and night, and with many tears
he besought her not to die, and they prayed together to Wachil, or the
sun, that he would spare her life; at last he saw her at the point of
death, and then he fled: for the moment she ceased to breathe, he was
to be slain. He embarked in a piragua on the Mississippi, and came to
New Orleans. He put himself under the protection of M. de Bienville,
the then governor, who interested himself for him with the Natches;
they declared that he had nothing more to fear.
Etteacteal, being thus assured, resolved to return to his nation;
and, without settling among them, made several voyages thither; he
happened to be there, when the chief called the Stung Serpent, brother
to the head of the nation, died; he was a relation of the late wife of
Etteacteal, and the people resolved to make the latter pay his debt,
and arrested him. When he found himself in the hut of the grand chief
of war, he gave vent to the excess of his grief.
The favourite wife of the deceased Stung Serpent, who was likewise
to be sacrificed, and who saw the preparations for her death with
firmness, hearing the complaints and groans of Etteacteal, said to him,
“Art thou no warrior?” he said, “Yes, I am one.” “However,” said she,
“thou criest, life is dear to thee; and as that is the case, it is not
good that thou shouldst go along with me—go with the women.” Etteacteal
replied, “True, life is dear to me: it would be well if I walked yet
on earth; wait, O wait till the death of the great sun, and I will
die with him.” “Go thy way,” she said, “it is not fit that thou die
with me, and thy heart remain behind on earth; the warriors will obey
my word, for now, so near to the Spirit of life, I am full of power:
go away, and let me see thee no more.” He did not stay to have this
order repeated; he disappeared like lightning. Three old women, two of
whom were his relations, offered to pay his debt; their age and their
infirmities had disgusted them with life; none of them had been able to
walk for a great while; but the hair of the two that were related to
Etteacteal, was no more grey than that of young women; the third was a
hundred and twenty years old; they were sacrificed in the evening, at
the going down of the sun.
The generosity of these women gave the Indian life again, acquired
him the degree of _Considered_, and cleared his honour, that had been
sullied by his fearing death. The hour being come for the sacrifice of
the favourite wife of the deceased chief, she came forth, and called
her children round her, while the people stood a little way off:
“Children,” she said, “this is the day on which I am to tear myself
from your arms, and to follow your father’s steps, who waits for me
in the country of the spirits; if I were to yield to your tears, I
should injure my love, and fail in my duty. I have done enough for you
by bearing you next to my heart, and by suckling you with my breasts.
You that are descended of his blood, and fed by my milk, ought you
to shed tears? rejoice, rather, that you are suns and warriors: go,
my children, I have provided for all your wants, by procuring you
friends; my friends, and those of your father, are yours too. And
you, Frenchmen,” she added, turning herself towards our officers,
“I recommend my orphan children to you;—you ought to protect them;
we shall be longer friends in the country of the spirits than here,
because we do not die there again. And now the day is sinking behind
the hills; yet a few moments, my husband, and I come!”
Moved by these words, a noble woman came to join herself to the
favourite wife, of her own accord, being engaged, she said, by the
friendship she bore the Stung Serpent, to follow him into the other
world. The Europeans called her the Haughty Lady, on account of her
majestic deportment, and proud and beautiful features: on this account
the French officers regretted very much her resolve, and strove to
dissuade her from it, but in vain: the moving sight filled them all
with grief and horror.
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