"Wounded in both my honour and my love;
They have pierced me in two tender parts.
Yet, could I take my just revenge,
It would in some degree assuage my smart."
_Vanbrugh._
It was at an early hour on the following morning that the queer old
chariot of Colonel Temple--one of the few, by the way, which wealth had
as yet introduced into the colony--was drawn up before the door. The two
horses of the gentlemen were standing ready saddled and bridled, in the
care of the hostler. In a few moments, the ladies, all dressed for the
journey, and the gentlemen, with their heavy spurs, long, clanging
swords, and each with a pair of horseman's pistols, issued from the
house into the yard. The old lady, declaring that they were too late,
and that, if her advice had been taken, they would have been half way to
Jamestown, was the first to get into the carriage, armed with a huge
basket of bread, beef's tongue, cold ham and jerked venison, which was
to supply the place of dinner on the road. Virginia, pale and sad, but
almost happy at any change from scenes where every object brought up
some recollection of the banished Hansford, followed her mother; and the
large trunk having been strapped securely behind the carriage, and the
band-box, containing the old lady's tire for the ball and other light
articles of dress, having been secured, the little party were soon in
motion.
The hope and joy with which Virginia had looked forward to this trip to
Jamestown had been much enhanced by the certainty that Hansford would be
there. With the joyousness of her girlish heart, she had pictured to
herself the scene of pleasure and festivity which awaited her. The Lady
Frances' birth-day, always celebrated at the palace with the voice of
music and the graceful dance--with the presence of the noblest cavaliers
from all parts of the colony, and the smiles of the fairest damsels who
lighted the society of the Old Dominion--was this year to be celebrated
with unusual festivities. But, alas! how changed were the feelings of
Virginia now!--how blighted were the hopes which had blossomed in her
heart!
Their road lay for the most part through a beautiful forest, where the
tall poplar, the hickory, the oak and the chestnut were all indigenous,
and formed an avenue shaded by their broad branches from the intense
rays of the summer sun. Now and then the horses were startled at the
sudden appearance of some fairy-footed deer, as it bounded lightly but
swiftly through the woods; or at the sudden whirring of the startled
pheasant, as she flew from their approach; or the jealous gobble of the
stately turkey, as he led his strutting dames into his thicket-harem.
The nimble grey squirrel, too, chattered away saucily in his high leafy
nest, secure from attack from his very insignificance. Birds innumerable
were seen flitting from branch to branch, and tuning their mellow voices
as choristers in this forest-temple of Nature. The song of the thrush
and the red-bird came sweetly from the willows, whose weeping branches
overhung the neighbouring banks of a broad stream; the distant dove
joined her mournful melody to their cheerful notes, and the woodpecker,
on the blasted trunk of some stricken oak, tapped his rude bass in
unison with the happy choir of the forest.
All this Virginia saw and heard, and _felt_--yes, felt it all as a
bitter mockery: as if, in these joyous bursts from the big heart of
Nature, she were coldly regardless of the sorrows of those, her
children, who had sought their happiness apart; as though the avenging
Creator had given man naught but the bitter fruit of that fatal tree of
knowledge, while he lavished with profusion on all the rest of his
creation the choicest fruits that flourished in His paradise.
In vain did Bernard, with his soft and winning voice, point out these
beauties to Virginia. In vain, with all the rich stores of his gifted
mind, did he seek to alienate her thoughts from the one subject that
engrossed them. She scarcely heard what he said, and when at length
urged by the impatient nudges of her mother to answer, she showed by her
absence of mind how faint had been the impression which he made. A
thousand fears for the safety of her lover mingled with her thoughts.
Travelling alone in that wild country, with hostile Indians infesting
the colony, what, alas! might be his fate! Or even if he should escape
these dangers, still, in open arms against his government, proclaimed a
rebel by the Governor, a more horrible destiny might await him. And then
the overwhelming thought came upon her, that be his fate in other
respects what it might--whether he should fall by the cruelty of the
savage, the sword of the enemy, or, worst of all, by the vengeance of
his indignant country--to her at least he was lost forever.
Avoiding carefully any reference to the subject of her grief, and
bending his whole mind to the one object of securing her attention,
Alfred Bernard endeavored to beguile her with graphic descriptions of
the scenes he had left in England. He spoke--and on such subjects none
could speak more charmingly--of the brilliant society of wits, and
statesmen, and beauties, which clustered together in the metropolis and
the palace of the restored Stuart. Passing lightly over the vices of the
court, he dwelt upon its pageantry, its wit, its philosophy, its poetry.
The talents of the gay and accomplished, but vicious Rochester, were no
more seen dimmed in their lustre by his faithlessness to his wife, or
his unprincipled vices in the _beau monde_ of London. Anecdote after
anecdote, of Waller, of Cowley, of Dryden, flowed readily from his lips.
The coffee-houses were described, where wit and poetry, science and art,
politics and religion, were discussed by the first intellects of the
age, and allured the aspiring youth of England from the vices of
dissipation, that they might drink in rich draughts of knowledge from
these Pierian springs. The theatre, the masque, the revels, which the
genial rays of the Restoration had once more warmed into life, next
formed the subjects of his conversation. Then passing from this picture
of gay society, he referred to the religious discussions of the day. His
eye sparkled and his cheek glowed as he spoke of the triumphs of the
established Church over puritanical heresy; and his lip curled, and he
laughed satirically, as he described the heroic sufferings of some
conscientious Baptist, dragged at the tail of a cart, and whipped from
his cell in Newgate to Tyburn hill. Gradually did Virginia's thoughts
wander from the one sad topic which had engrossed them, and by
imperceptible degrees, even unconsciously to herself, she became deeply
interested in his discourse. Her mother, whom the wily Bernard took
occasion ever and anon, to propitiate with flattery, was completely
carried away, and in the inmost recesses of her heart a hope was
hatched that the eloquent young courtier would soon take the place of
the rebel Hansford, in the affections of her daughter.
We have referred to a stream, along whose forest-banks their road had
wound. That stream was the noble York, whose broad bosom, now broader
and more beautiful than ever, lay full in their view, and on which the
duck, the widgeon and the gull were quietly floating. Here and there
could be seen the small craft of some patient fisherman, as it stood
anchored at a little distance from the shore, its white sail shrouding
the solitary mast; and at an opening in the woods, about a mile ahead,
rose the tall masts of an English vessel, riding safely in the broad
harbour of Yorktown--then the commercial rival of Jamestown in the
colony.
The road now became too narrow for the gentlemen any longer to ride by
the side of the carriage, and at the suggestion of the Colonel, an
arrangement was adopted by which he should lead the little party in
front, while Bernard should bring up the rear. This precaution was the
more necessary, as the abrupt banks of the river, with the dense bushes
which grew along them, was a safe lurking place for any Indians who
might be skulking about the country.
"A very nice gentleman, upon my word," said Mrs. Temple, when Alfred
Bernard was out of hearing. "Virginia, don't you like him?"
"Yes, very much, as far as I have an opportunity of judging."
"His information is so extensive, his views so correct, his conversation
so delightful. Don't you think so?"
"Yes, mother," replied Virginia.
"Yes, mother! Why don't you show more spirit?" said her mother. "There
you sat moping in the carriage the whole way, looking for all the world
as if you didn't understand a word he was saying. That isn't right, my
dear; you should look up and show more spirit--d'ye hear!"
"You mistake,mother; I did enjoy the ride very much, and found Mr.
Bernard very agreeable."
"Well, but you were so lack-a-daisical and yea, nay, in your manner to
him. How do you expect a young man to feel any interest in you, if you
never give him any encouragement?"
"Why, mother, I don't suppose Mr. Bernard takes any more interest in me
than he would in any casual acquaintance; and, indeed, if he did, I
certainly cannot return it. But I will try and cheer up, and be more
agreeable for your sake."
"That's right, my dear daughter; remember that your old mother knows
what is best for you, and she will never advise you wrong. I think it is
very plain that this young gentleman has taken a fancy to you already,
and while I would not have you too pert and forward, yet it is well
enough to show off, and, in a modest way, do everything to encourage
him. You know I always said, my dear, that you were too young when you
formed an attachment for that young Hansford, and that you did not know
your own heart, and now you see I was right."
Virginia did not see that her mother was right, but she was too well
trained to reply; and so, without a word, she yielded herself once more
to her own sad reflections, and, true-hearted girl that she was, she
soon forgot the fascinations of Alfred Bernard in her memory of
Hansford.
They had not proceeded far, when Bernard saw, seated on the trunk of a
fallen tree, the dusky form of a young Indian, whom he soon recognized
as the leader of the party who the day before had made the attack upon
Windsor Hall. The interest which he felt in this young man, whose early
history he had heard, combined with a curiosity to converse with one of
the strange race to which he belonged, and, as will be seen, a darker
motive and a stronger reason than either, induced Bernard to rein up his
horse, and permitting his companions to proceed some distance in front,
to accost the young Indian. Alfred Bernard, by nature and from
education, was perfectly fearless, though he lacked the magnanimity
which, united with fearlessness, constitutes bravery. Laying his hand on
his heart, which, as he had already learned, was the friendly salutation
used with and toward the savages, he rode slowly towards Manteo. The
young Indian recognized the gesture which assured him of his friendly
intent, and rising from his rude seat, patiently waited for him to
speak.
"I would speak to you," said Bernard.
"Speak on."
"Are you entirely alone?"
"Ugh," grunted Manteo, affirmatively.
"Where are those who were with you at Windsor Hall?"
"Gone to Delaware,[21] to Matchicomoco."[22]
"Why did you not go with them?" asked Bernard.
"Manteo love long-knife--Pamunkey hate Manteo--drive him away from his
tribe," said the young savage, sorrowfully.
The truth flashed upon Bernard at once. This young savage, who, in a
moment of selfish ambition, for his own personal advancement, had
withheld the vengeance of his people, was left by those whom he had once
led, as no longer worthy of their confidence. In the fate of this
untutored son of the forest, the young courtier had found a sterner
rebuke to selfishness and ambition than he had ever seen in the court of
the monarch of England.
"And so you are alone in the world now?" said Bernard.
"Ugh!"
"With nothing to hope or to live for?"
"One hope left," said Manteo, laying his hand on his tomahawk.
"What is that?"
"Revenge."
"On whom?"
"On long-knives and Pamunkeys."
"If you live for revenge," said Bernard, "we live for nearly the same
object. You may trust me--I will be your friend. Do you know me?"
"No!" said Manteo, shaking his head.
"Well, I know you," said Bernard. "Now, what if I help you to the sweet
morsel of revenge you speak of?"
"I tank you den."
"Do you know your worst enemy?"
"Manteo!"
"How--why so?"
"I make all my oder enemy."
"Nay, but I know an enemy who is even worse than yourself, because he
has made you your own enemy. One who oppresses your race, and is even
now making war upon your people. I mean Thomas Hansford."
"Ugh!" said Manteo, with more surprise than he had yet manifested; and
for once, leaving his broken English, he cried in his own tongue,
"Ahoaleu Virginia." (He loves Virginia Temple.)
"And do you?" said Bernard, guessing at his meaning, and marking with
surprise the more than ordinary feeling with which Manteo had uttered
these words.
"See dere," replied Manteo, holding up an arrow, which he had already
taken from his quiver, as if with the intention of fixing it to his
bow-string. "De white crenepo,[23] de maiden, blunt Manteo's arrow when
it would fly to her father's heart." At the same time he pointed towards
the road along which the carriage had lately passed.
"By the holy Virgin," muttered Bernard, "methinks the whole colony,
Indians, negroes, and all, are going stark mad after this girl. And so
you hate Hansford, then?" he said aloud.
"No, I can't hate what she loves," replied Manteo, feelingly.
"Why did you aid in attacking her father's house then, yesterday?"
"Long-knives strike only when dey hate; Pamunkey fight from duty. If
Manteo drop de tomahawk because he love, he is squaw, not a brave."
"But this Hansford," said Bernard, "is in arms against your people, whom
the government would protect."
"Ugh!" grunted the young warrior. "Pamunkey want not long-knives'
protect. De grand werowance of long-knives has cut down de peace tree
and broke de pipe, and de tomahawk is now dug up. De grand werowance
protect red man like eagle protect young hare."
"Nay, but we would be friends with the Indians," urged Bernard. "We
would share this great country with them, and Berkeley would be the
great father of the Pamunkeys."
The Indian looked with ineffable disdain on his companion, and then
turning towards the river, he pointed to a large fish-hawk, who, with a
rapid swoop, had caught in his talons a fish that had just bubbled above
the water for breath, and borne him far away in the air.
"See dere," said Manteo; "water belong to fish--hawk is fish's friend."
Bernard saw that he had entirely mistaken the character of his
companion. The vengeance of the Indians being once aroused, they failed
to discriminate between the authors of the injuries which they had
received, and those who sought to protect them; and they attributed to
the great werowance of the long-knives (for so they styled the Governor
of Virginia) all the blame of the attack and slaughter of the
unoffending Susquehannahs. But the wily Bernard was not cast down by his
ill success, in attempting to arouse the vengeance of Manteo against his
rival.
"Your sister is at the hall often, is she not?" he asked, after a brief
pause.
"Ugh," said the Indian, relapsing into this affirmative grunt.
"So is Hansford--your sister knows him."
"What of dat?"
"Excuse me, my poor friend," said Bernard, "but I came to warn you that
your sister knows him as she should not."
The forest echoed with the wild yell that burst from the lips of Manteo
at this cruel fabrication--so loud, so wild, so fearful, that the ducks
which had been quietly basking in the sun, and admiring their graceful
shadows in the water, were startled, and with an alarmed cry flew far
away down the river.
The Indian character, although still barbarous, had been much improved
by association with the English. Respect for the female sex, and a
scrupulous regard for female purity, which are ever the first results of
dawning civilization, had already taken possession of the benighted
souls of the Indians of Virginia. More especially was this so with the
young Manteo, whose association with the whites, notwithstanding his
strong devotion to his own race, had imparted more refinement and purity
to his nature than was enjoyed by most of his tribe. Mamalis, the pure,
the spotless Mamalis--she, whom from his earliest boyhood he had hoped
to bestow on some young brave, who, foremost in the chase, or most
successful in the ambuscade, could tell the story of his achievements
among the chieftains at the council-fire--it was too much; the stern
heart of the young Indian, though "trained from his tree-rocked cradle
the fierce extremes of good and ill to bear," burst forth in a gush of
agony, as he thus heard the fatal knell of all his pride and all his
hope.
Bernard was at first startled by the shriek, but soon regained his
composure, and calm and composed regarded his victim. When at length the
first violence of grief had subsided, he said, with a soft, mild voice,
which fell fresh as dew upon the withered heart of the poor Indian,
"I am sorry for you, my friend, but it is too true. And now, Manteo,
what can be your only consolation?"
"Revenge is de wighsacan[24] to cure dis wound," said the poor savage.
"Right. This is the only food for brave and injured men. Well, we
understand each other now--don't we?"
"Ugh," grunted Manteo, with a look of satisfaction.
"Very well," returned Bernard, "is your tomahawk sharp?"
"It won't cut deep as dis wound, but I will sharpen it on my broken
heart," replied Manteo, with a heavy sigh.
"Right bravely said. And now farewell; I will help you as I can," said
Alfred Bernard, as he turned and rode away, while the poor Indian sank
down again upon his rude log seat, his head resting on his hands.
"And this the world calls villainy!" mused Bernard, as he rode along.
"But it is the weapon with which nature has armed the weak, that he may
battle with the strong. For what purpose was the faculty of intrigue
bestowed upon man, if it were not to be exercised? and, if exercised at
all, why surely it can never be directed to a purer object than the
accomplishment of good. Thus, then, what the croaking moralist calls
evil, may always be committed if good be the result; and what higher
good can be attained in life than happiness, and what purer happiness
can there be than revenge? No man shall ever cross my path but once with
safety, and this young Virginia rebel has already done so. He has shown
his superior skill and courage with the sword, and has made me ask my
life at his hands. Let him look to it that he may not have to plead for
his own life in vain. This young Indian's thirst will not be quenched
but with blood. By the way, a lucky hit was that. His infernal yell is
sounding in my ears yet. But Hansford stands in my way besides. This
fair young maiden, with her beauty, her intellect, and her land, may
make my fortune yet; and who can blame the poor, friendless orphan, if
he carve his way to honour and independence even through the blood of a
rival. The poor, duped savage whom I just left, said that he was his own
worst enemy; I am wiser in being my own best friend. Tell me not of the
world--it is mine oyster, which I will open by my wits as well as by my
sword. Prate not of morality and philanthropy. Man is a microcosm, a
world within himself, and he only is a wise one who uses the world
without for the success of the world within. Once supplant this Hansford
in the love of his betrothed bride, and I succeed to the broad acres of
Windsor Hall. Old Berkeley shall be the scaffolding by which I will rise
to power and position, and when he rots down, the building I erect will
be but the fairer for the riddance. Who recks the path which he has
trod, when home and happiness are in view? What general thinks of the
blood he has shed, when the shout of victory rings in his ears? Be true
to yourself, Alfred Bernard, though false to all the world beside! At
last, good father Bellini, thou hast taught me true wisdom--'Success
sanctifies sin.'"
FOOTNOTES:
[21] The name of the village at the confluence of Pamunkey and
Mattapony, now called West Point.
[22] Grand Council of the Indians.
[23] A woman.
[24] A root used by the Indians successfully in the cure of all wounds.