"I am sorry for thee; thou art come to answer
A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch,
Uncapable of pity, void and empty
From any claim of mercy."
_Merchant of Venice._
It was on a bright and beautiful morning--for mysterious nature often
smiles on the darkest deeds of her children--that a group of Indians
were assembled around the council-fire in one of the extensive forest
ranges of Virginia. Their faces painted in the most grotesque and
hideous manner, the fierceness of their looks, and the savageness of
their dress, would alone have inspired awe in the breast of a spectator.
But on the present occasion, the fatal business in which they were
engaged imparted even more than usual wildness to their appearance and
vehemence to their manner. Bound to a neighbouring tree so tightly as to
produce the most acute pain to the poor creature, was an aged negro, who
seemed to be the object of the vehement eloquence of his savage captors.
Although confinement, torture, and despair had effected a fearful
change, by tracing the lines of great suffering on his countenance, yet
it would not have been difficult even then to recognize in the poor
trembling wretch our old negro friend at Windsor Hall.
After discovering the deception that had been practised on them by
Mamalis, and punishing the selfish ambition of Manteo, by expelling him
from their tribe, the Indian warriors returned to Windsor Hall, and
finding the family had escaped, seized upon old Giles as the victim on
whom to wreak their vengeance. With the savage cruelty of their race,
his tormentors had doomed him, not to sudden death, which would have
been welcome to the miserable wretch, but to a slow and lingering
torture.
It would be too painful to dwell long upon the nature of the tortures
thus inflicted upon their victims. With all their coarseness and
rudeness of manner and life, the Indians had arrived at a refinement and
skill in cruelty which the persecutors of the reformers in Europe might
envy, but to which they had never attained. Among these, tearing the
nails from the hands and feet, knocking out the teeth with a club,
lacerating the flesh with rough, dull muscle and oyster-shells,
inserting sharp splinters into the wounded flesh, and then firing them
until the unhappy being is gradually roasted to death--these were among
the tortures more frequently inflicted. From the threats and
preparations of his captors, old Giles had reason to apprehend that the
worst of these tortures he would soon be called upon to endure.
There is, thank God, a period, when the burdens of this life become so
grievous, that the prayer of the fabled faggot-binder may rise sincerely
on the lips, and when death would indeed be a welcome friend--when it is
even soothing to reflect that,
"We bear our heavy burdens but a journey,
Till death unloads us."
Such was the period at which the wretched negro had now arrived. He
listened, therefore, with patient composure to the fierce, threatening
language of the warriors, which his former association with Manteo
enabled him, when aided by their wild gesticulation, to comprehend. But
it was far from the intention of the Indians to release him yet from his
terrible existence. One of the braves approaching the poor helpless
wretch with a small cord of catgut, such as was used by them for
bow-strings, prepared to bind it tightly around his thumb, while the
others gathering around in a circle waved their war-clubs high in air to
inflict the painful bastinado. When old Giles saw the Indian approach,
and fully comprehended his design, his heart sank within him at this new
instrument of torture, and in despairing accents he groaned--
"Kill me, kill me, but for de Lord's sake, massa, don't put dat horrid
thing on de poor old nigga."
Regardless of his cries, the powerful Indian adjusted the cord, and with
might and main drew it so tightly around the thumb that it entered the
flesh even to the bone, while the poor negro shrieked in agony. Then, to
drown the cry, the other savages commencing a wild, rude chant, let
their war-clubs descend upon their victim with such force that he
fainted. Just at this moment the quick ears of the Indians caught the
almost inaudible sound of approaching horsemen, and as they paused to
satisfy themselves of the truth of their suspicions, Bacon and his
little band of faithful followers appeared full in sight. Leaving their
victim in a moment, the savages prepared to defend themselves from the
assault of their intruders, and with the quickness of thought,
concealing themselves behind the trees and undergrowth of the forest,
they sent a shower of arrows into the unwary ranks of their adversaries.
"By Jove, that had like to have been my death-stroke," cried Bacon, as
an arrow directed full against his breast, glanced from a gilt button of
his coat and fell harmless to the ground. But others of the party were
not so fortunate as their leader. Several of the men, pierced by the
poisoned arrows of the enemy, fell dead.
Notwithstanding the success of this first charge of the Indians, Bacon
and his party sustained the shock with coolness and intrepidity. Their
gallant leader, himself careless of life or safety, led the charge, and
on his powerful horse he was, like the royal hero to whom he had
compared himself, ever seen in the thickest of the carnage. Well did he
prove himself that day worthy of the confidence of his faithful
followers.
Nor loth were the Indians to return their charge. Although their party
only amounted to about fifty, and Bacon's men numbered several hundred,
yet was the idea of retreat abhorrent to their martial feelings.
Screening themselves with comparative safety behind the large forest
trees, or lying under the protection of the thick undergrowth, they kept
up a constant attack with their arrows, and succeeded in effecting
considerable loss to the whites, who, incommoded by their horses, or
unaccustomed to this system of bush fighting, failed to produce a
corresponding effect upon their savage foe.
There was something in the religion of these simple sons of the forest
which imparted intrepid boldness to their characters, unattainable by
ordinary discipline. The material conception which they entertained of
the spirit-world, where valour and heroism were the passports of
admission, created a disregard for life such as no civilized man could
well entertain. In that new land, to which death was but the threshold,
their pursuits were the same in character, though greater in degree, as
those in which they here engaged. There they would be welcomed by the
brave warriors of a former day, and engage still in fierce contests with
hostile tribes. There they would enjoy the delights of the chase through
spirit forests, deeper and more gigantic than those through which they
wandered in life. Theirs was the Valhalla to which the brave alone were
admitted, and among whose martial habitants would continue the same
emulation in battle, the same stoicism in suffering, as in their
forest-world. Such was the character of their simple religion, which
created in their breasts that heroism and fortitude, in danger or in
pain, that has with one accord been attributed to them.
But despite their valour and resolution, the contest, with such
disparity of numbers, must needs be brief. Bacon pursued each advantage
which he gained with relentless vigour, ever and anon cheering his
followers, and crying out, as he rushed onward to the charge, "Don't let
one of the bloody dogs escape. Remember, my gallant boys, the peace of
your firesides and the lives and safety of your wives and children.
Remember the brave men who have already fallen before the hand of the
savage foe."
Faithful to his injunction, the overwhelming power of the whites soon
strewed the ground with the bodies of the brave savages. The few who
remained, dispirited and despairing, fled through the forest from the
irresistible charge of the enemy.
Meantime the unfortunate Giles had recovered from the swoon into which
he had fallen, and began to look wildly about him, as though in a dream.
To the fact that the contending parties had been closely engaged, and
that from this cause not a gun had been fired, the old negro probably
owed his life. With the superstition of his race, the poor creature
attributed this fortunate succour to a miraculous interposition of
Providence in his behalf; and when he saw the last of his oppressors
flying before the determined onslaught of the white men, he fervently
cried,
"Thank the Lord, for he done sent his angels to stop de lion's mouf, and
to save de poor old nigger from dere hands."
"Hallo, comrades," said Berkenhead, when he espied the poor old negro
bound to the tree, "who have we here? This must be old Ochee[37]
himself, whom the Lord has delivered into our hands. Hark ye," he
added, proceeding to unbind him, "where do you come from?--or are you in
reality the evil one, whom these infidel red-skins worship?"
"Oh, no, Massa, I a'ant no evil sperrit. A sperrit hab not flesh and
bones as you see me hab."
"Nay," returned the coarse-hearted soldier, "that reasoning won't serve
your purpose, for there is precious little flesh and blood about you,
old man. The most you can lay claim to is skin and bones."
Hansford, who had been standing a little distance off, was attracted by
this conversation, and turning in the direction of the old negro, was
much surprised to recognize, under such horrible circumstances, the
quondam steward, butler and factotum of Windsor Hall. Nor was Giles'
surprise less in meeting with Miss Virginia's "buck" in so secluded a
spot. It was with difficulty that Hansford could prevent him from
throwing his arms around his neck; but giving the old man a hearty shake
of the hand, he asked him the story of his captivity, which Giles, with
much importance, proceeded to relate. But he had scarcely begun his
narrative, when the attention of the insurgents was attracted by the
approach of two horsemen, who advanced towards them at a rapid rate, as
though they had some important intelligence to communicate.
FOOTNOTES:
[37] The evil spirit, sometimes called Opitchi Manitou, and worshipped
by the Indians.