The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Princess Pocahontas, by Virginia Watson

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Title: The Princess Pocahontas

Author: Virginia Watson

Illustrator: George Wharton Edwards

Release Date: August 6, 2005 [EBook #16458]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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[Illustration: THE WHITE FIGURE MOVED RAPIDLY]

THE PRINCESS
POCAHONTAS

BY

VIRGINIA WATSON

Author of "WITH CORTES THE CONQUEROR"


WITH DRAWINGS AND DECORATIONS BY
GEORGE WHARTON EDWARDS



THE HAMPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY
NEW YORK





[Illustration: Decorative]

INTRODUCTION


To most of us who have read of the early history of Virginia only in our
school histories, Pocahontas is merely a figure in one dramatic
scene--her rescue of John Smith. We see her in one mental picture only,
kneeling beside the prostrate Englishman, her uplifted hands warding off
the descending tomahawk.

By chance I began to read more about the settlement of the English at
Jamestown and Pocahontas' connection with it, and the more I read the
more interesting and real she grew to me. The old chronicles gave me the
facts, and guided by these, my imagination began to follow the Indian
maiden as she went about the forests or through the villages of the
Powhatans.

We are growing up in this new country of ours. And just as when children
get older they begin to feel curious about the childhood of their own
parents, so we have gained a new curiosity about the early history of
our country. The earlier histories and stories dealing with the Indians
and the wars between them and the colonists made the red man a devil
incarnate, with no redeeming virtue but that of courage. Now, however,
there is a new spirit of understanding. We are finding out how often it
was the Indian who was wronged and the white man who wronged him. Many
records there are of treaties faithfully kept by the Indians and
faithlessly broken by the colonists. Virginia was the first permanent
English settlement on this continent, and if not the _most_ important,
at least equally as important to our future development as that of New
England. From how small a seed, sown on that island of Jamestown in
1607, has sprung the mighty State, that herself has scattered seeds of
other states and famous men and women to multiply and enrich America.
And amid what dangers did this seed take root! But for one girl's
aid--as far as man may judge--it would have been uprooted and destroyed.

In truth, when I look over the whole world history, I can find no other
child of thirteen, boy or girl, who wielded such a far-reaching
influence over the future of a nation. But for the protection and aid
which Pocahontas coaxed from Powhatan for her English friends at
Jamestown, the Colony would have perished from starvation or by the
arrows of the hostile Indians. And the importance of this Colony to the
future United States was so great that we owe to Pocahontas somewhat the
same gratitude, though in a lesser degree, that France owes to her Joan
of Arc.

Pocahontas's greatest service to the colonists lay not in the saving of
Captain Smith's life, but in her continued succour to the starving
settlement. Indeed, there are historians who have claimed that the story
of her rescue of Smith is an invention without foundation. But in
opposition to this view let me quote from "The American Nation: A
History." Lyon Gardiner Tyler, author of the volume "England in America"
says:

     "The credibility of this story has been attacked.... Smith was
     often inaccurate and prejudiced in his statements, but that is far
     from saying that he deliberately mistook plain objects of sense or
     concocted a story having no foundation."

and from "The New International Encyclopaedia":

     "Until Charles Deane attacked it (the story of Pocahontas's rescue
     of Smith) in 1859, it was seldom questioned, but, owing largely to
     his criticisms, it soon became generally discredited. In recent
     years, however, there has been a tendency to retain it."

It is in Smith's own writings, "General Historie of Virginia" and "A
True Relation," that we find the best and fullest accounts of these
first days at Jamestown. He tells us not only what happened, but how the
new country looked; what kinds of game abounded; how the Indians lived,
and what his impressions of their customs were. Smith was ignorant of
certain facts about the Indians with which we are now familiar. The
curious ceremony which took place in the hut in the forest, just before
Powhatan freed Smith and allowed him to return to Jamestown, was one he
could not comprehend. Modern historians believe that it was probably the
ceremony of adoption by which Smith was made one of the tribe.

In many places in this story I have not only followed closely Smith's
own narrative of what occurred, but have made use of the very words in
which he recorded the conversations. For instance the incident related
on page 101 was set down by Smith himself; on pages 144, 154, 262 the
words are those of Smith as given in his history; on pages 173, 195,
260, 300 the words of Powhatan or Pocahontas as Smith relates them.

There may be readers of this story who will want to know what became of
Pocahontas. She fell ill of a fever just as she was about to sail home
for Virginia and died in Gravesend, where she was buried. Her son Thomas
Rolfe was educated in England and went to Virginia when he was grown.
His daughter Jane married John Bolling, and among their descendants
have been many famous men and women, including Edith Bolling (Mrs. Galt)
who married President Woodrow Wilson.

[Illustration: Decorative]




CONTENTS


         I THE RETURN Of THE WARRIORS

        II POCAHONTAS AND THE MEDICINE MAN

       III MIDNIGHT IN THE FOREST

        IV RUNNING THE GAUNTLET

         V THE GREAT BIRDS

        VI JOHN SMITH'S TEMPTATION

       VII A FIGHT IN THE SWAMP

      VIII POCAHONTAS DEFIES POWHATAN

        IX SMITH'S GAOLER

         X THE LODGE IN THE WOOD

        XI POCAHONTAS VISITS JAMESTOWN

       XII POWHATAN'S AMBASSADOR

      XIII POWHATAN'S CORONATION

       XIV A DANGEROUS SUPPER

        XV A FAREWELL

       XVI CAPTAIN ARGALL TAKES A PRISONER

      XVII POCAHONTAS LOSES A FRIEND

     XVIII A BAPTISM IN JAMESTOWN

       XIX JOHN ROLFE

        XX THE WEDDING

       XXI ON THE TRAIL OF A THIEF

      XXII POCAHONTAS IN ENGLAND





ILLUSTRATIONS


     The white figure moved rapidly

     "We choose to-day," he cried

     "Let us be friends and allies, oh Powhatan"

     "I will lead the princess"

     Virginia in 1606--from Captain John Smith's Map

     "Nay, nay," cried Pocahontas, "thou must not go"

     "Do not shoot, Mark!"





[Illustration: Decorative]


THE PRINCESS POCAHONTAS




CHAPTER I

THE RETURN OF THE WARRIORS


Through the white forest came Opechanchanough and his braves, treading
as silently as the flakes that fell about them. From their girdles hung
fresh scalp locks which their silent Monachan owners did not miss.

But Opechanchanough, on his way to Werowocomoco to tell The Powhatan of
the victory he had won over his enemies, did not feel quite sure that he
had slain all the war party against which he and his Pamunkey braves had
gone forth. The unexpected snow, coming late in the winter, had been
blown into their eyes by the wind so that they could not tell whether
some of the Monachans had not succeeded in escaping their vengeance.
Perhaps, even yet, so near to the wigwams of his brother's town, the
enemy might have laid an ambush. Therefore, it behooved them to be on
their guard, to look behind each tree for crouching figures and to
harken with all their ears that not even a famished squirrel might crack
a nut unless they could point out the bough on which it perched.

Opechanchanough led the long thin line that threaded its way through the
broad cutting between huge oaks, still bronze with last year's leaves.
He held his head high and to himself he framed the words of the song of
triumph he meant to sing to The Powhatan, as the chief of the Powhatans
was called. Then, suddenly before his face shot an arrow.

At a shout from their leader, the long line swung itself to the right,
and fifty arrows flew to the northward, the direction from which danger
might be expected. Still there was silence, no outcry from an ambushed
enemy, no sign of other human creatures.

Opechanchanough consulted with his braves whence had the arrow come; and
even while they talked, another arrow from the right whizzed before his
face.

"A bad archer," he grunted, "who cannot hit me with two shots." Then
pointing to a huge oak that forked half way up, he commanded:

"Bring him to me."

Two braves rushed forward to the tree, on which all eyes were now fixed.
It was difficult to distinguish anything through the falling snow and
the mass of its flakes that had gathered in the crotch. All was white
there, yet there was something white which moved, and the two braves on
reaching the tree trunk yelled in delight and disdain.

The white figure moved rapidly now. Swinging itself out on a branch and
catching hold of a higher one, it seemed determined to retreat from its
pursuers to the very summit of the tree. But the braves did not waste
time in climbing after it; they leapt up in the air like panthers,
caught the branch and swung it vigorously back and forth so that the
creature's feet slipped from under it and it fell into their
outstretched arms.

Not waiting even to investigate the white bundle of fur, the warriors,
surrounded by their curious fellows, bore it to Opechanchanough, and
laid it on the ground before him. He knelt and lifted up the cap of
rabbit skin with flapping ears that hid the face, then cried out in
angry astonishment:

"Pocahontas! What meaneth this trick?"

And the white fur bundle, rising to her feet, laughed and laughed till
the oldest and staidest warrior could not help smiling. But
Opechanchanough did not smile; he was too angry. His dignity suffered at
thus being made the sport of a child. He shook his niece, saying:

"What meaneth this, I ask? What meaneth this?"

Pocahontas then ceased laughing and answered:

"I wanted to see for myself how brave thou wert. Uncle, and to know just
how great warriors such as ye are act when an enemy is upon them. I am
not so bad an archer, Uncle; I would not shoot thee, so I aimed beyond
thee. But it was such fun to sit up there in the tree and watch all of
you halt so suddenly."

Her explanation set most of the party laughing again.

"In truth, is she well named," they cried--"Pocahontas, Little Wanton."

"I have yet another name," she said to an old brave who stood nearest
her. "Knowest thou it not?--Matoaka, Little Snow Feather. Always when
the moons of popanow (winter) bring us snow it calls me out to play.
'Come, Snow Feather,' it cries, 'come out and run with me and toss me up
into the air.'"

Her uncle had now recovered his calm and was about to start forward
again. Turning to the two who had captured Pocahontas, he commanded:

"Since we have taken a prisoner we will bear her to Powhatan for
judgment and safekeeping. Had we shot back into the tree she might have
been killed. See that she doth not escape you."

Then he stalked ahead through the forest, paying no further attention to
Pocahontas.

The young braves looked sheepishly at each other and at their captive,
not at all relishing their duty. Opechanchanough was not to be
disobeyed, yet it was no easy thing to hold a young maid against her
will, and no force or even show of force might be used against a
daughter of the mighty werowance (chieftain).

Seeing their uncertainty, Pocahontas started to run to the left and they
to pursue her. They came up with her before she had gone as far as three
bows' lengths and led her back gently to their place in the line. Then
she walked sedately along as if unconscious of their presence, until
they were off their guard, believing she had resigned herself to the
situation, when she sprang off to the right and was again captured and
led back. She knew that they dared not bind her, and she took advantage
of this to lead them in truth a dance, first to one side and then to the
other. Behind them their comrades jeered and laughed each time the
maiden ran away.

The regular order of the warpath was now no longer preserved. They had
advanced to a point where there was no longer any possibility of danger
from hostile attack. Werowocomoco lay now but a short distance away;
already the smoke from its lodges could be seen across the cleared
fields that surrounded the village of Powhatan. The older warriors were
walking in groups, talking over their deeds of valor performed that day,
and praising those of several of the young braves who had fought for the
first time. Pocahontas and her captors had now fallen further behind.

Though well satisfied with the results of her enterprise and amusement,
Pocahontas had no mind to be brought into her home as a captive, even
though it be half in jest. Her father might not consider it so amusing
and, moreover, she did not like to be outwitted. She was so busy
thinking that she forgot to continue her game and walked quietly ahead,
keeping up with the longer strides of the warriors by occasional little
runs forward. The braves, their own heads full of their first campaign,
kept fingering lovingly the scalps at their girdles, and paid little
attention to her.

She stooped as if to fasten her moccasin, then, as their impetus carried
them a few feet ahead of her before they stopped for her to come up, she
darted like a flash to the left and had slid down into a little hollow
before they thought of starting after her.

It was now almost dark and her white fur was indistinguishable against
the snow below. Before they had reached the bottom, Pocahontas, who knew
every inch of the ground that was less familiar to men from her uncle's
village, had slipped back into the forest which skirted the fields the
pursuers were now speeding across, and was lost at once in the darkness.

Opechanchanough knew nothing of this escape. He meant to explain to his
royal brother how much mischief a child might do who was not kept at
home performing squaw duties in her wigwam. And Powhatan's favorite
daughter or not, Pocahontas should be kept waiting outside her father's
lodge until he had related his important business and had recounted all
the glorious deeds done by his Pamunkeys.

Now they had come to Werowocomoco itself, and the noise of their
shoutings and of their war drums brought the inhabitants running out of
their wigwams. As the Pamunkeys were an allied tribe, their cause
against a common enemy was the same, yet the rejoicings at the victory
against the Monachans was somewhat less than it would have been had the
conquerors been Powhatans themselves. However, Opechanchanough and his
braves could not complain of their reception, and runners sped ahead to
advise Powhatan of their coming, while all the population of their
village crowded about them, the men questioning, the boys fingering the
scalps and each boasting how many he would have at his girdle when he
was grown.

The great Werowance was not in his ceremonial lodge but in the one in
which he ordinarily slept and ate when at Werowocomoco. Opechanchanough
paused at the opening of the lodge and ordered:

"When I call out then bring ye in Pocahontas, and we shall see what
Powhatan thinks of a squaw child that shoots at warriors."

The lodge was almost dark when he entered it. Before the fire in the
centre he could see his brother Powhatan seated, and on each side of him
one of his wives. Then he made out the features of his nephew Nautauquas
and Pocahontas' younger sister, Cleopatra (for so it was the English
later understood the girl's strange Indian name). They had evidently
just been eating supper and the dogs behind them were gnawing the wild
turkey bones that had been thrown to them. At Powhatan's feet crouched a
child in a dark robe, with face in the shadow.

Powhatan greeted his brother gravely and bade him be seated. The lodge
soon filled with braves packed closely together, and about the opening
crowded all who could, and these repeated to the men and squaws left
outside the words that were spoken within.

Proudly Opechanchanough began to tell how he had tracked the Monachans
to a hill above the river, and how he and his war party had fallen upon
them, driving them down the steep banks, slaying and scalping, even
swimming into the icy water to seize those who sought to escape. And The
Powhatan nodded in approval, uttering now and again a word of praise.
When Opechanchanough had finished his recital the shaman, or
medicine-man, rose and sang a song of praise about the brave Pamunkeys,
brothers of the Powhatans.

Then, one after another, Opechanchanough's braves told of their personal
exploits.

"I," sang one, "I, the Forest Wolf, have devoured mine enemy. Many suns
shall set red between the forest trees, but none so red as the blood
that flowed when my sharp knife severed his scalp lock."

And as each recited his deeds his words were received with clappings of
hands and grunts of approval.

Powhatan gave orders to open the guest lodge and to prepare a feast for
the victors. Then Opechanchanough rose again to speak. After he had
finished another song of triumph, he turned to Powhatan and asked:

"Brother, how long hath it been that thy warriors keep within their
lodges, leaving to young squaws the duty of sentinels who cannot
distinguish friends from foes?"

Powhatan gazed at the speaker in astonishment.

"What dost thou mean by such strange words?" asked the chief.

"As we returned through the forest," explained Opechanchanough, "before
we reached the boundary of thy fields, while we still believed that a
part of the Monachans might lie in ambush for us there, an arrow, shot
from the westward, flew before my face. Then came a second arrow out of
the branches of an oak tree. We took the bowman prisoner, and what
thinkest thou we found?--a squaw child!"

"A squaw child!" repeated Powhatan in astonishment. "Was it one of this
village?"

"Even so. Brother. I have her captive outside that thou mayst pronounce
judgment upon one who endangers thus the life of thy brother and who
forgetteth she is not a boy. Bring in the prisoner," he commanded.

But no one came forward. The young braves to whom Pocahontas had been
entrusted kept wisely on the outskirts of the crowd.

Then the little sombre figure at Powhatan's feet rose and stood with
the firelight shining on her face and dark hair and asked in a gentle
voice:

"Didst thou want me, mine uncle?"

"Pocahontas," exclaimed Opechanchanough, "how camest thou here ahead of
us, and in that dark robe?"

"Pocahontas can run even better than she can shoot. Uncle, and the
changing of a robe is the matter but of a moment."

"What meaneth this, Matoaka?" asked Powhatan, making use of her special
intimate name, which signified Little Snow Feather. He spoke in a low
tone, but one so stern that Cleopatra shivered and rejoiced that she was
not the culprit.

"It was but a joke, my father," answered Pocahontas. "I meant no harm."
She hung her head and waited until he should speak again.

"I will have no such jokes in my land," he said angrily, "remember
that."

With a gesture of his hand and a whispered word of command he sent the
Pamunkey braves to the guest lodge. Opechanchanough, still angry at the
ridicule that a child had brought upon him, lingered to ask;

"Wilt thou not punish her?"

"Surely I will," Powhatan answered. "Go ye all to the guest lodge and I
will follow. Away, Nautauquas, and carry my pipe thither."

They were now alone in the lodge, the great chief over thirty tribes and
his daughter, who still stood with downcast head. The Powhatan gazed at
her curiously. She waited for him to speak, then as he kept silent, she
turned and looked straight into his face and asked:

"Father, dost thou know how hard it is to be a girl? Nautauquas, my
brother, is a swift runner, yet I am fleeter than he. I can shoot as
straight as he, though not so far. I can go without food and drink as
long as he. I can dance without fatigue when he is panting. Yet
Nautauquas is to be a great brave and I--thou bidst remember to be a
squaw. Is it not hard, my father? Why then didst thou give me strong
arms and legs and a spirit that will not be still? Do not blame me.
Father, because I must laugh and run and play."

As she spoke she slipped to her knees and embraced his feet and when she
had ceased speaking, she smiled up fearless into his face.

Powhatan tried not to be moved by the child's pleading. Yet he was a
chief who always harkened to the excuses made by offenders brought
before him and judged them justly, if sometimes harshly. This child of
his was as dear to him as a running stream to summer heat. If at times
its spray dashed too high, could he be angry?

And Pocahontas, seeing that his anger had gone from him, stood up and
laid her head against his arm. She did not have to be told that the
mighty Powhatan loved no wife nor child of his as he loved her. Then his
hand stroked her soft hair and cheek, and she knew that she was
forgiven.

"Thine uncle is very angry," he said.

"If thou couldst but have seen him. Father, when the arrow whizzed," and
she laughed gaily in memory of the picture.

"I have promised to punish thee."

"Yea, as thou wilt." But she did not speak as if afraid.

"Hear what I charge thee," he said in mock solemnity. "Thou shalt
embroider for me with thine own hands--thou that carest not for squaw's
needles--a robe of raccoon skin in quills and bits of precious shells."

Pocahontas laughed.

"That is no punishment. 'Tis a strange thing, but when I do things I
like not for those I love, why, then I pleasure in doing them. I will
fashion for thee such a robe as thou hast never seen. Oh! I know how
beautiful it will be. I will make new patterns such as no squaw hath
ever dreamed of before. But thou wilt never be really angry with me.
Father, wilt thou?" she questioned pleadingly. "And if I should at any
time do what displeaseth thee, and thou wearest this robe I make thee,
then let it be a token between us and when I touch it thou wilt forgive
me and grant what I ask of thee?"

And Powhatan promised and smiled on her before he set forth for the
guest lodge.




[Illustration: Decorative]


CHAPTER II

POCAHONTAS AND THE MEDICINE MAN


Some months later on there came a hot day such as sometimes appears in
the early spring. The sun shone with almost as much power as if the corn
were high above the ground in which it had only just been planted with
song and the observance of ancient sacred rites and dances. Little
leaves glistened like fish scales, as they gently unfurled themselves on
the walnut and persimmon trees about Werowocomoco, and in the forest the
ground was covered with flowers. The children tied them together and
tossed them as balls to and fro or wound them into chaplets for their
hair; the old squaws searched among them for certain roots and leaves
for dyes to stain the grass cloth they spun, called pemmenaw.

The boys played hunters, pretending their dogs were wild beasts, but the
bears and wolves did not always understand the parts assigned them and
frolicked and leaped up in delight upon their little masters instead of
turning upon them ferociously. The elder braves lay before their lodges,
many of them idling in the sunshine, others busied themselves making
arrows, fitting handles to stone knives or knotting crab nets. Two
slaves, brought home prisoners by a war party, were hollowing out a
dugout, which the Powhatans used instead of the birchbark canoes
preferred by other tribes. They had cut down an oak tree that, judging
from its rings, must have been an acorn when Powhatan was a papoose,
seventy years before. They had burned out a portion of the outer and
inner bark and were now hacking at the heart of the wood with sharp
obsidian axes.

The squaws were also all busy out of doors, though they chatted in
groups as eagerly as if their energy were being expended by their
tongues only. Many were at work scraping deerskin to soften it before
they cut it into robes for themselves or into moccasins for the men.
Here and there little puffs of smoke that seemed to come from beneath
the earth testified to the dinners that were being cooked under heated
stones.

Pocahontas was seated upon a small hill overlooking the village. As the
chief's daughter, it was only on special occasions and as an honored
guest, that she joined the knots of squaws or maidens chatting before
the wigwams. But she was not alone now in solitary grandeur. She was
accustomed to surround herself, when she desired company, with a number
of younger girls of the tribe who obeyed her, less because she was the
daughter of the feared werowance, than because she had a way with her
that made it pleasant to do as she willed and difficult to oppose her.
Cleopatra, her youngest sister, sat beside her, trying to coax a
squirrel on the branch above them to come down and eat some parched corn
from her hands.

Over Pocahontas's knees was spread a robe of raccoon skin, smooth,
painted in a wide border. Along the edge of this she was embroidering a
deep pattern of white beads made from sea shells. A basket of reeds
beside her was full of other beads, large and small, white, red, yellow
and blue.

"What doth thy pattern mean, Pocahontas?" asked the girl nearest her.
"As it is not one any of our mothers hath ever wrought before, thou must
have a meaning for it in thy mind." "Yes," assented the worker, "it
differeth from all other patterns because my father differeth from all
other werowances. It meaneth this that I sing:

    "Powhatan is a mighty chief,
    As long as the river floweth,
    As long as the sky upholdeth,
    As long as the oak tree groweth,
    So long shall his name be known.

"See, this line is for the river, this one that goeth up straight is the
oak tree and this long line all wavy is the heavens. I make this for my
father because I am so proud of him."

"But why, Pocahontas," asked another of her companions, "dost thou not
use more of these red beads? They are so like fire, like the blood of an
enemy; why dost thou refer the white?"

Pocahontas held her bone needle still for a moment and her face wore a
puzzled expression.

"I cannot answer thee exactly, Deer-Eye, since I do not know myself. I
love the white beads as I love best to wear a white robe myself, or a
white rabbit hood in winter. In the woods I always pick the white
flowers, and I love the white wild pigeon best of all the birds except
the white seagull. And the white soft clouds high in the heavens I love
better than the red and yellow ones when the sun goeth down to sleep in
the west. Yet I cannot say why it is so."

As noon approached the day grew hotter, and the fingers wearied of the
work. Down in the village the men had ceased their activities and lay
stretched out on the shady side of the lodges; only the squaws preparing
dinner were still busy.

"Let us go to the waterfall," cried Pocahontas, jumping up suddenly.
"Each of you go and beg some food from her mother and hurry back here. I
will put my work away and await ye here."

The maidens flew down the hill while Pocahontas and Cleopatra carried
the robe and the basket to their lodge. Then, a few minutes later, they
were rejoined by their companions and all started off laughing as they
ran through the woods.

The stream that flowed into the great river below was now still wide
with its spring fulness. A mile away from Werowocomoco it fell over high
rocks, then rushing down a gentle incline bubbled over smooth rocky
slabs, and made a deep pool below them.

The maidens tossed off their skirts and stood for a moment hesitatingly
on the shore. Mocking-birds sang in the oaks above them, startled by
their shrill young voices, and on the bare branches of a sycamore tree
that had been killed by a lightning bolt a score of raccoons lay curled
up in the sunshine.

Pocahontas was the first to spring into the stream, but her comrades
quickly followed her, laughing, pushing, crying out the first chill of
the water. Only Cleopatra remained standing on the shore.

"Come," called Pocahontas to her; "why dost thou tarry, lazy one?"

"I will not come. The water is too cold."

Cleopatra was about to slip on her skirt again when her sister splashed
through the stream to her and half pushed, half pulled her into the pool
and then to the rocks partly submerged in the water. There was much
screaming and calling, slipping from the rocks into the pool and
clambering from the pool back on to the rocks. The water was now
pleasantly warm and the dinner awaiting them was forgotten in the
pleasure of the first bath of the season.

Deer-Eye, in trying to pull herself back on the rock, caught hold of
Cleopatra's foot, who slipped on the mossy surface and fell backwards
into the water, hitting her head against a sharp edge. She lost
consciousness and sank down into the pool.

Almost before she had disappeared beneath the water Pocahontas had
sprung after her, and groping about on the fine smooth sand of the
bottom, she caught hold of her sister and brought her to the surface.

Then, with the aid of the terrified maidens, she lifted her up on the
bank, the blood flowing freely from a cut on her head. After vainly
trying to staunch the wound with damp moss, Pocahontas commanded:

"Hasten as though the Iroquois were coming, and cut me some strong
branches."

They obeyed her, hurriedly throwing their skirts about them, and then
with their stone knives severed branches and tied them together with
deer thongs which they tore from the fringe of their girdles. On top of
these they placed leafy branches and lifted the unconscious Cleopatra on
to this improvised stretcher. In spite of their remonstrances,
Pocahontas insisted upon taking one end of it, while the strongest two
of her playmates bore the other.

Through the woods they walked, as silent now as they had been noisy
before, but Pocahontas thought her heart-beats sounded as loud as the
war drums of the Pamunkeys.

They were still distant many minutes' walk to the village when they
caught sight of Pochins, a medicine man famous among many tribes for his
powerful manitou, his guardian spirit, which enabled him to communicate
with the manitous of the spirit world.

"Pochins, oh Pochins," cried out Pocahontas, "come and help us. I fear
my sister is dying, and that I have killed her. She did not wish to go
into the water, Pochins, and I pulled her in and now she hath cut her
head and the blood floweth from it so that I can not stop it."

The shaman made no answer, but bent down from his great height and
looked carefully at the wound, then he took the end of the stretcher
from Pocahontas, saying:

"I will bear her to my prayer lodge here nearby."

Even then through the trees they caught sight of the bark covering of
the lodge, which few persons had ever entered. The maidens shuddered at
the sight of it, for none of them knew what mysterious terrors might lie
in wait for them there. Nevertheless they followed Pochins as he bore
Cleopatra inside and laid her on the ground. From an earthen bowl he
took certain herbs and bound the leaves, after he had moistened them,
over the wound. Soon Pocahontas, crouching at her sister's side, could
see that the blood had ceased to flow. But no sign of life could be
detected in the little body lying there. The hands and feet were clammy
and though Pocahontas rubbed them vigorously, she could feel no warmth
stirring in them.

The shaman paid, however, no further heed to her. From another bowl he
took out a rattle of gourd, and from a peg on one of the rounded
supports of the roof he lifted down a horrible mask painted in scarlet,
and this he fastened over his face. Then, waving the children out of the
way, he began to dance about the two sisters and to chant in a loud
voice, shaking the rattle till it seemed as if the din must waken a dead
person.

"My medicine is a mighty medicine," he exclaimed in his natural voice to
Pocahontas. "Wait a little and thou shalt see what wonders it can do."

And indeed in a few moments Pocahontas felt the pulse start in her
sister's arm, saw her eyelids quiver and her feet grow warm. And when
the shouting and the shaking of the rattle grew even louder and more
hideous, Cleopatra opened her eyes and looked about her in astonishment.

"Mighty indeed is the medicine (the magic) of Pochins," cried the shaman
proudly as he laid aside mask and rattle; "it hath brought this maiden
back from the dead."

Pocahontas now had to soothe the child, terrified by the sights she had
seen and the sounds she had heard. She patted her arms and spoke to her
as if she were a papoose on her back:

"Fear not, little one, no evil shall come to thee. Pocahontas watcheth
over thee. She will not close her eyes while danger prowleth about. Fear
naught, little one."

And Cleopatra clung to her, feeling a sense of security in her sister's
fearlessness.

By this time the news of the accident had spread through the village and
several squaws, led by Cleopatra's mother, came running to Pochins's
lodge. Finding Cleopatra was able to rise, they carried her back with
them. The other maidens, now the excitement was over, remembered their
empty stomachs and hurried off to recover the dinner they had left
behind at the waterfall.

Pocahontas did not go with them. She still sat on the ground beside the
medicine man while he busied himself painting the mask where the color
had worn off.

"Shaman," she asked, "tell me where went the manitou of my sister while
she lay there dead?"

"On a distant journey," he answered; "therefore I had to call so loudly
to make it hear me and return."

"Who taught thee thy medicine?" she questioned again.

"The Beaver, my manitou, daughter of Powhatan," he answered.

"And who then will teach me; how shall I learn?"

"Thou needest not such knowledge, since thou art neither a medicine man
nor a brave. I, Pochins, will call to Okee, the Great Spirit, for thee
when thou hast need of anything, food or raiment or a chief to take thee
to his lodge."

"But I should like to do that myself, Pochins," she remonstrated. "Thou
dost not know how many things I long to do myself. Let me put on thy
mask and take thy rattle, just to see how they feel."

"Nay, nay, touch them not," he cried, stretching out his hand. "The
Beaver would be angry with us and would work evil medicine on us."

Pochins was not fond of children. His dignity was so great that he never
even noticed them as he strode through the village. But the eager look
in Pocahontas's eyes seemed to draw words out of him. He began to talk
to her of the many days and nights he had spent alone, fasting, in the
prayer lodge until some message came to him from Okee, some message
about the harvest or the success of a hunting party. Pocahontas was so
interested that she asked him many questions.

"Tell me of Michabo, Michabo, the Great Hare," she coaxed, as she moved
over on a mat Pochins had spread for her.

"Hearken, then, daughter of The Powhatan," he began, his voice changing
its natural tone to one of chanting, "to the story of Michabo as it is
told in the lodges of the Powhatans, the Delawares and of those tribes
who dwell far away beyond our forests, away where abideth the West Wind
and where the Sun strideth towards the darkness.

"Michabo dived down into the water when there was no land and no beast
and no man or woman and he was lonely. From the bottom took he a grain
of fine white sand and bore it safely in his hand in his journey upward
through the dark waters. This he cast upon the waves and it sank not but
floated like a tiny leaf. Then it spread out, circling round and round,
wider and wider as the rings widen when thou casteth a stone into a
still lake, till it had grown so large that a swift young wolf, though
he ran till he dropped of old age, could not come to its ending. This
earth rose all covered with trees and hills and beasts and men and
women, and Michabo, the Great Hare, the Spirit of Light, the Great White
One, hunted through earth's forests and he fashioned strong nets for
fishing and he taught the stupid men, who knew naught, how to hunt also
and to catch fish that they might not die of hunger.

"But Michabo had mightier deeds to do than the slaying of the fat deer
or the netting of the salmon. His father was the mighty West Wind,
Ningabiun, and he had slain his wife, the mother of Michabo. So when
Michabo's grandmother had told him of the misdeeds of his father,
Michabo rose up and called out to the four corners of the world: 'Now go
I forth to slay the West Wind to avenge the death of my mother.'

"At last he found Ningabiun on the top of a high mountain, his cheeks
puffed out and his headdress waving back and forth. At first they talked
peacefully together and the West Wind told Michabo that only one thing
in all the world could bring harm to him, and that was the black rock.

"'Wert thou the cause of my mother's death?' questioned Michabo, his
eyes flashing, and Ningabiun calmly answered 'Yes.'

"So Michabo in his fury picked up a piece of black rock and struck at
Ningabiun with all his might. A terrible conflict was this, such as hath
never been seen since; the earth shook and the lightnings flashed down
the sides of the mountain. So great was Michabo's strength that the West
Wind was driven backwards. Over mountains and lakes Michabo drove him
and across wide rivers, till they two came to the very brink of the
world. Ningabiun feared that his son was going to push him off and cried
out:

"Hold, my son, thou knowest not my power and that it is impossible to
kill me. Desist and I will portion out to thee as much power as I have
given to thy brothers. The four quarters of the globe are theirs, but
thou canst do more than they, if thou wilt help the people of the earth.
Go and do good, and thy fame will last forever.'

"So Michabo ceased from the battle and went down to help our fathers in
the hunt and in the council and in the prayer-lodge; but to this day
great cliffs of black rock show where Michabo strove with his father,
the West Wind."




[Illustration: Decorative]


CHAPTER III

MIDNIGHT IN THE FOREST


Nautauquas, son of Powhatan, was returning at night through the forest
towards his lodge at Werowocomoco. Over his shoulder hung the deer he
had gone forth to slay. His mother had said to him:

"Thy leggings are old and worn, and thou knowest that good luck cometh
to the hunter wearing moccasins and leggings made from skins of his own
slaying. Go thou forth and kill a deer that I may soften its hide and
make a covering of it for thy feet."

So Nautauquas had taken his bow and a quiver of arrows, and while
Pocahontas and Cleopatra were sporting at the waterfall he had sought a
pond whose surface was all but covered with fragrant water lilies, and
he had hidden behind a sumac, bush, waiting patiently till a buck came
down alone to drink. Only one arrow did he spend, which found its place
between the wide branched antlers; then the hunter had waded into the
pond, pushing aside the lily pads, and with one cut of his knife he had
put an end to the struggling deer. Now he was bearing it home and he
thought with eagerness of the savory meat it would yield him on the
morrow. There was no doubt that he would have appetite ready for it, as
all day long he had eaten nothing. It had been easy enough for him to
have killed a squirrel and roasted it, but Nautauquas, knowing it was
part of a brave's training to accustom himself to hunger, often fasted a
long time voluntarily.

The night was a dark one, but now that the moon had risen, long vistas
of light shone down the forest avenues, generally at that time so free
from underbrush. Nautauquas, looking up through the branches at the
moon, thought how it was the squaw of the sun and remembered the queer
tales the old women were fond of relating about it.

Suddenly before him he saw a creature dancing down the moon-path,
whirling and springing about while a pair of rabbits, that were startled
in crossing the path, scurried off into a clump of sassafras bushes
nearby. Then, as if reassured, they sat there calmly, even when the
dancing figure came closer to them. And Nautauquas heard singing, though
the words of the song did not come to his ears. He slipped behind an oak
tree and watched the dancer advance. Now that it was nearer he
discovered that it was a young girl; her only garment, a skirt of white
buckskin, napped against her firm bare brown legs and a necklace of
white shells clicked as she spun about. In the branches above some
squirrels, awakened from their slumber, straightened their furry tails
and began to chatter and a screech-owl tuwitted and tuwhoed. There was
something familiar in the outlines, and Nautauquas was therefore not
completely astonished when, turning about, she showed the face of
Pocahontas.

"Matoaka," he cried, stepping from the shadow; "what dost thou here
alone at night?"

His sister did not scream nor jump at this sudden interruption. She
seized her brother's hand and pressed it gently.

"It was such a beautiful night, Nautauquas," she replied, "that I could
not lie sleeping in the lodge. I come often here."

"And hast thou no fear, little sister?" he asked affectionately; "no
fear of wild animals or of our enemies?"

"Wild animals will not hurt me. I patted a mother bear with cubs one
night, and she did not even growl."

Nautauquas did not doubt her word. He knew that there were certain human
beings whom beasts will not hurt.

"And enemies," she continued, "would not venture so near the village of
the mighty Powhatan."

"I heard thee singing, little White Feather; what was thy song?"

"I made it many moons ago," she answered, "and I sing it always when I
dance here at night. Listen then, thou shalt hear the song Matoaka,
daughter of Powhatan, made to sing in the woods by Werowocomoco."

And she danced slowly, imitating with head and hands, body and feet, the
words of her song.

    I am the sister of the Morning Wind,
    And he and I awake the lazy Sun.
    We ruffle up the down of sleeping birds,
    And blow our laughter in the rabbits' ears,
    And bend the saplings till they kiss my feet,
    And the long grass till it obeisance makes.

    I am the sister of the wan Moonbeam
    Who calls to me when I have fallen asleep:
    Come, see how I have witched the world in white.--
    So faint his voice no other ear can hear.
    And I steal forth from out my father's lodge,
    And of the world there only waketh I
    And bears and wildcats and the sly raccoon
    And deer from out whose eyes there look the souls
    Of maidens who have died ere they knew love.
    And then the world we shorten with our feet
    That wake no echoes, but the hornèd owl
    Sigheth to think that thus our wingless speed
    All but outdoes that of the tree-dwellers.

When she had finished she threw herself down at his feet, asking:

"Dost thou like my song, my brother?"

"Yes, it is a new song, Matoaka, and some day thou must sing it for our
father. But it seemeth to me that thou art different from other maids.
They do not care to rise from their sleeping mats and go forth alone
into the forest."

"Perhaps they have not an arrow inside of them as have I."

Nautauquas had seated himself in the crotch of a dogwood-tree and looked
with interest at his sister below him.

"An arrow?" he queried; "what dost thou mean?"

"I think," she answered, speaking slowly, "that within me is an
arrow--not of wood and stone, but one of manitou--how shall I explain it
to thee? I must go forth to distances, to deeds. I am shot forward by
some bow and I may not hang idle in a quiver. I know," she continued,
fingering the quiver on his back, "how thine own arrow feels after thou
hast fashioned it carefully of strong wood and bound its head upon it
with thongs. It says to itself; 'I am happy here, hanging in my warm bed
on Nautauquas's back.' And then when thou takest it in thy hand and
fittest its notch to the bowstring, it crieth out: 'Now I shall speed
forth; now shall I cut the wind; now shall I journey where no arrow ever
journeyed before; now shall I achieve what I was fashioned for!'"

"Strange thoughts are these, little sister, for a maid to think," and
Nautauquas stroked the long braid against his knee.

"I am so happy, Nautauquas," she went on. "I love the warm lodge, the
fire embers in the centre, the smoke curling up towards the stars I can
see through the opening above me. I love to feel little Cleopatra's feet
touching my head as we lie there together. But then I feel the arrow
within me and I rise to my feet silently and creep out, and if the dogs
hear me I whisper to them and they lie down quietly again. I love
Werowocomoco, yet I long too to go beyond the village to where the sky
touches the earth. I love the tales of the beasts the old squaws tell,
but I want to hear the braves when they speak of war and ambushes.
Springtime and the sowing of the corn are full of delight, yet I look
forward eagerly to the earing of the corn and the fall of the leaf."

The maiden spoke passionately. So had she never spoken to anyone. She
ceased for a moment and there was no sound save the call of the owl.
Then she turned around and knelt, her elbows on her brother's knees, and
asked:

"Tell me, Nautauquas, tell me the truth, since thou canst speak naught
else; what manitou is in me that I am like to rushing water, to a stream
that hurries forward? What shall I become?"

"Something great, Matoaka," he answered; "I know not whether a
warrior--such there have been--a princess who shall hold many tribes in
her hand, or a prophetess; but I am certain that the arrow of thy
manitou shall bring down some fair game."

"Ah!" she breathed deeply. "I thank thee for thy words, Nautauquas, my
brother, and that thou hast not made sport of me."

"Why should anyone make sport of thee? It is not strange that the aspen
should quiver when the wind blows, nor that thou shouldst be swayed by
the spirit that is within thee, Matoaka. Some day--"

He was interrupted by a piercing scream from the depth of the forest. He
sprang to his feet; all the dreaminess of his attitude and mood had
vanished; he pulled an arrow from his quiver fitted it to the string in
readiness to shoot. Was it possible, he wondered, for any war party of
their enemies to have ventured so near Powhatan's stronghold without
having been halted at other villages belonging to his people? Pocahontas
too was on her feet, her head on one side, listening intently.

Again came the scream, then Nautauquas loosened his bow, saying:

"That is no human cry. It is a wildcat in agony. Let us go and see what
aileth it."

They ran swiftly towards the point from which the sound had come. Again
came the cry to guide them, and then there was silence as they ran
through the moonlight checkered by the shadows of the trees.

Nautauquas stood still suddenly, so suddenly that Pocahontas behind him
could not stop quickly enough and fell against him and almost down into
a ravine that lay beneath, but Nautauquas caught her on the very brink.

"It is down there," he pointed; "there must be a trap, I think. Let us
descend very carefully."

They clambered down through the darkness made by the overhanging bushes
and rocks. At the bottom the light was not obscured, and they beheld the
striped body of a large wildcat caught in a trap.

"Look," cried Pocahontas excitedly, "there is another beast just there
in those bushes. Our coming must have frightened it. He has been trying
to kill the one in the trap, that cannot defend himself."

"That is so," assented Nautauquas, making ready to shoot the beast that
was at liberty in case it should spring towards them. But the animal
evidently had no taste that night for an encounter with human beings,
and slouched off and up the side of the ravine. The imprisoned animal,
they could see, was bleeding from a large wound on its back, and in the
moonlight its eyes shone like fire.

"Poor beast!" exclaimed Nautauquas compassionately. "I would free him if
he would let me touch him. As it is he will have to starve to death
unless his enemy comes back to finish him."

"No," said Pocahontas, "that need not be. I will loose him and bind up
his wound if thou wilt cut a strip off thy leggings."

"Silly child," he laughed. "A wild beast needs no balsam nor cloths for
his wounds. If he were free to drag himself to safety he would lick his
hurt till it healed. But he would bite thy hand off shouldst thou
attempt to touch him."

"Nay, Nautauquas, he would not harm me. See how quiet he will grow."

She knelt down just beyond the reach of the wildcat and began to whisper
to it. Nautauquas could not make out what she said, but to his amazement
he beheld how the beast ceased to lash its tail and how its muscles
seemed to relax. Nevertheless the young brave caught Pocahontas by the
arm and tried to pull her away.

"There is no danger, my brother," she remonstrated. "Fear not. Hast thou
not seen old Father Noughmass when the bees swarm over his neck and
hands? They never sting him. He cannot tell thee why, nor do I know why
wild beasts will not harm me."

So Nautauquas, knife in hand and breathing deeply, looked on while
Pocahontas, speaking words in a low voice, moved nearer and nearer the
wildcat. Taking her knife from her girdle, she began to cut through the
thongs that held him. One paw was now loose and yet the beast did not
move to touch his rescuer. Then when the other thongs were loose and it
was free, it moved off slowly and painfully into the woods as if no
human beings were there.

Nautauquas breathed a sigh of relief.

"It is wonderful, Matoaka, yet I pray thee test thy strange power not
too far. I am glad though the poor beast got away. I like not to see
them suffer. I shoot and kill for food and for skins, but I kill at
once."

They now climbed up the ravine again and started off in the direction of
Werowocomoco.

The night was already far advanced and Pocahontas was growing drowsier
and drowsier. Nautauquas, seeing that she was almost asleep, took hold
of her arm and made her lean on him. As they approached the spot where
he had first come across her dancing, they noticed a human figure
crouched on the ground. Even in the moonlight, grown dimmer as dawn
approached, he could see that it was an old squaw. Pocahontas recognized
old Wansutis, a gatherer of herbs and roots.

"What dost thou here, Wansutis?" she questioned.

"He! the little princess," cried the old woman, scowling up at them,
"and the young brave Nautauquas. I seek roots and leaves by the light of
the Sun's squaw. So is it meet for me and so will the drinks be stronger
when brewed by old Wansutis. I have found many rare plants this night;
it hath been a lucky one, perchance because the young princess was also
abroad in the forest."

All the children of the tribe were afraid of the old woman. They told
each other tales of how she could turn those she disliked into dogs,
bats or turtles. And now even Nautauquas remembered how he had run from
her when he was a little fellow. Her expression was so ugly and so
malign that Pocahontas, though she did not fear her exactly, had no
desire to stay longer, and so started forward.

"And what doth Pocahontas in the woods at night?" asked Wansutis.
"Knoweth The Powhatan that she hath left his lodge?"

Pocahontas, though she often willingly allowed those about her to forget
her rank, could yet be very conscious of it when she desired. Now it did
not please her to be questioned in this manner by the old squaw and she
did not answer.

"Oh hey," cried Wansutis, "thou wilt not answer me. Thou art proud of
thy rank and thy youth. Yet one day thou wilt be an old squaw like me,
without teeth, with weak legs, and life a burden to thee. Then thou wilt
not be so proud."

Pocahontas stopped and turned around again.

"Nay, I will not grow old. I will not let the day come when life shall
be a burden. Thou canst not read the future, Wansutis. I shall always be
as fleet as now."

"Thinketh thou to ward off old age by some of my potions made from these
roots I carry here, a bundle too heavy for an ancient crone like me to
bear on her back? Thou shalt have none of them."

At these words Pocahontas's manner changed. Stooping, she picked up the
bundle and pressed it into the net that lay on the ground and swung it
on to her strong shoulders.

"Come, Wansutis," she cried. "Seek not to anger me with words and I will
bear thy bundle to thy wigwam. It is in truth too heavy for thy old
bones."

The old woman grunted ungraciously as she rose to her feet, then the
three, one following the other, moved forward. They were obliged to go
slowly, as Wansutis could only hobble along, and Nautauquas was sorry to
see that dawn was approaching. He feared now that Pocahontas would not
be able to steal unobserved back to her place beside Cleopatra and that
she would be scolded. They went with Wansutis to her wigwam and
Pocahontas let fall her bundle. Nautauquas took out his knife and cut
off a hind quarter of the deer and laid it on the squaw's hearth.

"She hath no son to hunt for her," he said in explanation as he and
Pocahontas went off unthanked.

Wansutis's wigwam was on the edge of the village. As they came nearer to
the lodges they heard yelling and shouting from every side, and they saw
small boys and young braves rush forth, glancing eagerly about them.

"Let us hasten," cried Pocahontas. "I wonder what hath befallen,
Nautauquas."





[Illustration: Decorative]


CHAPTER IV

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET


"What hath happened?" Nautauquas called out to Parahunt, his brother,
when he caught up with him hastening to the river.

"Word hath come by a runner that one of the tribes from the Chickahominy
villages hath fallen upon a party of Massawomekes and hath vanquished
them. Even now they are approaching with the prisoners."

In passing the front of his wigwam Nautauquas threw down the carcass of
the deer, then ran on to join the ever increasing crowd of braves and
children on the river bank.

Pocahontas too had mingled in the throng, and so Cleopatra and the
squaws in the lodge had not noticed her absence, thinking when they saw
her that she had been roused from sleep in the early dawn as they had
been.

It was now almost light. Far down the river six large dugouts were
approaching. But even that sight was not sufficient to make the
onlookers forget the fact that the sun was rising and must be greeted
with the customary ceremony. Two chiefs, whose duty it was, took from
their pouches handfuls of dried uppowoc (tobacco), and each turning away
from the other, walked in a large half-circle, scattering the uppowoc
upon the ground, until when they met a brown ring had been formed.
Within this braves and squaws hurried to seat themselves. With uplifted
eyes and outstretched hands they greeted the Sun who had come back to
them to warm their fields and to draw their young corn upright.

By the time this morning ceremony was over the dugouts were almost at
the beach. There was now a great shouting and yelling from shore to
boats and from boats to shore, and Pocahontas slipped into a thicket of
bushes on to a higher point of the bank where she could be alone to
watch the landing. She clapped her hands as their friends, the stalwart
Chickahominies, leaped ashore, twenty to each huge dugout; and though
her dignity would not permit her to call out derisively, as did the
crowd, to the three prisoners each boat contained, she looked eagerly to
see what kind of monsters these enemies of her tribe might be.

The eighteen Massawomekes were not bound; they stepped from the dugouts
as firmly as if they were going to a feast instead of to torture. They
were of the Iroquois nation; and Pocahontas, who had heard many stories
of this race, always at enmity with her own, noticed certain differences
in the way they were tattooed and in the shape of their headdresses.

Victors and prisoners, followed by the crowd, marched forward to the
ceremonial lodge where The Powhatan was awaiting them. Pocahontas
slipped into the already crowded space, though one of Powhatan's squaws
tried to stay her. She made her way without further opposition between
Chickahominies and Massawomekes, up to the dais where her father sat,
and crouched down on a mat spread on raised hurdles at his feet, where
she could observe all that went on.

One of the Chickahominy chiefs, whose face she remembered to have seen
at the great autumn festivals, was the first to speak:

"Powhatan, ruler of two hundred villages and lord of thirty tribes, who
rulest from the salt water to the western forests, we come to tell thee
how we have pursued thine enemies, the Massawomekes, who two months ago
did slay in ambush a party of our young men out hunting deer. By the
Great Swamp (the Dismal Swamp of Virginia) we came upon them, and though
they sought like bears to hide themselves in its secret places, lo! I,
Water Snake, did track them and I and my braves fell upon them, and now
they are no more."

Murmurs of assent and of approval were heard throughout the lodge. The
prisoners alone were apparently as unconscious of Water Snake's recital
as if they were still hidden in the fastnesses of the Great Swamp.

"There where we fought," continued the orator, waving his hand towards
the southwest, "the white blossoms of the creeping plants turned
crimson, and the hungry buzzards circled overhead. Many a Massawomeke
squaw sits to-night in a lonely wigwam; many a man child among them hath
lost the father to teach him how to bend a bow. We slew them all, Great
Werowance, all but these captives we have brought before thee."

This time louder shouts of approval rewarded Water Snake's speech,
which did not cease until it was seen that Powhatan meant to acknowledge
it. He did not rise nor change his position in any way, and his voice
was low and measured.

"A tree hath many branches, but one trunk only. Deep into the earth
stretch its roots to suck up nourishment for every twig and leaf. I,
Wahunsunakuk, Chief of the Powhatans and many tribes, am the trunk, and
one of my many branches is that of the Chickahominies and one that is
very close to my heart. My children have done well and the Powhatan
thanks them for their brave deeds. Now can your young braves go forth
upon the hunt unharmed and bring back meat for feastings and hides for
their squaws to fashion."

He paused and all the eyes of his people in the lodge were bent on him
with the same question.

"My children ask of me 'What shall we do with these captives?' and I
make answer, feast them first, that they may not say that the Powhatans
are greedy and give not to strangers. Then when they have feasted let
them run the gauntlet."

He waved his hand in token that he had finished speaking, and the glad
news was shouted from the lodge to the eager crowd without. Pocahontas
knew as well as if she could see them that the squaws were hurrying
about to prepare the food, and from her low seat she could see between
the legs of the braves before her how a number of boys were lying on
their stomachs, trying to wriggle into the lodge that they might hear
for themselves the interesting things going on and observe for
themselves whether the captives showed any sign of fear.

Now Powhatan gave an order and all seated themselves on the ground or on
mats in lines facing him. Then in came the squaws bearing large wooden
and grass-woven dishes of food. There were hot cakes of maize and wild
turkeys and fat raccoons. The captives were served first and none of
them refused. They would not let their enemies believe that fear of
their coming fate could spoil their appetites. So, after throwing the
first piece of meat into the fire as an offering to Okee, they ate
eagerly.

One of them who sat nearest the front, Pocahontas noticed, was but
little older than herself. He was too young to be a brave; perhaps, she
thought, he had run off from home and had followed the war party, as she
had heard of boys in her own tribe doing. She wondered if now he was
regretting that his eagerness for adventure had made his first warpath
his last one.

When they had feasted the squaws passed around bunches of turkey
feathers for them to wipe their greasy fingers on, and in every way the
captives were treated with that exaggerated courtesy that was customary
towards those about to be tortured.

Then Powhatan rose, and, preceded and followed by several of his fifty
armed guards chosen from the tallest men of his thirty tribes, he strode
down the centre of the lodge and out into the sunshine. Pocahontas
walked next behind him, and once outside, ran to tell the curious
Cleopatra all she had witnessed.

"Why shouldst thou have seen it all?" asked her jealous sister of
Pocahontas, "while I had naught of it all but the shouting?"

"Because," laughed Pocahontas, pulling her sister's long hair, "because
my two feet took me in. Thine are too fearful, little mouse."

An open space stretched before the ceremonial lodge, used for games and
feats of running and shooting at a mark. Now Powhatan and his guard and
his sons seated themselves upon the firm red ground that rose in a
little hillock to a height of several feet at one side of the lodge.
Then other chieftains took up their places behind them, standing or
sitting; the squaws crowded in among them and the boys sought the
branches of a single walnut-tree, the only tree within the limits of
Werowocomoco. They looked with longing eyes at the slanting roof of the
great lodge. That was undoubtedly the point of vantage, but The Powhatan
was a much dreaded werowance and they dared not risk his ire.

Pocahontas, who had been wondering where to bestow herself, noticed the
envying glances they cast in its direction. She was not withheld by
their restraining fear, so running to the opposite side of the lodge,
she climbed its sides, finding foothold in its bark covering, and soon
was curled up comfortably, her hands about her knees, where she would
miss nothing of the spectacle.

Now she beheld two long rows of young braves, one of them composed of
Powhatans, the other of Chickahominies, stride down the open space below
her and form a lane of naked, painted human walls. In their hands they
held bunches of fresh green reeds, sharp as knives, or heavy bludgeons
of oak, or stone tomahawks. For a moment they stood there motionless as
if they were merely spectators of some drama to be enacted by others.

Pocahontas recognized most of them: Black Arrow, whose ear had been
clawed off by a bear; Leaping Sturgeon, who had hung two scalps at his
girdle before the chiefs had pronounced him old enough to be a brave;
her own cousin, White Owl, the most wonderfully tattooed of them all;
and the Nansamond young chieftain who wore a live snake as an earring in
the slit of his ear.

Then Powhatan gave the signal and the captives were led forward. They
knew what awaited them; probably each of them, except the young boy, had
himself meted out the same fate to others that was now to befall them.
They did not repine; it was the fortune of war. Singing songs of
triumph, of derision of all their enemies, they started to run down the
awful lane of death. Blows rained upon them, on neck, on head, on arms,
even on their legs from stooping adversaries. So swift came the blows
from both sides that sometimes two fell upon the same spot almost at
once.

Pocahontas marked with interest that the boy was last of the line, and
that he bore himself as bravely as the others.

When they reached the end of the row there was no escape--no escape
anywhere more for them. Back they darted, so swiftly that it seemed as
if each escaped the blow aimed at himself, only to receive the one meant
for his comrade ahead.

Pocahontas had a queer feeling as she looked down on them and saw the
blood spurting from a hundred wounds. She thought perhaps it was the hot
sun that made her feel a little sick. Her eyes followed the boy and as
he came nearer she noticed that he was almost at the end of his
strength. A few more blows would finish him. Already some of his elders
had fallen to the ground, and if, when beaten unmercifully, they were
still unable to rise, the tomahawk dashed out their brains.

To her astonishment, Pocahontas found herself wishing the boy might not
fall, might escape in some miraculous manner. What a wrong thought! she
said to herself: was he not an enemy of her tribe? Yet she could not
help closing her eyes when she saw Black Arrow aiming a terrible blow at
his head. She did not know what to make of herself. She suddenly began
to think of the hurt wild-cat she and Nautauquas had pitied during the
night. But no one ought ever to pity an enemy. What was she made of?

As she opened her eyes again she heard a woman's outcry and beheld a
squaw rushing towards the end of the line where Black Arrow's blow had
felled the boy. It was old Wansutis.

"I claim the boy," she panted; "I claim him by our ancient right. Cease,
braves, and let me have him."

The astounded braves let their arms drop at their sides, and the
panting, bleeding captives who had not already fallen, breathed for a
moment long breaths.

"I claim the boy," the old woman cried again in a loud voice, turning
towards Powhatan, "to adopt as a son. Many popanows (winters) and seed
times have passed since my sons were slain. Now is Wansutis old and
feeble and hath need of a young son to hunt for her. By our ancient
custom this captive is mine."

There was an outcry of opposition from the younger braves at being
robbed of one of their victims, but the older chiefs on the hill debated
for a few moments, and then gave their decision: there was no doubt of
the old woman's right to claim the boy. So Powhatan sent two of his
guards to fetch him and to carry him to Wansutis's lodge.

Pocahontas suddenly felt at ease again. Yes, she couldn't help it, she
said to herself, but she was glad the boy had not been beaten to pieces.
As soon as he was carried off the running of the gauntlet began again.
But Pocahontas had now had enough of it. It would continue, she knew,
until all of the captives were dead. She slid down from the back of the
lodge and led by curiosity, set off for Wansutis's wigwam. It was at the
edge of the village, and before the slow procession of the two guards,
the old woman and the boy had arrived, Pocahontas had hidden herself
behind a mossy rock, from which hiding place she had a view right into
the opening of the wigwam.

She watched the guards lay the unconscious boy gently down and Wansutis
as she knelt and blew upon the embers under the smoke hole till they
blazed up. Then she saw the old woman take a pot of water and heat it
and throw herbs into it. With this infusion she bathed the wounds,
anointing them afterwards with oil made from acorns. And while she
worked she prayed, invoking Okee to heal her son, to make him strong
that he might care for her old age.

Pocahontas was so eager to know whether the boy were alive that she
crept closer to the wigwam, and when at last he opened his eyes they
looked beyond the hearth and the crouching Wansutis, straight into those
of Pocahontas. She saw that he had regained his senses, so she put her
fingers to her lips. She did not want Wansutis to know that she had been
watched. Already the touch of the wrinkled fingers was as tender as
that of a mother, and Pocahontas felt sure that she would resent any
intrusion. Now that she had seen all there was to see, she stole away.

After wandering through the woods to gather honeysuckle to make a
wreath, she returned to the village. There was no longer a crowd in the
open space; the captives were all dead and the spectators had gone to
their various lodges. Only a number of boys were playing run the
gauntlet, some with willow twigs beating those chosen by lot to run
between them. A girl, imitating old Wansutis, rushed forward and claimed
one of the runners for a son.

A few days later when the young Massawomeke lad had recovered there were
ceremonies to celebrate his adoption as a member of the Powhatan tribe,
of the great nation of the Algonquins. The other boys of his age looked
up to him with envy. Had he not proved his valor on the warpath and
under torture while they were only gaming with plumpits? They followed
him about, eager to do his bidding, each trying to outdo his comrades in
sports when his eye was on them. And all the elders had good words to
say about Claw-of-the-Eagle, and Wansutis was so proud that she now
often forgot to speak evil medicine.

Pocahontas wondered how Claw-of-the-Eagle liked his new life, and one
day when she was running through the forest she came upon him. He had
knelt to look through a thicket at a flock of turkeys he meant to shoot
into, but his bow lay idle beside his feet, and she saw that his eyes
seemed to be looking at something in the distance.

"What dost thou behold, son of Wansutis?" she asked.

He started but did not reply.

"Speak, Claw-of-the-Eagle," she said impatiently. "Powhatan's daughter
is not wont to wait for a reply."

He saw that it was the same face he had beheld peering into the lodge at
the moment he regained consciousness.

"I see the sinking sun. Princess of many tribes, the sun that journeys
towards the mountains to the village whence I came."

"But thou art of us now," she rejoined.

"Yes, I am son of old Wansutis and I am loyal to my new mother and to my
new people. And yet. Princess, I send each day a message by the sun to
the lodge where they mourn Claw-of-the-Eagle. Perhaps it will reach
them."

"Tell me of the mountains and of the ways of thy father's people. I long
to learn of strange folk and different customs."

"Nay, Princess, I will not speak of them. Thou hast never bidden
farewell to thy kindred forever. I would forget, not remember."

And Pocahontas, although it was almost the first time that any one had
refused to obey her, was not angry. She was too occupied as she walked
homeward wondering how it would seem if she were never to see
Werowocomoco and her own people again.





[Illustration: Decorative]


CHAPTER V

THE GREAT BIRDS


Opechanchanough, brother of Wahunsunakuk, The Powhatan, had sent to
Werowocomoco a boat full of the finest deep sea oysters and crabs. The
great werowance had returned his thanks to his brother and the bearers
of his gifts were just leaving when Pocahontas rushed in to her father's
lodge half breathless with eagerness.

"Father," she cried, "I pray thee grant me this pleasure. It hath grown
warm, and I and my maidens long for the cool air that abideth by the
salty water. Therefore, I beseech thee, let us go to mine uncle for a
few days' visit."

Powhatan did not answer at once. He did not like to have his favorite
child leave him. But she, seeing that he was undecided, began to plead,
to whisper in his ears words of affection and to stroke his hair till he
gave his consent. Then Pocahontas ran off to get her long mantle and her
finest string of beads and to summon the maidens who were to accompany
her. They embarked in the dugout with her uncle's people and were rowed
swiftly down the river.

At Kecoughtan they were received with much ceremony, for Pocahontas knew
what was due her and how, when it was necessary, to put aside her
childish manner for one more dignified. Opechanchanough greeted her
kindly.

"Hast thou forgiven me, my uncle?" she asked as they sat down to a feast
of the delicious little fish she always begged for when she visited him,
and to steaks of bear meat; "hast thou forgiven the arrow I shot at thee
last popanow?"

"I will remember naught unpleasant against thee, little kinswoman," he
replied as he drank his cup of walnut milk.

"Indeed I am ashamed of my foolishness," continued his niece. "I was but
a child then."

"And now?--it is but a few moons ago."

"But see how I grow, as the maize after a rain storm. Soon they will say
I am ready for suitors."

"And whom wilt thou choose, Pocahontas?"

"I do not know. I have no thoughts for that yet."

"What then are thy thoughts of?"

"Of everything, of flowers and beasts, dancing and playing, of wars and
ceremonies, of the new son of old Wansutis, of Nautauquas's new bow, of
necklaces and earrings, of old stories and new songs--and of to-morrow's
bathing."

"Fear not that thou hast yet left thy childhood behind thee," said her
uncle.

Then when the fire died down and the storyteller's voice had grown
drowsy, Pocahontas fell asleep, her arm resting on a baby bear that had
been taken away from its dead mother and that would cuddle close to the
person who lay nearest the fire.

Opechanchanough had not the same deep affection for children as that
which Powhatan showed to his sons and daughters. He was as brave a
fighter but not as great a leader in peace as Wahunsunakuk. It irked
him that he had to give way to his brother and that he must obey his
commands; yet he knew that only by unity between the different tribes of
the seacoast could they be safe from their common enemies, the Iroquois.
His vanity was very great and he had felt hurt at the ridicule which
Pocahontas had caused to fall upon him. Had she come on her visit sooner
he had surely not received her so kindly. But now there were other
strange happenings and more important matters to consider, and he was
too wise a chief to worry long over a child's pranks. Besides, he had
learned, from his own observance and from the tongues of others, how his
brother cherished her more than any of his squaws or children. So policy
as well as his native hospitality dictated a kindly reception.

In the morning after they had eaten, Opechanchanough offered to send
Pocahontas and her maidens in a canoe down to where a cape jutted out
into the ocean that they might see the breakers at their highest, but
Pocahontas declined.

"Nay, Uncle," she said, "but my maidens have never seen the sea. They be
stay-at-homes and I would not affright them too sorely by the sight of
mountains of water. Have no care for us save to bid some one supply us
with food to take along. I know the way down to a smooth beach where we
can disport ourselves."

So Opechanchanough, relieved to have them off his hands, let her have
her will.

The town was within a mile of open water, and the maidens started off
with a large supply of dried flesh slung in osier baskets on their
backs. Some of the young braves looked after them as they went and
disputed as to which of them they would like to choose as squaw when
they were older.

Pocahontas led the way through wild rose bushes and sumac, with here and
there an occasional tall pine tree, its lowest branches high above their
heads. They were all of them in the gayest humor: it was a day made for
pleasure, and they had not a care in the world. They sang as they walked
and joked each other, Pocahontas herself not escaping.

"Did the bear, thy bedfellow, scratch thee?" asked one, "and didst thou
outdo him, for this morning he was not to be found near the lodge."

"Perhaps," suggested another, "it was not a real bear cub but some evil
manitou."

The maidens shuddered deliciously at this possibility.

"Nonsense," called back Pocahontas, "he was real enough; here is the
mark of one claw on my foot. Besides, I do not believe the evil manitou
can have such power on such a beautiful day as this. Okee must have bid
them fly away."

Now suddenly the path turned and before them shone the silver mirror of
the sea.

"Behold!" cried Pocahontas, and then Red Wing, her nearest companion,
fell flat upon the ground, burying her face in the sand. The others
stood and stared at the new watery world in front of them, hushed in an
awed silence. Gradually their curiosity got the better of their fear and
they began to question:

"How many leagues does it stretch, Pocahontas?"--"Can war canoes find
their way on it?"--"Come the good oysters from its depths?" asked
Deer-Eye, whose appetite was always made fun of.

Pocahontas answered as well as she was able, but to her who had seen
several times before the great water, it was almost as much of a mystery
as to her comrades. But to-day she greeted it as an old friend. She
could scarcely wait to throw herself into the little rippling waves at
her feet.

"Come on," she cried, "let us hasten. How wonderful to our heated bodies
will its freshness be." And as she ran towards it she threw off her
skirt, her moccasins and her necklace and dashed into the sea.

Though her companions were used to swimming from the day their mothers
had thrown them as babies into the river to harden them, they had never
been where there were not protecting banks on each side of them, and
they were afraid to follow Pocahontas into this unknown. But gradually
her evident safety and delight were too much for their caution, and they
were soon at home in the gentle waves.

For nearly an hour they played their water games, chasing and ducking
each other, racing and swimming underneath the surface. Then they grew
hungry and bethought themselves of their food waiting to be cooked. But
when they were on the shore again and about to start a fire to heat
their meat, Pocahontas bade them wait.

"Here," she said, "is fresher food. See what the tide has left for us."

To their great astonishment the maidens, who did not know the sea
retreated, saw how while they were bathing the water had bared the sand,
leaving it full of little pools. Standing in one of them, Pocahontas
stooped down and ran her hand through the mud, bringing up a
soft-shelled crab.

"See," she cried, "there are hundreds of them for our dinner, but be
careful to hold them just so, that they may not nip you."

And her maidens, laughing and shrieking, soon had a larger supply of
crabs than they could eat. They found bits of wood on the beach and
dried sea weed which they set on fire by twirling a pointed stick in a
wooden groove they had brought along with their food. After they had
eaten, they stretched out lazily on the sand and talked until they began
to doze off, one by one.

Pocahontas had strolled a little further down the beach, picking up the
fine thin shells of transparent gold and silver which she liked to make
into necklaces. She had found a number of them and as they were more
than she could hold in her hands, she sat down to string them on a piece
of eel grass until she could transfer them to a thread of sinew. When
she had finished she lay back against a ridge of sand and watched the
gulls as they flew above her, dipping down into the waves every now and
then to bring up a fish. Far away a school of porpoises was circling the
waves, their black fins sinking out of sight and reappearing as
regularly as if they moved to some marine music. Pocahontas wondered
whence they came and whither they and the gulls were bound. How
delightful it was to move so rapidly and so easily through water or air.
But she did not think of envying them. Was she not as fleet as they in
her element? She pressed her hand against the warm sand how she loved
the feel of it; she stretched her naked foot to where the little waves
could wet it. How she loved the lapping of the water! Within her was a
welling up of feeling, a love for all things living.

It was a very quiet world just now; the sun was only a little over the
zenith. Only the cries of the sea gulls and the soft swish of the waves
broke the silence. It would be pleasant to sleep here as her comrades
were sleeping, but if she slept then she would miss the consciousness of
her enjoyment.

Yet, though she intended to keep awake, when she looked seaward, she
felt sure that she must have fallen asleep and was dreaming the
strangest of dreams. For nowhere save in dreamland had anyone ever
beheld such a sight as seemed to stand out against the horizon. Three
great birds, that some shaman had doubtless created with powerful
medicine, so large that they almost touched the heavens, were skimming
the waves, their white wings blown forward. One, much larger than the
others, moved more swiftly than they.

Yet never, in a dream or in life, were such birds, and little
Pocahontas, who had sprung to her feet, stood gaping in terrified
wonder.

"Then must I be bewitched!" she cried aloud; "some evil medicine hath
befallen me."

She called out, and there was a tone in her voice that roused the
sleeping maidens as a war drum roused their fathers.

"What see ye?" she asked anxiously.

"Oh! Pocahontas, we know not," they answered in terror, huddling about
her; "answer _thou_ us. What are those strange things that speed over
the waves? Whence come they--from the rim of the world?"

Pocahontas, the fearless, was frightened. She gave one more glance
seaward, and then turning, took to her heels in terror. Her maidens, who
had never seen her thus, added her fright to they own, and none stopped
until they had reached the lodge at Kecoughtan.

The squaws rushed out when they caught sight of the frightened children
and tried to soothe them, but they could get no explanation of what had
startled them. Finally Opechanchanough strode out, and when Pocahontas
had tried to tell him what she had seen his face grew stern.

"It is as I feared," he said to another chief. "And so the word which
came from the upper cape was true. It is a marvel that bodeth no good."

He began to give orders hurriedly; the dugout was brought up to the
landing, and he waved Pocahontas and her maidens in with scant ceremony.

"I will send a runner to Werowocomoco with news to my brother," he
called out to her as the boat was swung out into the river; "he will
reach the village by land more quickly than by river. Farewell,
Matoaka."

And Pocahontas, though she longed to have questioned him in regard to
what he had heard and feared, yet rejoiced that she was on her way to
her people, to her home where such strange sights as she had just beheld
never came.





[Illustration: Decorative]


CHAPTER VI

JOHN SMITH'S TEMPTATION


The _Discovery_, the _Godspeed_ and the _Susan Constant_, after nearly
five months of tossing about upon the seas, were now swinging at anchor
in the broad mouth of the River James, which the loyal English
adventurers had named after their king. The white sails that had so
terrified the Indian maidens now flapped against the masts, having fully
earned their idleness. On board the discussion still continued as to the
best situation for the town they designed to be the first permanent
English settlement in America--in Wingandacoa, as the land was called
before the name Virginia was given to it in honour of Queen Elizabeth,
"The Virgin Queen."

The expedition had set out from England in December of the year before
(1606). Among those who filled the three ships were men already veteran
explorers and others who had never been a day's voyage away from their
island home.

Among the former were Bartholomew Gosnold, who had first sailed for the
strange new world some five years before. He had landed far to the north
of the river where the ships now rested--on a colder, sterner shore.
There he had discovered and named Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard.
Christopher Newport too had sailed before in Western waters, but
further to the southward. He was an enemy of the Spaniard wherever he
found him, and had left a name of terror through the Spanish Main, for
had he not sacked four of their towns in the Indies and sunk twenty
Spanish galleons? And there was John Smith, who had fought so many
battles in his twenty-seven years that many a graybeard soldier could
not cap his tales of sieges, sword-play, imprisonment and marvelous
escapes. And many other men were there whom hope of gain or love of
adventure had brought across the Atlantic. They had listened to the
strange story of the lost colony on Roanoke Island, English men and
women killed doubtless by the Indians, though no sure word of their fate
was ever to be known, but fear of a like destiny had not deterred them
from coming.

There were many points to be considered: The settlement must be near the
coast, so that the ships from home would be able to reach it with as
little delay as possible, yet away from the coast in case of raids by
the Spaniards.

Again, the location must be healthful, and quite easily defended, for
the attack by the natives upon the colonists when they first landed at
the cape they called Henry after the young Prince of Wales, had given
them a taste of what they might have to expect. It was the rumor of this
fight which had reached Opechanchanough at Kecoughtan.

At the prow of the _Discovery_ stood a man who paid no attention to the
disputes going on behind him. He was not tall, but was powerfully built,
and even the sight of his back would have been sufficient to prove him a
man accustomed to a life of action. It was not so easy, however, to
guess at his age. His long beard and mustache hid his mouth, and there
were deep lines from his nose downward that might have been marked by
years. Yet his brow was high and wide and unfurrowed, and his hair was
abundant and his eyebrows dark and high. An intelligent, eager
countenance it was, of a man who had seen more of the world in his short
twenty-eight years than any white-haired octogenarian of his native
Lincolnshire. He held a spy glass and, standing by the rail, moved it
slowly until he had pointed it in every direction. He had swept the
river and both shores as far as his eye could reach and now it rested on
an island some little distance above, near the right-hand bank of the
newly named river.

A sailor, pushing through the crowd about the cabin door, approached the
man at the prow.

"Captain Smith," he said, "Captain Newport bids me say that the Council
is about to be sworn in in the cabin and that he desires thy presence
there."

John Smith turned and walked slowly aft, wondering what would be decided
in the next hour. Was he, who felt within himself an unusual power to
organize and to command men, to be given this wonderful chance, such as
never yet had come to an Englishman, to plant firmly in a new land the
seed of a great colony? From his early youth his days had been devoted
to adventure. He was of that race of Englishmen who first discovered how
small were the confines of their little island and who sallied gaily
forth to seek new worlds for their ambition and energy. Raleigh, Drake,
Sir Martin Frobisher, Sir Humphry Gilbert, Sir Richard Grenville and
John Smith were the scouts sent out by England's genius to discover the
pathways along which she was to send her sons. Bold, fearless,
untiring, cruel often, at other times kind and firm, they went into new
seas and lands, seeking a Northwest Passage, or to "singe the beard of
the King of Spain," or to find the legendary treasures of the New
Indies--yet all of them were serving unconsciously the genius of their
race in laying the foundations of new worlds. Perhaps of them all Smith
saw most clearly the value of the settlement in Virginia, and just as
clearly was he aware that the jealousies and avarice of many of his
fellow colonists would threaten seriously its growth and indeed its very
existence.

Though not one among the curious eyes turned on him, as he walked slowly
towards the stem, beheld any trace of emotion on his grave face, he was
consumed with the hope that he might be chosen to lead the great work.
Yet he feared, knowing that all the long voyage, almost from the time
they had sailed from England, his enemies, jealous of his fame and of
his power over men, had sought to undermine it and to slander his good
name. What lies they had spread through the three ships of a mutiny he
was said to be instigating, until orders were passed which made him
virtually a prisoner for the rest of the journey. But he would soon find
out if they intended to disregard and pass him by.

[Illustration: "WE CHOOSE TODAY," HE CRIED]

When he entered the little cabin he saw seated along the transom and in
the wide-armed chairs Captain Christopher Newport, Bartholomew Gosnold,
Edward Wingfield, John Ratcliffe, John Martin and George Kendall. They
greeted Smith as he entered, as did the other gentlemen leaning against
the bulkheads, but with no cordiality, and he knew well that they had
been talking of him before he entered. He took his seat in silence.

These men composed the Council which had been designated in the secret
instructions given them when they sailed and opened after they had
passed between Capes Charles and Henry. And this Council now it was
which, according to its right, was to elect their president for the year
to come. Smith now felt certain that owing to their hostility to him
they had already determined among themselves what their votes should be
while he was without the cabin. The form, however, was gone through with
and the result solemnly announced: Wingfield was to be the first
president of the Colony, and Smith found himself not even mentioned for
the smallest office. The others for the most part smiled with pleasure
as they looked to see his disappointment, but he showed none. Instead he
rose to his feet and said:

"Captain Newport and gentlemen of the Council, will ye let me suggest
for the name of this new colony that of our gracious sovereign, King
James."

Here at last they must follow his lead, and all sprang to their feet and
shouted "Jamestown let it be!"

Then began again the discussion of the spot to be chosen for their
settlement. There were those who desired a site nearer the bay; one
advocated exploring the other rivers in the vicinity, the Apamatuc, the
Nansamond, the Chickahominy, the Pamunkey, as the Indians called them,
before deciding; but Newport, eager to return to England, would not
consent.

"We choose to-day," he cried, bringing his fist down on the table with a
bang.

The island that Smith had been examining with his glass was considered.
It was large and level and not too far from the sea, said one in its
favor. The majority were for it and the others were at last brought
round to their point of view. Smith had not put forward any suggestions.
He knew whatever he advocated would have been voted down. When asked
what he thought of the island his answer, "It hath much to commend it,"
left his hearers still in doubt as to his real choice.

"Now that we have christened the babe before it is born," said Captain
Newport, rising, "let us ashore and get to work to mark out the site of
our Jamestown."

All left the ship with the exception of a few sailors who remained on
guard. After more discussion the Council picked out the spots for the
government house, for the church, for the storehouse, while the artisans
busied themselves with no loss of time in cutting down trees and
clearing spaces for the temporary tents. The matter of a fort had not
been broached, yet Smith, whose military knowledge showed him how
vulnerable the island was, made no suggestion for its fortification.

He had strolled alone through the tangle of undergrowth, of flowering
vines in which frightened mocking-birds and catbirds were darting, to
the side of the island nearest the bank of the mainland.

"Here," he said, speaking aloud as he had learned to do when he was a
captive among the Tartars that he might not forget the sound of his own
tongue, "here, on this side should be a bastioned wall with some strong
culverins. A lookout tower at this corner and, extending around north
and south, a strong palisade--that with vigilant sentries would ensure
against attack except by water. If I--"

Then he stopped, his brow knitting. His disappointment had been a keen
one, his pride was smitten to the quick. Never had he left England,
never thrown in his lot with the new colony, had he known how he was to
be made to suffer from jealousy, intrigue and neglect. As he stood
gazing across into the deeper tangle on the opposite shore his thoughts
were occupied with decisions for his future.

"Why should I remain here," he cried aloud, "to be disregarded, when
there is many an English ship that would be fain to have me stand on her
poop, many a company of yeomen that would be main glad to have me
command them? I am not of those men who are wont always to follow
orders. I am made to _give_ them. The world's wide and this island need
not be my prison. I will sail back on the _Discovery_ and e'en be on the
lookout for some new adventures."

A rustling in the bushes behind him made him turn quickly. There stood
Dickon and Hugh and Hob, three of the men who had come from his own part
of the country, with whom during the long voyage he had often been glad
to chat of their homes and the folk they all knew.

"Captain," spake Dickon, "we have followed to have a word wi' thee in
secret. 'Tis said they have not given thee a place in the Council. Is't
true?"

"Aye," answered Smith calmly.

"'Tis a dirty trick," cried Hugh, and his comrades echoed him. "A dirty
trick, but what wilt thou do now?"

"What would ye have me do, men?" asked Smith curiously.

Dickon was again spokesman, the others nodding approval of his words.

"We be thy friends, Captain, and thy wellwishers. We came to this
strange land to make our fortunes because of thy coming. We felt safe
with one who had already travelled far and knew all about the outlandish
ways of queer folks, blackamoors and these red men here. Now if so be
thou art not to have a voice in the managing we be cheated and know not
what may befall us. There be many of the others who think as we do, not
only laborers such as we, but many of the gentlemen who have little
faith in them as have been set in the high places. Now I say to thee,
let us three go amongst them we knows as are friendly to thee and we
will speak in secret with them and we will draw together to-morrow at
one end of this island, and there we will all stay until they agree to
make thee President. And if fightin' comes o' it why all the better.
What sayst thou, Captain?"

Smith did not answer at once. The friendliness of these men touched him
deeply just at the moment when he was smarting under the treatment
accorded him. He knew they spoke truth; there were a number of the
colonists who had shown themselves friendly to him and who would be
willing to stand by him. Moreover, he felt within himself the power to
use them, to make them follow his bidding as Wingfield could never
succeed in doing. It was less for personal gratification he was tempted
to consent than for the knowledge that his leadership would benefit the
colony as would that of none of his fellow adventurers. He was not a
vain man, but one conscious of unusual powers.

"If we were strong enough to gain and hold part of the stores and one of
the vessels, would ye let me lead ye away to some other island of our
own, men?" he asked, and immediately saw in his imagination the
possibilities of such a step.

"Aye, aye. Captain," cried all three, "and we'd be strong enough too,
never fear," added Hugh.

The temptation to John Smith was a strong one, and he walked up and down
weighing the matter. What consideration after all did he owe to those
who had not considered him? He had no fear of failure; he had come
safely through too many dangers not to be confident. It was only the
first step that he doubted. The men, he could see, were growing
impatient, yet he did not speak. Suddenly an arrow whizzed close to his
ear and fell at his feet.

"The savages!" cried Dickon.

Smith peered towards the woods beyond the water and imagined he could
see half hidden behind a birch tree a naked figure.

"Let us go back and warn the Council," he said, turning towards the way
he had come. "I scarcely think that they will attack us, particularly if
we stay together."

He stood still a moment lost in thought. Then he said:

"That's the word, Dickon, _if we stay together_! Nay, frown not, Hugh.
Put out of thy mind all that we have spoken of this last half-hour, as I
shall put it out of mine. We must stand together, men, here in this new
world. Ye three stand by me because we're all neighbors and
Lincolnshire-born; but here in this wilderness we're all neighbors,
English-born, just like a bigger shire. It's no time now when savages
are about us all, to be thinking of our own little troubles. We must
e'en forget them and stick together for the good of us all. Will ye
promise, men?"

"Since 'tis so thou hast decided, Captain," answered Dickon.

"I'm for or against, as thou wilt," said Hugh, "but I'd been glad hadst
thou chosen to fight instead o' to kiss."

And Hob, who had not spoken a word of his own invention up to now, spake
solemnly:

"I'll not blab. Captain, how near thou wast to the fightin'."

When they got back to the site of the future Jamestown Smith, who had
made up his mind to do what seemed to him right no matter what reception
his advice received, told President Wingfield of the hidden bowman and
warned him of the danger to those who might straggle away from their
companions. But the members of the Council, whether they would be
beholden to Smith not even for advice, or whether the friendly attitude
of the Indians at first which was now just beginning to change,
influenced them, refused to believe that the savages intended to molest
them and refused to admit the necessity of putting up a palisade or
taking other precautions against them.

Each day the work of clearing the ground and of setting up the tents
proceeded apparently more rapidly than the day before, as the results
were more visible. Every one was so wearied with the cramped life aboard
ship for so many weeks that he was glad to stretch himself on the earth
or on improvised beds. Smith, to give an example to some of the
gentlemen who stood with folded arms looking on while the mechanics
worked, swung axe and wielded hammer lustily. Yet he was very unhappy at
the manner in which he was still treated and he eagerly seized an
opportunity to leave the island.

With Captain Newport and twenty others, he set out in one of the ships'
boats to explore the upper part of the river. They were absent a number
of days, after having ascended the James as far as the great falls near
the Powhata, a Powhatan village near the site of the present city of
Richmond. Then they returned to Jamestown.

On their arrival they were greeted with the grave news that during their
absence the Indians had killed a boy and wounded seventeen of the
colonists. A shot fired from one of the ships had luckily so terrified
the savages that they made off for the woods. Now the Council was forced
to recognize the need of some protection and ordered every one to stop
work on everything else until a strong palisade and a rough fort had
been built.

It was now June. Suddenly, to the astonishment of all, the Indians
approached and made signs that they desired to enter into amicable
relations with the white men. They jumped out from their boats and
fingered the clothes of the colonists, their guns and their food,
showing great curiosity at everything. The next day, perhaps because the
Council had seen the folly of their suspicions or had realized the value
of Smith's military experience and knowledge, the state of his
semi-imprisonment, which had lasted since the early part of the voyage,
was put an end to. Now that all seemed peaceful, from without and
within, as a sign of gratitude and of their brotherly feelings towards
each other, all the colonists partook of the Communion together,
kneeling in the temporary shed covered with a piece of sail-cloth which
served as a church.

Then on the seventh of June they stood on the river bank, looking
gravely, with many doubts and fears in their hearts, at the _Discovery_
as she sailed for England, bearing Captain Newport away, and leaving
them alone in Virginia.





[Illustration: Decorative]


CHAPTER VII

A FIGHT IN THE SWAMP


Not a day passed without new rumors at Werowocomoco of the white
strangers and their curious habits.

Pamunkeys from the tops of swaying trees on either bank watched eagerly
the doings of the colonists, and runners bore the word of every movement
to both Opechanchanough at Kecoughtan and to The Powhatan at his
village. Curiosity and consternation were equally balanced in the minds
of the red men. What meant this coming from the rising sun of beings
whose ways no man could fathom? Were they gods enjoying a charmed life,
against whom neither bow nor shaman's medicine might avail? About the
council fires in every village this was debated. The old chiefs, wise in
the traditions of their people, spake of prophecies which foretold the
coming of heroes with faces pale as water at dawn who should teach to
the tribes good medicine and bring plentiful harvests and rich hunting.
Others recalled the vague rumors which had come from far, far away in
the Southland, from tribes whose very names were unknown, of other
palefaces (the Spanish colonists in the West Indies), who had brought
fire and fighting into peaceful, happy islands of the summer seas, who
like terrible, powerful demons, spread about them death and strange
diseases.

Then came to the councils the comforting word of the death of a white
boy slain by a Pamunkey arrow. So they were mortal after all, said the
chiefs, and they smoked their pipes more placidly as they sat around the
fire. Against gods man could not know what action was right; but since
these were but men who could hunger and thirst and be wounded, it
behooved them to plan what measures should be adopted against them.

Many of the chiefs urged immediate steps.

"It is easy," said one, "to pull up a young oak sapling, whereas who may
uproot a full-grown tree?"

Nautauquas, son of Powhatan, was among the most eager for action. He had
won for himself the name of a great brave and a mighty hunter though
still so young. Many a scalp hung to the ridgepole of his lodge and many
a bear and wildcat had he slain at great risk to his life. Now here was
a new way to distinguish himself--to go forth against dangers he could
not even foresee. What magic these pale-faced strangers used to protect
themselves was unknown; therefore if he and his band should overcome
them and wipe away all traces of their short stay, it would be a tale
for winter firesides and a song for singers of brave deeds as long as
his nation endured.

"Let me go, my father," he pleaded. "Thou, who thyself hast conquered
thirty tribes, grudge not this fame to thy son."

"Wait!" was Powhatan's only answer.

The shamans and priests had advised the werowance thus. Not yet had they
fathomed Okee's intentions in regard to these newcomers, though they had
climbed to the top of the red sandy hills at Uttamussack where stood the
three great holy lodges filled with images, and they had fasted and
prayed that Okee would reveal to them what he desired. Powhatan, in
spite of his years, felt the urge of action, and his heart leaped up
when his favorite son gave voice to his own wishes. He longed to take
the warpath, to glide through the forest, to spy upon the strangers who
had dared make a place for themselves in his dominion, and then to fall
upon them, terrifying them with his awful war-cry as he had terrified so
many of his enemies. Yet he dared not do this yet: he was not only a
great war chief, but a leader of his people in peace. Okee had not yet
spoken. Perchance the men with strange faces and strange tongues would
of their own accord acknowledge his sovereignty, and there might be no
need of sacrificing against them the lives of his young men.

All this he was thinking when he bade Nautauquas wait; but there was no
one who read his mind, yet no one who dared to disobey him.

When Nautauquas came out from his father's lodge he took his bow and
quiver and went into the forest to hunt. In his disappointment he had a
hatred of more words and a longing for deeds. He ran swiftly and had
reached a spot where he felt sure that he would find a flock of wild
turkeys, when he saw Pocahontas ahead of him. She too was hurrying, bent
evidently on some errand that absorbed her, for she did not stop to peer
up at the birds or to pull the flowers as she was wont to do.

"Matoaka," he called, "whither goest thou?"

"To see the strangers and their great white birds again which I beheld
from Kecoughtan, Brother. I cannot rest for my eagerness to know what
they are like nearby."

"Hast thou not heard our father's word that no one shall go near the
island where the strangers be?" he asked.

"My father meaneth not me," she answered proudly. "As thou knowest, he
permitteth me much that is forbidden to others."

"But not this, little Sister. Only just this moment did he forbid me to
go thither. His mind is set thereon; tempt not his anger. Even though he
loves thee well, if thou disobeyest his command in this matter he will
deal harshly with thee. Turn back with me, Matoaka, and thou shalt help
me shoot."

Pocahontas was reluctant to give up her long-planned expedition, but she
let herself be persuaded. She remembered that Powhatan that very day had
ordered one of his squaws beaten until she lay at death's door.
Moreover, it was a great joy to hunt with Nautauquas and to see which of
them would bring down the most turkeys. They were needed by the squaws
who had been complaining that the braves were growing lazy and did not
keep them supplied with meat.

While Powhatan's two children were adding to the well-filled larder of
Werowocomoco, there was real dearth of food at Jamestown. The stores,
many of them musty and almost inedible after the long voyage, were
growing daily scarcer. There was fish in the river, but the colonists
grew weary of keeping what they called "a Lenten diet," and in their
dreams munched juicy sirloins of fat English beef. At first their nearby
Indian neighbors had been glad to trade maize and venison for wonderful
objects, dazzling and strange; but now, whether owing to word sent by
Powhatan or for other reasons, they came no more with provisions to
barter. John Smith, seeing that supplies were the first necessity of
the colony, had gone forth on several expeditions up the different
rivers in search of them. By bargaining, by cajolery, by force, he had
managed each time to renew the storehouse. Yet again it was almost empty
and starvation threatened.

Something must be done at once, and the Council sat in debate upon the
serious matter. Captain John Smith waited until the others had had their
say, and nothing practical had been suggested, then he rose and began:

"Gentlemen of the Council, there is but one thing to do. Since our
larder will not fill itself, needs must someone go forth again to seek
for food. Give me two men and one of the ship's boats and I will set off
to the northward, up that river the Indians call the Chickahominy and,
God helping me, I will bring back provisions for us all and make some
permanent treaty with the savages to supply us till our crops be grown."

President Wingfield agreed to Smith's demand. The barge was got ready
with a supply of beads and other glittering articles from Cheapside
booths, and Smith set off with the good wishes of the wan-faced
colonists.

After they had reached what seemed to Smith a likely spot for trading,
he took two men, Robinson and Emery, and two friendly natives in a canoe
and set off to explore the river further, bidding the others to wait for
him where he left them and on no account to venture nearer shore.

He was glad to be away from the noise of complaining men at Jamestown,
many of whom were ill and fretful from lack of proper nourishment and
some, who because they were gentlemen, would not labor yet repined that
they could not live as gentlefolk at home. On this expedition he was
with friends, even though he knew not what enemies might be lurking on
the shore; and he realized that the natives were growing less friendly
as time went on and they began to lose their first awe of the white men.
But he had no fear for himself; he had faced too many dangers in his
adventurous life to conjure up those to come.

As they paddled up the Chickahominy the men began to talk of old days in
England before they had dreamed of trying their fortunes in a new world,
but Smith bade them be silent so that he could listen for the slightest
sound to indicate the vicinity of a human habitation.

"Make friends as soon as thou canst with the copper men, Captain,"
whispered Robinson, "for I be main hungry and can scarce wait till thou
hast bartered this rubbish 'gainst good victuals."

"Pull thy belt in a bit tighter, men," suggested the Captain grimly; "if
I understand all they tell me, the Indians can beat the most devout
Christians in fasting. 'Tis one virtue we may learn from them."

They kept in the middle of the stream to be safe from any arrows that
might be shot at them from shore; but after many hours of this caution.
Smith determined to explore a little on land. To his practiced eye a
certain little inlet seemed so suitable a landing for canoes that he
felt sure an Indian village could not be far off.

"Push out into the stream again," he commanded as he stepped ashore,
"and wait for me there."

John Smith strode into the forest, ready for friendship or war, since
he knew not the temper of the natives of that region. Suddenly, as he
came out upon an open space where a morass stretched from a hill to the
river, two hundred shrieking savages rushed upon him, shooting their
arrows wildly at all angles.

"War then!" cried Smith aloud, and as one young brave in advance of the
others stopped to take aim, he leaped forward and caught him. Ripping
off his own belt. Smith bound the astonished Indian to his left arm so
that he could use him as a living buckler. Thus protected, he fired his
pistol and the ball, entering the breast of an older chief, killed him
instantly. For a moment the strange fate which had overtaken their
leader checked the onslaught, while his companions stooped down, one
behind the other, to examine the wound made by the demon weapon. This
respite gave Smith time to whip out his sword, and whirling it about
him, he kept his enemies at a distance. He might have succeeded in
defending himself thus for some time longer, for the savages had ceased
to shoot, not certain whether their arrows would not be ineffectual upon
an invulnerable body, but all at once he became aware of a new danger.
The marshy ground on which he stood had softened with his weight and
that of his living shield and he now felt himself sinking deeper and
deeper into the morass until he was submerged up to his waist. Still the
Indians, doubtless fearing he had some other strange weapons or evil
medicines in his power, did not rush forward to attack him.

The day was bitterly cold, and the stagnant water struck a chill to his
very bones. His teeth began to chatter with cold, not fright. It was
almost with a sense of relief that he saw the Indians start towards
him. Carefully treading in their light moccasined feet, they gradually
surrounded him and two, taking hold of him, while others loosened the
bound brave, they drew him up from the slushy earth by the arms.

He was now a captive, and not for the first time in his life. There was
nothing to be gained, he knew, by struggling, and he faced them with no
sign of fear. They led him to a fire which was blazing not far off on
firmer ground where sat a chief, who, he learned, was the werowance
Opechanchanough.

At a word of command from him, the guards moved aside and the huge
warrior walked slowly around Smith, examining him from head to foot.

There was a pause which, the Englishman knew, might be broken by an
order to torture and kill him. He did not understand their hesitancy,
but he meant at any rate to take advantage of it. He must engage the
attention of the giant chief before him. Slowly he pulled from his
pocket his heavy silver watch and held it up to his own ear.

Never had Opechanchanough and his men experienced such an awe of the
unknown. For all they could tell, this small ball in the white man's
hand might contain a medicine more deadly than that of his pistol. They
stood like children in a thunderstorm, not knowing when or where the
bolt might strike.

But nothing terrible came to pass. Then Opechanchanough's curiosity was
aroused and he put out his hand for the watch. Smith, smiling, held it
towards him in his palm and then laid it against the chief's ear, saying
in the Pamunkey tongue: "Listen." Opechanchanough jumped with
astonishment and cried out:

"A spirit! A spirit! He hath a spirit imprisoned!"

Then one by one the captors crowded forward to look at the
"turtle-of-metal-that-hath-a-spirit," and many were the exclamations of
astonishment.

In order to increase this feeling of awe and to lengthen the delay,
though he did not know what he could even hope to happen. Smith felt in
his pocket again and brought out his travelling compass. It was of ivory
and the quivering needle was pronounced by Opechanchanough to be another
spirit.

But suddenly, without warning, two of the younger warriors, who had
evidently determined once for all to discover if this stranger were
vulnerable or not, seized Smith and dragging him swiftly to a tree,
threw a cord of deer thong about him, drawing it fast. Then they notched
their arrows and took aim at his heart. "In one second it will be over,"
thought Smith, "life, adventures, my ambitions and my troubles."

Then Opechanchanough called out to the braves, holding up the compass.
Frowning with disappointment, the young men loosed their captive and
Smith realized that it was again the chief's curiosity which had saved
his life. By means of such Indian words as he knew and by the further
aid of signs he endeavored to explain its usage.

"See," he said, pointing, "yon is the north whence comes popanow, the
winter; and there behind us lies cohattayough, the summer. I turn thus
and lo, the spirit in the needle loves the north and will not be kept
from it."

When all had looked at the compass, Opechanchanough took it again in his
hand, holding it gingerly as he would have held a papoose if a squaw had
given one to his care. This was something precious and he meant to keep
it, yet he did not know what it might do to him. At any rate, it would
be a good thing to take with him the man who did understand it.

"Come," he said, "since thou canst understand our words, come and eat in
the lodge of the Pamunkeys."

And Smith, ignorant of when death might fall upon him, followed. That
day they feasted him, and the half-starved Englishman ate heartily for
the first time since he set foot in the new world. At least he had
gained strength now to bear bravely whatever might await him. The next
day he was bidden accompany them, and they marched swiftly and steadily
for many hours through the forest to Orapeeko. It may be that
Opechanchanough's messengers had informed him mistakenly that Powhatan
was at that village which, after Werowocomoco, he most frequented; but
on their arrival there they found the lodges empty except the great
treasure-house full of wampum, skins and pocone, the precious red paint
used for painting the body. This was guarded by priests, and while
Opechanchanough talked with them. Smith marvelled at the images of a
dragon, a bear, a leopard and a giant in human form that ornamented the
four corners of the treasure-house.

Evidently the priests were giving the werowance some advice. Smith
wondered whether the savages offered human sacrifices to their Okee and
if such were to be his fate. But the night was passed quietly there; the
next day was spent in marching, and the following night in another
village. Everywhere he was the object of the greatest interest: braves,
squaws and children crowded about him, fingered his clothes, pulled at
his beard and asked him questions. The Englishman observed them with the
same interest. He noticed how the men wore but one garment leggings and
moccasins made in one piece, and how they were painted in bright colors,
many wearing symbols or rude representations of some animal which he
learned was their "medicine." He watched the women as they embroidered
and cooked, tanned hides and dyed skins, scolded and petted their
children. Their lodges were lightly built, he saw, yet strong and
well-suited for their occupants. Many of the young men and maidens made
him think of deer in the swiftness of their movements and in the
suppleness of their bodies.

After many days of travelling, in which Smith believed that they often
retraced their steps, they found themselves one afternoon at the
outskirts of a larger village than any they had yet entered. Dogs barked
and children shouted as they neared the palisade, and men and women came
running from every side.

"Certainly," thought Smith, "we are expected. Never in an English
village have I seen a Savoyard with a trained bear make more excitement
than doth here Captain John Smith."





[Illustration: Decorative]


CHAPTER VIII

POCAHONTAS DEFIES POWHATAN

"Princess, Pocahontas!" cried Claw-of-the-Eagle, as he pointed excitedly
to the outskirts of the village, "look, yonder come thy uncle and his
men bringing the white prisoner with them."

Pocahontas, who a few moments before had jumped down from the grapevine
swing, where she had been idling, to peep into Claw-of-the-Eagle's pouch
at the luck his hunting had brought him, now started off running after
the son of old Wansutis, who was speeding towards the gathering crowd.
Never in all her life had she desired anything as much as she now
desired to gain a sight of this stranger.

"What doth he look like?" she called out, panting, to the boy ahead; but
her own swiftness answered the question, for she was soon abreast of the
procession. There, walking behind her uncle, unbound and apparently
unconcerned, she beheld the white man. Her eyes devoured every detail of
his appearance. She was almost disappointed to find that he had only
one head and two eyes like all the rest of her world. But his
beardedness, so unknown among her people, his youth, which showed itself
more in his figure and in his step than in his weatherworn features, his
cloth jerkin and his leather boots, but above all, the strange hue of
his face and hands offered enough novelty to satisfy her.

Smith noticed the Indian maiden, already in her thirteenth year, tall
above the average. In his wanderings through the Pamunkey villages he
had seen many young girls and squaws, but none of them had seemed to him
so well built or with such clean-cut features as this damsel who gazed
at him so fixedly. When Opechanchanough, catching sight of her, made a
gesture of recognition, Smith knew that she must have some special claim
to distinction, since it was unusual, he had observed, for a chief to
notice anyone about him while occupied in what might be called official
duty. He felt sure too that he had now come to the end of his
journeyings. In the other towns through which he had travelled he had
heard men speak of Werowocomoco and of the great werowance who held sway
there, the dreaded ruler over thirty tribes. This large village he knew
must be the seat of the head of the Powhatan Confederacy and he was
about to be led before him. What would happen then, he wondered, as he
walked calmly through the crowd who eyed him curiously.

And this, too, was what Pocahontas was thinking: what would her father
do with this man? Would his strange medicine, which those who had
ventured to Jamestown had much discussed, assist him in his peril? She
had listened to much talk lately about the necessity of getting rid of
all the white faces who had dared come and build them houses on land
which had belonged to her people since the beginning of the world. Here
was the first chance her father had had to deal with the interlopers.
She determined to see and hear all that should take place, so she
hurried ahead to the ceremonial lodge, where she was sure to find her
father, and entered it unchallenged by the guards.

Once inside, she realized that the stranger's coming had been expected;
probably Opechanchanough had sent runners ahead whom she had not chanced
to see. All the chiefs were gathered there waiting and there also sat
the Queen of Appamatuck, the ruler of an allied tribe. She noticed that
her father, in the centre of a raised platform at the other end of the
lodge, had on his costliest robe of raccoon skin, the one she had
embroidered for him. All the chiefs were painted, as were the squaws,
their shoulders and faces streaked with the precious pocone red. She
regretted that she had not had time to put on her new white buckskin
skirt and her finest white bead necklace, since this was such a gala
occasion. On the other side of Powhatan sat one of his squaws, and her
brothers and her uncles Opitchapan and Catanaugh squatted directly
before him. She herself stood against the wall nearest to the mother of
her sister Cleopatra. She wished she had tried to bring in
Claw-of-the-Eagle with her. How interested he would have been; but it
was not likely that he would manage to get past the guards now, since
there were so many of his elders who must be excluded for lack of room.

While she was still looking around to see who the lucky spectators
were, the entrance to the lodge was darkened and a great shouting went
up from all the braves as Opechanchanough strode in, followed by his
prisoner.

Powhatan sat in silence until Smith stood directly before him, and then
he spoke:

"We have waited many days and nights to behold thee, wayfarer from
across the sea."

Smith, looking up at him, saw a finely built man of about sixty years,
with grizzled hair and an air of command. He smiled to himself at the
strangeness of his fancy's play, but the air of this savage chieftain,
this inborn dignity of one conscious of his power, he had seen in but
one other person--Good Queen Bess!

"I too have listened to many voices which have told of thy might, great
chief," he answered, speaking the unfamiliar words slowly and
distinctly.

Then in the pause that followed the Queen of Appamatuck came forward and
held out to Smith a bowl of water for him to wash his hands in.
Pocahontas leaned eagerly forward to see whether the water would not
wash off some paint from his hands, leaving them the color of her own,
for might it not be, she had questioned Claw-of-the-Eagle, that these
strangers were only _painted_ white? But even after Smith had wiped his
fingers upon the turkey feathers the Queen handed to him, they remained
the same tint as his face.

At the command of Nautauquas, the slaves began to bring in food for the
feast which preceded any discussion of moment. An enemy, be he the
bitterest of an individual or of the tribe, must never be denied
hospitality. Baskets and gourds there were filled with sturgeon,
turkey, venison, maize bread, berries and roots of various kinds, and
earthern cups of pawcohiccora milk made from walnuts. Powhatan had
motioned Smith to be seated on a mat beside the fire, and taking the
first piece of venison, the werowance threw it into the flames as the
customary sacrifice to Okee. Then he was served again, and after him
each dish was offered to the prisoner.

There was little talk while the feasting continued. Pocahontas, who did
not eat, lost no motion of the stranger's.

"At least," she thought, "he lives by food as we do." And she watched to
see whether he would entangle his meat in his beard.

At last every one had eaten his fill and the dogs snarled and fought
over the scraps until they were driven from the lodge. Then Powhatan
began to question his prisoner.

"Art thou a king?"

"Nay, lord," replied the Englishman when he had comprehended the
question; "I but serve one who ruleth over many thousand braves."

"Why didst thou leave him?"

Smith was about to answer that they sought new land to increase his
sovereign's dominions, but he realized that this was not a favorable
moment for such a statement.

"We set forth to humble the enemies of our king, the Spaniards," he
replied, and in this he was not telling an untruth, because the
colonization in Virginia had for one of its aims the destruction of
Spanish settlements in the New World.

"And why did ye come ashore on my land and build yourselves lodges on my
island?"

"Because we were weary of much buffeting by the waves and in need of
fresh food."

For a moment at least Powhatan seemed content with this explanation. His
curiosity in regard to the habits of these strangers was almost as keen
as that of his daughter.

"Tell me of thy ways," he commanded. "Why dost thou wear such garments?
Why hast thou hair upon thy mouth? Worship ye an Okee? How mighty are
thy medicine-men? And how canst thou build such great canoes with
wings?"

Smith endeavored to satisfy him. He dilated upon the power of King
James, though in his mind that sovereign could not be compared for regal
dignity to this savage; the bravery of the colonists, the wonder of
silken garments and jewels worn by the men and women of his land. And
remembering his duty as a Christian, he tried to explain the mysteries
of the Christian faith to this heathen, but he found his vocabulary
unequal to this demand. He could see that he was making an impression on
his listeners; the greater their awe for his powers, the more chance
that they might be afraid to injure him. Opechanchanough spoke to his
brother, telling him of the watch and compass. Powhatan seized them
eagerly, turned them over and over and held them to his ear, listening
while Smith explained their use.

"I would fain know of those strange reeds ye carry that bear death
within them," commanded the werowance again. "By what magic are ye
served? Could not one of our shamans or our braves make it obey him
also?"

[Illustration: "LET US BE FRIENDS AND ALLIES, OH POWHATAN"]

Smith was aware that the Indians' fear of the white man's guns was the
colony's greatest protection. So he answered:

"If my lord will come to Jamestown, as we call the island, since we
know not by what name ye call it, he himself shall see guns as much
greater than this one at my side," and he pointed to his pistol, "as
thou art greater than lesser werowances."

This answer moved Powhatan strangely. He spoke rapidly, in words Smith
could not understand, to some of the chiefs before him. Then turning to
Smith again, and speaking in a tone no longer curious but cold and
stern, he asked:

"How soon will ye set forth in your canoes again for your own land?"

The question Smith had dreaded must now be answered. There was danger in
what he must say, yet perchance there was also the hope of soothing the
fears of the savages. At all events, a lie were useless even if he had
been able to tell one.

"The land is wide, oh mighty king, this land of thine, and a fair land
with food enough and space aplenty for many tribes. Bethink thee of
thine enemies who dwell to the north and west of thee who envy thy corn
fields and thy hunting grounds. Will it not advantage thee when we, to
whom thou wilt present, or perchance if it please thee better, _sell_ a
little island and a few fields on the mainland, shall join with thee and
thy braves on the warpath against thy foes, and when we destroy them for
thee with our guns? Let us be friends and allies, oh Powhatan. I will
speak frankly, as it behooveth one to speak to a great chief, this land
pleaseth us and we would gladly abide in it."

The Englishman could not read in the expressionless face of the
werowance what he was thinking of this proposition-