CHAPTER XV
A FAREWELL
The late summer sun was beating down pitilessly upon the lodges and open spaces of Werowocomoco. Even the children were quiet in the shade, covering their heads with the long green blades of the maize, plaiting the tassels idly and humming the chant of the Green Corn Festival they had celebrated some weeks before. The old braves smoked or dozed in their wigwams, and the squaws left their pounding of corn and their cooking until a cooler hour. The young braves only, too proud to appear affected by any condition of the weather, made parade of their industry and sat fashioning arrow-heads or ran races in the full sunshine, till a wise old chief called out to them that they were young fools with no more sense than blue jays.
Off in the woods, near a hollow in a little stream where the trout and crawfish disported themselves over a bright sandy bottom, Pocahontas lay at full length, her brown arms stretched out, the color of the pine needles beneath them. The leafage of a gigantic red oak shaded her; through its greenery she could see the heavy white clouds, and once an eagle flying as it seemed straight up into the sun. Away from its direct rays, cooled by her bath in the stream and clad in an Indian maiden's light garb, she was rejoicing in the summer heat. She enjoyed the sleepy feeling that dulled the woodland sights and sounds: the tapping of a woodpecker on a distant tree, the occasional call of a catbird, the soft scurrying of a rabbit or a squirrel, the buzzing of a laden bee—all mingled into one melody of summer of which she did not consciously distinguish the individual notes. Just as pleasantly confused were her thoughts, pictures of which her drowsiness blurred the outlines, so that she passed with no effort from the flecked stream she had just left to the moonlit field she and her maidens had encircled a few nights before, chanting harvest songs. She saw, too, the supple bend of Claw-of-the-Eagle's body as he had waited for the signal to bound forward in the race at Powhata when he outran the others; and then she seemed again to see him run the day Wansutis saved him from being clubbed to death.
As if the many deeds of violence done that day called up others of their kind, she saw, and did not shrink from seeing, the fate of the Dutchmen at Werowocomoco who had sought to betray Smith to Powhatan. Her father, angered at them, had had them brained upon the threshold of the house they had built for him.
Then the thoughts of Pocahontas found themselves at Jamestown, whither they now often wandered. She smiled as she remembered her own amazement at the sight of the two Englishwomen who had lately arrived there: Mistress Forrest and her maid, Anne Burroughs. With what curiosity the white women and the Indian girl had measured each other, their hair, their eyes, their curious garments! Then she beheld in her fancy her friend, her "brother," so earnest, so brave, who out of opposition always captured victory. She had witnessed how he forced the colonists to labor, had seen the punishment he meted out to those who disobeyed his commands against swearing—that strange offence she could not comprehend—the pouring of cold water in the sleeve of those who uttered oaths, amid the jeers and laughter of their companions. Her lips continued to smile while she thought of Smith, of the gentle words he had ever ready for her, of the interest he ever manifested at all she had to tell him. He had talked to her as she knew he talked to few, of his hopes for this little handful of men who must live and grow, and how, if they two, he and his "little Sister," could bring it about, the English and the Powhatans should forget any grievances against one another and be friends as long as the sky and earth should last. Perhaps, he had said one day, marriages between the English and the Indians might cement this friendship. "Perhaps thou thyself, Matoaka," he had begun, and then had ceased. Now she wondered again, as she had wondered then, if he had perhaps meant himself.
Such a possibility was an exciting one, and she would have been glad to let her mind explore it fully; but her eyes were heavy and the pine needles soft and fragrant, and soon the beaver, who from a hollow beneath the exposed roots of the oak over the stream had been watching her bright eyes, seeing them closed, slipped forth to begin again his work on the dam her feet had flattened out.
Though Nautauquas, returning an hour later from a peaceful mission to a confederated tribe, made scarcely more noise than the beaver, Pocahontas awoke and raised her head and loosening the needles from her hair, sprang up.
"Greetings, Matoaka!" called out her brother. "Thou wert as snugly hidden here as a deer."
"What news, my Brother?" she asked as he sat down and, taking off his moccasins, let his heated feet hang into the stream.
"Evil news it is," he answered gravely, "for the friends of the great Captain."
"What hath befallen my white Brother?" she cried out; "tell me speedily."
"He was sleeping in his boat, I heard, far off from their island. A big bag of the powder they put into their guns lay in the bottom of his canoe, and when by chance a spark from his pipe fell upon it it grew angry and began to spit and burned his flesh till it waked him, and in his agony, he sprang into the river to quench the blaze."
Pocahontas, who had not winced at the thought of the brained Dutchmen, shivered.
"Where is he now?" she asked. "I wish to go to him."
Nautauquas looked at her earnestly as if he would question her, but did not. "They say he is on his way to Jamestown and should reach there on the morrow."
As Pocahontas and Nautauquas returned at sunset to Werowocomoco, the girl stopped at Wansutis's lodge.
"Thou comest for healing herbs for thy white man," exclaimed the old woman before Pocahontas had spoken a word. "I have them here ready for thee," and she thrust a bundle into the astonished maiden's hands. "But," continued the hag, "though they would cure any of our people, they will not have power with the white man's malady save he have faith in them."
Then she went back into the gloom of her lodge and Pocahontas walked away in silence.
It was not Pocahontas whom Wansutis wished to aid, but the white Captain. The old woman had never spoken to him, or of him to others; but she had listened eagerly to all the tales told of his powers. She was sure that he possessed magic knowledge beyond that of her own people, and she waited for the day when she might persuade him to impart some of his medicine to herself. The fact that he was now injured and in danger did not change her opinion. Some medicine was better for certain troubles than for others. Perhaps her herbs in this case would be stronger than his own magic.
Before the night was over Pocahontas had started on her way to Jamestown. She went alone, since somehow she did not wish to chatter with a companion. The thunder storms had cooled the air and softened the earth. It was still early in the morning when she reached the town, now grown to be a settlement of fifty houses. On the wharf she saw men hurrying back and forth to the ship, fastened by stout hawsers to the posts, bearing bundles of bear and fox skins, such as she had seen them purchase from her people, and boxes and trunks up to the deck. One of the latter looked to her strangely like one she had seen in Smith's house, of Cordova leather with a richly wrought iron lock. "Doubtless," she thought, "he is sending it back filled with gifts for the king he speaks so much of."
She hastened towards his house and before she reached it she saw that his bed had been carried outside the door and that he lay upon it, propped up by pillows. She recognized, too, the doctor in the man who was just leaving him. Now in her eagerness she ran the rest of the way and Smith, catching sight of her, waved his hand feebly.
"Alas! my Brother," she cried as she took his hand in hers, and saw how thin it had grown, "alas! how hast thou harmed thyself?"
"Thou hast heard, Matoaka?" he answered, smiling bravely in spite of the pain, "and art come, as thou hast ever come to Jamestown, to bring aid and comfort."
"I have herbs here for thy wound," she replied, taking them out of her pouch. "They will heal it speedily. They are great medicine."
How could he help believe in their power, she had asked herself on her way that morning. What had Wansutis meant?
"I thank thee, little Sister," he answered gently, "for thy loving thought and for the journey thou hast taken. Before thou earnest my heart was low, for I said to myself: how can I go without bidding farewell to Matoaka; yet how can I send a message that will bring her here in time?"
"Go!" she exclaimed. "Where wilt thou go?"
"Home to England. The chirurgeon who hath just left me hath decided only this morn that his skill is not great enough to save my wound, that I must return to the wise men in London to heal me."
"Nay, nay," cried Pocahontas; "thou must not go. Our wise women and our shamans have secrets and wonders thou knowest not of. I will send to them and thy wound shall soon be as clean as the palm of my hand."
"Would that it might be so, little Sister. I have seen in truth strange cures among thy people; and were my ill a fever such as might come to them or the result of an arrow's bite, I would gladly let thy shamans have their will with me. But gunpowder is to them a thing unknown, nor would their remedies avail me aught."
"Then thou wilt go?" she asked in a voice low with despair.
"Aye, Matoaka, I must or else take up my abode speedily yonder," and he pointed to the graveyard. "It is a bitter thing to go now and leave my work unfinished, to know that mine enemies will rejoice—"
"I shall die when thou art gone," she interrupted, kneeling down beside him; "thou hast become like a god to Matoaka, a god strong and wonderful."
"Little Sister! Little Sister!" he repeated as he stroked her hair. Once again there came to him the thought he had harbored before—that perhaps when this child was grown he might claim her as a wife. Now this would never come to pass.
She knelt there still in silence, then she asked, hope and eagerness in her voice: "Thou wilt come back to us?"
"If I may, Matoaka; if I live we shall see each other again."
He did not tell her what was in his mind, that no English Dorothy or Cicely, golden-haired and rosy-cheeked, would ever be as dear to him as he now realized this child of the forest had grown to be.
And then with perfect faith that her "Brother" would bring to pass what he had promised, Pocahontas's spirits rose. She did not try to calculate the weeks and months that should go by before she was to see him again. She seated herself beside him on the ground and listened while he talked to her of all that he was leaving behind and his love and concern for the Colony.
"See, Matoaka," he said, his voice growing stronger in his eagerness, "this town is like unto a child of mine own, so dear is it to me. I have spent sleepless nights and weary days, I have suffered cold and hunger and the contumely of jealous men in its behalf; nay perchance, even death itself. And thou, too, hast shown it great favors till in truth it hath become partly thine own and dear to thee. Now that I must depart, I leave Jamestown to thy care. Wilt thou continue to watch over it, to do all within thy power for its welfare?"
"That will I gladly, my Brother, when thou leavest it like a squaw without her brave. Not a day shall pass that I will not peer through the forests hitherward to see that all be well; mine ears shall harken each night lest harm approach it. 'Jamestown is Pocahontas's friend,' I shall whisper to the north wind, and it will not blow too hard. 'Pocahontas is the friend of Jamestown,' I shall call to the sun that it beat not too fiercely upon it. 'Pocahontas loves Jamestown,' I shall whisper to the river that it eat not too deep into the island's banks, and"—here the half-playful tone changed into one of real earnestness—"I who sit close to Powhatan's heart shall whisper every day in his ear: 'Harm not Jamestown, if thou lovest Matoaka.'"
A look of great relief passed over the wounded man's face. Truly it was a wondrous thing that the expression of a girl's friendship was able to soothe thus his anxieties.
"I thank thee again, little Sister," he said. "And now bid me farewell, for yon come the sailors to bear me to the ship."
Pocahontas sprang up and bending over him, poured forth words of tender Indian farewells. Then, as the bearers approached, she fled towards the gates and into the forest.
John Smith, lying at the prow of the ship, placed there to be nearer the sea as he desired, thought as the ship sailed slowly past the next bend in the river, that he caught sight of a white buckskin skirt between the trees.
CHAPTER XVI
CAPTAIN ARGALL TAKES A PRISONER
And in the three years that had passed since Smith's return to England Pocahontas did not forget the trust he had given her. Many a time had she sent or brought aid to the colonists during the terrible "starving time," and warded off evil from them. When she was powerless to prevent the massacre by Powhatan of Ratcliffe and thirty of his men, she succeeded at least in saving the life of one of his men, a young boy. Henry Spilman, whom she sent to her kindred tribe, the Patowomekes. With them he lived for many years.
But her relations with Jamestown and its people, though most friendly, were no longer as intimate as they had been when Smith was President, and she went there less and less.
One who rejoiced at her home-keeping was Claw-of-the-Eagle. He had hated the white men from the beginning and had done his share to destroy them in the Ratcliffe massacre, though he had never told Pocahontas that he had taken part in it. He was now a brave, tested in courage and endurance in numerous war parties against enemies of his adopted tribe whose honor and advancement he had made his own. The Powhatan himself had praised his deeds in council.
One day Wansutis said to him:
"Son, it is time now that thou shouldst take a squaw into thy wigwam. My hands grow weak and a young squaw will serve thee more swiftly than I. Look about thee, my son, and choose."
Claw-of-the-Eagle had been thinking many moons that the time had come to bring home a squaw, but he had no need to look about and choose. He had made his choice, and even though she were the daughter of the great Powhatan, he did not doubt that the werowance would give her to one of his best braves. And so, one evening in taquitock (autumn), when the red glow of the forests was half veiled in the bluish mist that came with the return of soft languid days after frost had painted the trees and ripened the bristly chinquapins and luscious persimmons, Claw-of-the-Eagle took his flute and set forth alone.
Not far from the lodge of Pocahontas he seated himself upon a stone and began to play the plaintive notes with which the Indian lover tells of his longing for the maiden he would make his squaw.
"Dost thou hear that, Pocahontas?" queried Cleopatra, who had peeped out. "It is Claw-of-the-Eagle who pipes for thee. Go forth, Sister, and make glad his heart, for there is none of our braves who can compare with him."
"I will not be his squaw. Go thou thyself if he pleaseth thee so," and Pocahontas would not stir from her tent that evening, though the gentle piping continued until the moon rose.
Yet Claw-of-the-Eagle did not despair. Not only had he won fame as a fighter but as a successful hunter as well. Never did he come back to Wansutis's lodge empty-handed. Though the deer he pursued be never so swift, or the quail never so wary, he always tracked down his quarry. And he meant to succeed in his wooing.
So even when Pocahontas left Werowocomoco to visit her kinsfolk, the Patowomekes, he bided his time and spent his days building a new lodge nearby that of Wansutis, that it might be in readiness for the day when he should bring his squaw to light their first fire beneath the opening under the sky.
Meanwhile affairs in Jamestown had been going from bad to worse. Famine had become an almost permanent visitor there. Sir Thomas Gale had not yet arrived from England and no one was there to govern the Colony with the firm hand of John Smith. At length, however, it was decided in the Council that Captain Argall should set forth towards the Patowomekes tribe and bargain with them for grain.
Japezaws, the chief, received him in a friendly manner.
"Yes, we will sell to thee corn as I sold it to thy great Captain when he first came among us. What news hast thou of him? Will he come again to us? He was a great brave."
Captain Argall answered:
"We have no word from him. Perchance he hath succumbed of his wound;" and then, because he was jealous of Smith's fame among the savages, he added, "England hath so many great braves that we waste little thought on those that are gone. Jamestown hath all but forgot him already."
"There is one amongst us who forgets him not," Japezaws pointed to the valley behind him, "one there is who hath him and his deeds ever on the tongue."
"Who may that be?" asked the Englishman, wondering if the Indian village held captive some countryman of his own long since thought dead.
"It is Pocahontas, his friend, who looks eagerly every moon for his return. She abideth gladly amongst us, for she groweth restless as a young brave, and Werowocomoco hems her in."
Even while Japezaws was speaking a thought flashed through Argall's brain; and while the slaves at Japezaws's command poured forth measure after measure of corn and dried meat, the Englishman was adding to his first vague idea, until when the great load of yellow grain lay heaped before him, his plan was fully laid.
"I wish, Japezaws," he began, as if the idea had just struck him, "that Powhatan, her father, had as great a love for Jamestown as his daughter. He will not even sell to us provisions now, though his storehouse is full to o'erflowing. If we could but make him see that, his gains would be greater than ours. 'Tis a matter of but a few more harvests before we have food and to spare, but where shall he find such copper kettles, such mirrors, such knives of bright steel as we would pay him in exchange for that he hath no need of?"
The old chief's eyes glistened with covetousness.
"I want some shining knives; I want to see a vessel that will not break when my squaws let it fall on a rock. I want some of the marvels ye keep in your lodges."
Argall smiled; the fly had caught the fish for which he angled.
"As soon as a man may hurry to Jamestown and back they shall be thine if—thou wilt do what I ask of thee."
"And what is thy will?" Suspicion had now awakened in the Indian.
"Hearken!" continued Argall. "Thou knowest that Powhatan hath stolen from us sundry arms and keeps in captivity some of our men. If he will make peace with us we need not take our war party through the forests to Werowocomoco, and the lives of many Indians will be spared."
Here Japezaws grunted, but Argall did not appear to notice it.
"If we held a hostage of Powhatan, someone who was dear to him, we could force him to do as we would."
He paused and glanced at the Indian who, whatever he may have thought, betrayed nothing.
"If thou wilt entrust the Princess Pocahontas to us," continued Argall, "she shall be taken to Jamestown and there detained in all gentleness, in the house of a worthy lady, until Powhatan agreeth to our terms and she will be conveyed in safety to her father. And for thee, for thy help in this matter, such presents shall be sent thee as thou hast never seen, such as no one, not even Powhatan, hath yet received."
Japezaws was silent a little. The maiden was his guest, and his people had always upheld the sacred duties of hospitality. But he knew that no harm would befall her. The friendship of the English for her was known to all his tribe and the great affection of her father to this, his favorite daughter. In a day or two she would be ransomed by Powhatan, and for his part in the matter, he, Japezaws, would gain what he so greatly longed to possess. He wasted neither time nor words:
"Meet me here at sunset, and I will bring her to thee."
Claw-of-the-Eagle had not thought to stir away from Wansutis's lodge for many days to come. Food in plenty was stored there and he had need to busy himself with the making of a new bow and arrows. But Wansutis, letting fall the stone with which she was grinding maize, looked up suddenly as if she heard distant voices. The youth, however, heard nothing. Then she said:
"Son, if in truth thy mind is set upon a certain maiden for thy squaw, go seek her at once in the village of the Patowomekes. She hath been there over long."
Claw-of-the-Eagle did not ask for any explanation of his mother's words. He had learned that she seemed to possess some strange knowledge he could not fathom, but which he respected. Therefore, without any discussion, with only a word of farewell, he took his bow and quiver and his wooing pipe and set forth.
As he approached the village of Japezaws at the end of several days' journey, he said to himself:
"Before three days are past I shall return this way with my squaw. No longer will I wait for her to feign deafness to my piping. She shall listen to it and follow me to my lodge."
Knowing that he was among a friendly allied tribe, Claw-of-the-Eagle strode along as openly and as carelessly as he would have done at Werowocomoco or Powhata. Yet suddenly, like a deer that scents a bear, he stood still, his nostrils quivering; then, slipping behind a tree, he notched an arrow to his bow.
"A white man," he thought, long before his eyes caught sight of him.
Concealed by the tree, he waited and watched pass the man he knew was the new English captain, and to his astonishment found that the women who accompanied him were Pocahontas and a squaw of the Patowomekes. It was the squaw of Japezaws; and it was at his bidding that she was now acting.
"Because thou hast seen as often as thou wilt the lodges of the palefaces," Claw-of-the-Eagle heard her say to Pocahontas, "is it right for thee to marvel that I am eager to witness with mine own eyes such strange ways as are theirs and the marvels the white chief hath stored in the canoe?"
"I do not wonder," laughed Pocahontas; "and in truth I rejoice to go with thee, and with the few words of their tongue that I have not forgotten to ask for thee the questions thou wouldst put to him. I, too, have questions to ask him."
When they had passed the young brave followed them, far off enough that Pocahontas's quick ear might not hear his step that would have been noiseless to the Englishman.
At the bank to which the pinnace was moored he sought cover back of a large boulder, his eyes never moving from the women before him. He watched them go on board, saw the English sailors rise to receive them, and heard the eager outcries of the squaw as she felt of their garments and went about the deck of the little craft, while Pocahontas explained as far as her own knowledge went, the meaning of anchor and sail, of cooking utensils and muskets. He saw Captain Argall open a small chest and hand out presents to the two women, Japezaws's squaw uttering loud cries of delight as beads and gaudy handkerchiefs were placed in her hands.
Claw-of-the-Eagle waited to see what would happen next. After an hour's watching he beheld the two women approach the side of the pinnace nearest the shore, the squaw in front. She sprang to the bank and ran lightly into the forest. Pocahontas had her foot on the gunwale to follow her when Captain Argall took hold of her arm.
"Come with us to Jamestown, Princess," he said; "we will welcome you for a visit."
Pocahontas's anger flared up. Never in her life had she been restrained by force. She wasted no time nor strength in entreaty, but sought to wrench herself away from him. But the Englishman held her firmly but gently, and while she struggled the sailors shoved the boat out into the stream.
Claw-of-the-Eagle rose that he might take better aim and shot an arrow at the Englishman. It hit the astounded captain on his leathern doublet, but did no more than knock the wind out of him.
"Shoot into the trees there," he commanded, still holding on to Pocahontas.
One of the sailors started to aim into the thicket at an unseen enemy, when Claw-of-the-Eagle, realizing that the boat was rapidly swinging out of his range, ran out on to an exposed bluff and notched a second arrow. Before it left the string, however, the bullet from the soldier's musket had hit him in the shoulder. As he fell Pocahontas uttered a cry of horror, for she had seen who her stricken defender was.
CHAPTER XVII
POCAHONTAS LOSES A FRIEND
It was the second night of Pocahontas's captivity. She had suffered no restraint further than that necessary to keep her from jumping overboard. Argall and the sailors treated her with all deference, both from policy and inclination. Yet she was very unhappy and lonely: she had always been so free to go and come that it was almost a physical pain to be imprisoned within the narrow limits of the pinnace. Several times she had tried to evade the vigilance of the sailors; but her cunning, which on shore would have shown her a way to escape, was useless on the unfamiliar boat. Her anger at Japezaws and his squaws flamed up anew every time she dwelt on their treachery. She went over in her mind the punishment she would beg her father to inflict upon them.
"Wait!" she called out; and the sailors wondered what she was saying as she stood there looking over the stern in the direction of the Patowomeke village, her eyes flashing, "wait until Nautauquas brings ye to my father to be tortured!"
Then before she had grown tired planning their fate, her thoughts flew to Claw-of-the-Eagle. Was he lying dead there in the forest? What a playmate and companion he had always been, she thought; how brave, how strong! Yet now he must be dead or surely he had managed to follow her.
By nightfall the boat was anchored in the centre of the stream, which here widened out into a small bay. Captain Argall, who had not known what to make of Claw-of-the-Eagle's attack, did not feel certain that Japezaws had not played him false. He had therefore made all speed possible the first night and the following day. Now his wearied men needed rest and, as no sign of pursuit appeared, he had granted them leave to sleep. Only one sailor in the bow was left on watch, but he, too, drowsed, to wake up with a start, when finding all well, he dropped off to sleep again.
Pocahontas lay alone in the stem, her head pillowed on a roll of sail cloth that brought it up to the level of the gunwale. Argall had done everything he could to make her comfortable and never even spoke to her except hat in hand and bowing low. Now she, too, had fallen asleep, her eyes wet with the tears she would not shed during the daylight. She dreamed she was again at Werowocomoco and that she had just risen from her sleeping-mat to run out into the moonlight as she so often did.
Suddenly a faint, faint sound half wakened her, a sound scarcely louder than the lapping of the water against the sides which had lulled her to sleep. She opened her eyes but did not move, and waited, tense with excitement. A fish flopped out of the water, then all was silent again and she closed her heavy eyes once more. Then it came again, not louder than the wind in the aspen trees on shore:
"Pocahontas!"
Raising herself to her elbow with a motion as quiet as a cat's, she peered into the dark water over the stern. A hand came up from the darkness and clasped her wrist. She needed no great light upon the features of the face below to know whose it was.
"Claw-of-the-Eagle," she whispered, "is it thou? I thought the white man's gun had killed thee, and I have been mourning for thee."
"I lay dead for an hour," he answered as he lifted himself up in the water and hung with both hands to the sides of the boat. "But it was well that I was wounded on the shoulder and not on the leg. The stiffness made me slow, like a bear that has been hurt in a trap. But I bound mud on the wound with my leggings and I have followed close behind thee along the shore all the way."
"I knew thou wouldst come after me if thou wert not killed," she whispered.
"Yea, I have come for thee, Pocahontas," and there was manly decision now in the youth's voice. "Waste no time. Drop down here beside me as quietly as if thou wert stalking a deer. We will swim under water until we are beyond reach of the white men's dull ears and before three days are passed we shall be at Powhata, where thy father now abideth."
The thought of all home meant made Pocahontas pause: the kindly interest of all her tribe in everything she did; the affection of her father and brothers; the haunts in the forest and on the river; the freedom of her daily existence. Here was her chance to return to them. If she did not take it, what lay ahead of her? A terror of the unknown overcame her for the first time. The knowledge that an old and tried friend was near was as grateful as a light shining before one on a dark night. Yet she answered:
"I can not go with thee, Claw-of-the-Eagle."
The young brave uttered a low murmur of astonishment.
"Dost thou not know," he asked, "that Japezaws hath betrayed thee; that thou art to be kept captive in Jamestown in order to force The Powhatan to do whatever the English desire of him?"
"Yes, I know. Captain Argall hath told me all."
"And yet thou dost hesitate? Art thou, the daughter of a mighty werowance, afraid to try to escape?"
She did not deign to reply to such a charge, but whispered instead:
"Hadst thou come last night I should have harkened to thee only too gladly. In truth, I had determined to escape myself this night, no matter what the difficulties might be. Pocahontas beareth a knife and knoweth how to use it. But to-day I have come to think otherwise, for there have been long hours in which to think. Thou knowest that captivity is as wearisome to me as to a wild dove; yet as I sat here alone with naught to do, I followed a trail in my mind that led to Jamestown, and so I am minded to go thither."
"But why?" asked Claw-of-the-Eagle.
"Because by going I believe I can serve both our nation and the English. My Brother, John Smith, said we must be friends, and I promised him e'er he left to watch ever over the welfare of his people. My father loveth me so much that in order to free me I think he will do as the English wish, and so I will go with Captain Argall that the strife may cease between them and us. But," and here her voice rose so that Claw-of-the-Eagle had to remind her of their danger by a pressure on the hand, "but I will not intercede for that traitor Japezaws and his crafty squaw. My father may wreak vengeance on them when he will."
Her voice, low as it was, had risen in her emotion, and the boy's keen hearing had caught the movement of a man's foot on the wooden deck. They kept still, breathless, for a moment; then as all was still again, Claw-of-the-Eagle asked sadly, in a tone that mourned as wind through the pine trees:
"Then thou wilt not come with me? I had built a lodge for thee, Matoaka, with a smoke hole wide enough to let in the whole moon thou lovest. My arrows had killed young deer and turkeys and I had smoked and hung meat for thee to last through all popanow (winter). A young maid is lonely till she follows her brave—all this I came to the village of Japezaws to pipe to thee. Now I have run wounded through the forests and swum the black stream to tell it to thee, and thou bidst me turn back alone. But if thou hast no wish to enter Claw-of-the-Eagle's lodge let him at least escort thee safely to the wigwam of thy father."
"I thank thee, Claw-of-the-Eagle, for all thou hast done," she whispered, "and all thou wouldst do for me. There is no braver warrior in the thirty tribes and no better hunter since Michabo. But I have listened to my manitou and he hath said to me, 'Remember the word thou gavest to thy white Brother.'"
Claw-of-the-Eagle knew that it was useless to plead and yet he pleaded: "Come back with me, Matoaka; what are the white men to thee and me?"
But she whispered: "Go, Claw-of-the-Eagle, go quickly ere the sailors awake. Hasten back to old Wansutis that she may bind up thy wound, and to Powhatan and tell him that he must buy Pocahontas's freedom from the English by returning their men he holdeth prisoners."
While she was still speaking the young brave's mind was working rapidly. At first the respect he owed her as the daughter of the great werowance was uppermost and he thought he must needs do her bidding and leave her. Little by little, however, he began to think of her as a young maiden, strong and courageous, but not so strong as a man, who now stood in need of the help of a brave. He hated the English more than ever, and Pocahontas's promise to aid them seemed to him only a girlish foolishness. Let them all perish on their island or return across the sea whence they had come. Why should she go with them? Why should he let her go? Who knew what treatment she would receive away from her own people? If he should rescue her and bring her back to her father, would he not thus win great favor in the eyes of Powhatan, who would not refuse her to him as his squaw? If she would not come willingly, he would carry her off against her will for her good.
Rescue Pocahontas! And in addition—kill the hated white men! Had they not wounded him and carried her off? There were not many of them and they were all asleep. While he and Pocahontas had talked he had pulled himself out of the water and thrown his legs over the stern. Now he rose and whispered:
"Before I go I would know what their canoe is like. Be not afeared for me; there is no danger, only do not stir."
She wished to remonstrate with him, but he was already a few paces ahead of her, treading as lightly as if the deck were gravel that would roll about and betray him with its noise, and she did not dare call out to him. She saw him draw near to a sleeping sailor and stoop; but it was too dark for her to see that he had placed his hand over the man's mouth and with the knife in his other hand, had stabbed him to the heart.
The sailor's dying struggles were noiseless and when they were over Claw-of-the-Eagle moved softly on to the next.
There was something sinister to Pocahontas in the silence; she began to divine that it was not mere curiosity which was keeping Claw-of-the-Eagle, and yet she dared not go in search of him.
The second victim was despatched as easily as the first, and the third, though he awoke before the blow was struck, was unable to avert it. The young brave, whose lust for slaughter increased as he went on, felt about for Captain Argall. Already the dawn was coming, and he could distinguish the forms of the four other men. He bent over one of them; his hand, burning with the fever from his wound and excitement, touched the cheek of the man instead of the mouth. The sailor cried out instantaneously even before he was awake; and Claw-of-the-Eagle, realizing in a second that his game was up, slashed out with his knife at him in passing as he ran for the stern.
He could have leapt overboard more easily, but though he had failed to kill all his enemies, he meant to rescue Pocahontas. He dashed towards her, followed by the sailor. Argall and the two others of the crew, roused at the outcry, were at their heels. Claw-of-the-Eagle caught Pocahontas in his arms and before she knew what was happening, he had sprung with her into the river.
The sailor, who had been but slightly wounded by the young brave's knife, had seized his musket as he ran. His forebears had been outlaws with Robin Hood, skilful archers, and bowmen with Henry V at Agincourt, whose arrows never failed to find French marks. The same keen eye and strong arm were his with a musket.
"Do not shoot. Mark!" called out Argall breathlessly. He did not know what had happened prior to his own awakening, though his feet had stumbled over the dead bodies of his men. "The Indian princess is there in the water. Shoot not, for the love of heaven, or we'll have all the red hordes of America on top of Jamestown!"
Mark, however, had already made out the two figures in the water so close together that Argall's older eyes thought them but one. And just as Claw-of-the-Eagle, hampered by his wounded shoulder, was about to sink below the surface of the river to swim under water, Mark took aim. The bullet hit the top of the head, gashing the skin about the scalp-lock, but did not penetrate very deeply.
Pocahontas saw that he was not badly wounded; but the blood running down his face and into his mouth and nose made it impossible for him to breathe deeply enough to swim under water. His weakness from his other wound, too, made his motions slower. Before he would be able to put a safe distance between him and the pinnace the sailor would have fired again.
But he would not fire at her—the thought flashed through her brain!
With a few rapid strokes she had reached the brave and flung her arm under his wounded shoulder, bearing him up.
"Now, Claw-of-the-Eagle," she cried, "let us make for the shore. They will not dare fire at me."
And Argall and his men watched their hostage and the murderer of their companions making their escape, while they seemed powerless to prevent it. Though Claw-of-the-Eagle's strokes grew slower and slower, Pocahontas's strength was aiding him. Once on shore, the Englishmen knew that even though delayed by his wound, the two could hide so that no white man could find them. Besides, it was likely that other Indians might be lurking in the forest.
"Fooled! Fooled!" cried out Argall, hitting one fist against the other in his disappointment.
But Mark was not one who willingly gave up a chase he had begun. He saw that the two had reached a willow tree with roots that lay twisted about each other across the surface of the river. For one second the youth and maiden, close together, hung on to this natural shelf, gaining strength to pull themselves up on to the ground. He realized how disastrous it would be to injure the daughter of the Powhatan. Nevertheless, he determined to take a chance.
To the horror of his captain, he took careful aim and fired. This time the bullet found its mark—it hit the young brave in the back of his head and penetrated the brain.
In horror Pocahontas tried to catch him in her arms before he sank heavily, with no sound, out of sight. Gone! so quickly! Dead! The boy who had been her friend, who had tried to save her!
She could not weep as she floated along with no conscious movement. Then slowly she turned and swam back towards the pinnace, the sailors wondering if she was in truth returning to them. She let herself be helped over the side by Captain Argall.
"I will go with thee to Jamestown, now," was all that she said. She gave no explanation of what had happened and refused to answer their questions, or to tell them why she had chosen to go with them when she might have regained her freedom.
They had hoisted the anchor and started off after laying their dead comrades together. The sun was rising but the air was still chill and the sailors brought their dry coats to Pocahontas to throw over her and placed food before her. She would not touch it nor turn her face away from the river behind her.
As they began to sail slowly down the stream she leaned back over the gunwale and beheld, borne by a swift eddy, the body of Claw-of-the-Eagle float by her. She rose to her feet, the sunbeams falling upon her face and her uplifted arms, and she sang aloud a song of death as her tribe sang it while the river hurried with its burden seawards.
CHAPTER XVIII
A BAPTISM IN JAMESTOWN
Very unhappy was Pocahontas the rest of the voyage to Jamestown. Claw-of-the-Eagle had been dear to her as a brother, and she sorrowed for him greatly. It was forlorn to be away thus from her own people and among those whose ways and tongue were strange to her; and she longed for Nautauquas, whom she had not seen for several moons.
News of their coming had outrun them, and all of Jamestown was at the wharf to greet them. Captain Argall stepped ashore and explained that he had brought generous stores and what was of far greater value, the daughter of Powhatan. Sir Thomas Dale, in all the bravery of his best purple doublet and new bright Cordova leather boots, came forward and doffing his plumed hat, said:
"Welcome, Princess, and be not angry with us if we in all courtesy constrain thee to abide with us awhile. Let it not irk thee to visit us again, to stay for a few days with those who have been thy debtors since the time thou didst save the life of Captain Smith."
Pocahontas, whose anger had been rising at the treachery practised on her by Japezaws and Argall, had intended to show in her manner how she resented it; but the name of Captain Smith disarmed her. She recalled her white Brother's parting words to her.
She would befriend his colony, as she had ever done. So she smiled at Sir Thomas and spoke to those about whom she knew and let them show her the way to the house that they chose for her use, a few paces from the Governor's. Mistress Lettice, the wife of one of the gentlemen, who was to occupy it with her, laid out some of her own garments in case the Indian maiden should care to change; and Pocahontas, forgetting the dangers and sadness of the past days, laughed with amusement as she tried on farthingale and wide skirt.
"They are sending messengers to thy father. King Powhatan," the Englishwoman said as she showed Pocahontas how to adjust a starched ruff that scratched her neck so that she made a grimace. "They will tell him that thou art here, and then surely in his anxiety to see thee again, he will grant what Sir Thomas desires: that he deliver up our men and the arms he hath taken and give us three hundred quarters of corn. Perchance thou wouldst like to send some word of thine own to thy father. If so be, there is an Indian boy who hath brought fish to trade, and he can bear it for thee."
"Bring him to me, I pray thee," said Pocahontas, speaking slowly the unaccustomed English words.
She was looking at herself in the ebony-framed mirror that hung opposite the door, much interested in her strange appearance, when the Indian boy entered, following Mistress Lettice. She saw his face in the glass and recognized him as the son of a Powhatan chief. She turned and faced him, but knew that he did not recognize her. He looked no further than her clothes and so believed her an Englishwoman. It was a rare amusement, she thought, and she watched him eagerly to see his surprise when he should find out his mistake. She was well rewarded by his puzzled and astonished expression when she called out to him:
"Little Squirrel!" When she herself had stopped laughing, she added: "Take this sad message to old Wansutis. Tell her that her son, Claw-of-the-Eagle, hath met his death bravely and that Pocahontas mourns him with her."
Then she dismissed the boy. As he walked away she remembered that she desired him to bear also a special word to Nautauquas, so she started to run and call him back. But the unaccustomed weight of her clothes and shoes prevented her and she began to pull them off her even before she reached the house, crying out:
"Nay, I will not prison myself thus; give me back mine own garments," and she breathed deep breaths of satisfaction when she had resumed them.
Had the manner of her coming to Jamestown been otherwise, with no treachery and no compulsion which hurt her pride, Pocahontas would have much enjoyed her stay and a closer view of the ways of the English. As it was, she was restlessly awaiting the message her father would return to the demands of the colonists. The next day the messengers came back, bringing with them the Englishmen who had been held captive by Powhatan and some of the arms. The werowance promised, they reported, that when his daughter was restored to him he would give the corn which the white men asked for.
This answer did not satisfy the Council, and day by day there were parleyings in which the white men and the red men sought to constrain or evade each other. Each side recognized the value of Pocahontas as a hostage. She was not now unhappy. Even if the colonists had not done their best to requite with kindness all the care she had manifested for their welfare, policy would have led them to treat her with every consideration. She was made welcome everywhere, and she went from the guard house to that of the Governor, asking questions, eager to learn all details, from the way to fire off a musket to the heating of the sealing wax and the making of a great red seal which Master John Rolfe, Secretary and Recorder General of the Colony, affixed to all the documents sent to the Company in London.
He explained everything to her, taking pains to choose the simplest words, because he found a keen pleasure in watching her dark eyes brighten when she began to comprehend something which had puzzled her, and because her laughter and quick coming and going in the masculine atmosphere of the council room was a most agreeable change from its usual dull calm. He was a widower and, though he had got over the sadness of the loss of his wife, he still missed a woman's companionship. So he was nothing loath to follow when Pocahontas commanded one day:
"Come with me about the town and answer more of my questions. I have stored away as many as a squirrel stores nuts for popanow—what keeps the ship from floating with the tide down to the great water? Why doth that man sit with his legs before him?"—and she pointed to a carpenter who had been imprisoned in the stocks in punishment for theft—"And why?"—...
And Rolfe found himself kept as busy as Mr. Squirrel himself in cracking her questions for her.
She soon got over her awe of the white men, judging, now that she had a closer view of them, that they were in many ways like her own people. And seeing that her lightheartedness was pleasant to them, she teased and joked with them.
"Wilt thou eat a persimmon?" she asked Rolfe, smiling at the trap she was laying as she stood on tiptoe to pick one from a branch above her. And Rolfe bit into the golden fruit, not knowing that the persimmon till ripened by frost is for the eye only. She laughed with glee as she saw his mouth all puckered up until he believed it would never unpucker again.
"I'll pay thee for this some day," he threatened in mock anger as soon as he could speak; but she only laughed the more.
One of the reasons that Pocahontas was content to remain in Jamestown was that she hoped to get news of Captain Smith's return. Every day she would ask, sometimes Mistress Lettice, sometimes Sir Thomas Dale, or anyone with whom she spoke:
"When cometh back the Captain? I am longing to see my Brother."
And one told her one thing, one another, some lying because it was easier; some from sheer ignorance said they had heard that John Smith had gone back to fight the Turks; that he grew fat and lazy in his English home; that he was exploring further up the coast; that he might be expected at Jamestown with the next ship. And Pocahontas, believing those who said the last because she wished this to be the truth, was not unhappy to wait among strangers that she might be the first to welcome him.
The spot in the town which most excited her curiosity was the church. The colonists had now replaced the first rude hut by a substantial building with a tower. The bells that called Jamestown to daily prayers had a weird fascination for the Indian girl. They seemed to speak a language she could not understand. Nor could she understand the ceremony which she observed, wide-eyed, of the kneeling men and women and the white-robed clergyman who stretched out his arms over them.
"What doth it signify?" she queried; and Rolfe, remembering that the conversion of the heathen was one of the reasons given by Europe for sending colonies to the New World, tried to explain the mysteries of his faith to her. But he found it too difficult a task, and besought the Reverend Thomas Alexander Whitaker to undertake it in his stead.
This the zealous and gentle minister of the Gospel gladly consented to do. Here was the great opportunity he had desired since his coming to Virginia—to make an Indian convert so notable that this conversion might bring others in its train. Moreover the maiden herself interested him. But it was not so easy to go about it. Pocahontas's knowledge of English did not extend beyond the simplest expressions; and he found it necessary to translate the long and abstruse theological dogmas into familiar terms. He had almost despaired of making her comprehend until he recalled how his Master had taught in parables. So he retold the incidents of His life in stories which held the Indian maiden spellbound. He showed her pictures in heavy leathern-bound volumes, and tried with less success to explain the meaning of the daily religious services he conducted in the church.
"Why do ye put always flowers on that table?" she asked, pointing to the vases on the altar which the Governor bade keep always filled with fresh blossoms as long as the forests and river bank could supply them. "What good hath thy god of them?"
"Dost thou not take delight in the sunshine. Princess?" replied the priest as they sat in the cool shade of the darkened church looking out through the open door at waving green branches and the river beyond. "I have beheld thee lift up thine arms on a fair day when the swift white clouds moved across the blue heavens as if thou wouldst embrace the whole wide earth. Why dost thou take pleasure in such things?"
"Because," hesitated the maiden, seeking for a reason, "because they make me happy."
"Because," he added, "they are beautiful. And God who created all this beauty rejoiceth too in it—in green fields and noble trees, in lovely maidens, strong men and happy children. Therefore, in token thereof, we place beautiful flowers upon His table."
"And delighteth he not in incantations of shamans and jossakeed (inspired prophets) and in self-torture?" she queried.
"Nay," he answered; "such things are of the Devil; our God is love. Ponder upon the difference."
And Pocahontas did think much of what he told her. Her spirit was maturing in this new atmosphere like a quick-growing vine climbing higher each day. Dr. Whitaker's own fatherly kindness to her and to all the colony became for her the symbol of the tenderness of the God of whom he taught her. Then, too, this strange new deity was the god of her Brother, John Smith; and whatever in any way was dear to him she wanted to make her own.
For weeks the instruction continued and at last Dr. Whitaker told Sir Thomas Dale that he believed the Indian princess was now sufficiently impressed with the teachings of Christianity to be baptized. So Sir Thomas, meeting her one afternoon as she stood by the wharf watching men unload a ship but newly arrived from England, began:
"Good even, Princess, I rejoice at the news Dr. Whitaker hath even now imparted to me, that he hath instructed thee fully in the teachings of our blessed faith, and that thou hast shown wisdom and comprehension. The time hath therefore arrived for thee to bear witness before man to the truth and to accept the blessed sacrament of baptism at his hands and to swear publicly that thou wilt have naught more to do with the heathen gods whom thy people ignorantly worship."
"I will not give them up," Pocahontas cried out in anger such as she had not shown for many a day; and to Sir Thomas's amazement, she turned her back upon his presence and sped, swift as a fawn, into the thicket which still covered a portion of the island.
There she lay upon the ground, panting with emotion and passionately going over her arguments: "Why should I forsake the Okee of my fathers? Why should I hate what my brothers serve? Why should I prefer this god of the strangers?"
She did not know that a sudden attack of homesickness was the principal cause of this outburst. She was longing to sit at her father's knee, to hunt with Nautauquas; and she wondered if they had ceased to care for her that they left her to stay among the strangers.
Here, at sunset, Dr. Whitaker, set upon her track by the startled Sir Thomas, found her and seating himself beside her, he talked to her gently, not finding fault with her loyalty to her people and their beliefs, but explaining how they had never had the chance to hear what she was being taught, and how by acknowledging the Christians' God, she might lead those she loved to do the same and to benefit by His great gifts.
Not in one day did the clergyman convince her; but by the time April had come Pocahontas eagerly consented to her baptism. Clothed by Mistress Lettice in a simple white gown free from ruff and farthingale, with her long black hair hanging down her back, Pocahontas walked to the little church filled with all the inhabitants and a few Indians from the mainland who wondered what it all meant; and while the bells rang softly in the soft spring air, Pocahontas, the first of her race, was baptized into the Christian faith, with the new name of Rebecca.