In a short time the bustle and stir in the camp of the insurgents announced that their little army was about to commence its march. Nathaniel Bacon rode slowly along Stuart street, at the head of the soldiery, and leaving Jamestown to the east, extended his march towards the falls of James river. Here, he had received intelligence that the hostile tribes had gathered to a head, and he determined without delay to march upon them unawares, and with one decisive blow to put an end to the war. Flushed with triumph, he thought, the soldiery would more willingly and efficiently turn their arms against the government, and aid in carrying out his darling project of effecting some organic changes in the charter of the colony; if, indeed, it was not already his purpose to dissolve the political connection of Virginia with the mother country.
The little party rode on in silence for several miles, for each was buried in his own reflections. Bacon, with his own peculiar views of ambition and glory, felt but little sympathy with those who united in the rebellion for the specific object of a march against the savages. Hansford was meditating on the heavy sacrifice which he had made for his country's service, and striving to see, in the dim future, some gleam of hope which might cheer him in his gloom. Lawrence and Drummond, the two most influential leaders in the movement, had been left behind in Jamestown, their place of residence, to watch the movements of Berkeley, in whose fair promises none of the insurgents seemed to place implicit confidence. The rest of the little party had already exhausted in discussion the busy events of the day, and remained silent from want of material for conversation.
At length, however, Bacon, whose knowledge of human nature had penetrated the depths of Hansford's heart, and who felt deeply for his favourite, gave him the signal to advance somewhat in front of their comrades, and the following conversation took place:
“And so, my friend,” said Bacon, in the mild, winning voice, which he knew so well how to assume; “and so, my friend, you have renounced your dearest hopes in life for this glorious enterprise.”
Hansford only answered with a sigh.
“Take it not thus hardly,” continued Bacon. “Think of your loss as a sacrifice to liberty. Look to the future for your happiness, to a redeemed and liberated country for your home—to glory as your bride.”
“Alas!” said Hansford, “glory could never repay the loss of happiness. Believe me, General, that personal fame is not what I covet. Far better would it be for me to have been born and reared in obscurity, and to pass my brief life with those I love, than for the glittering bauble, glory, to give up all that is dear to the heart.”
“And do you repent the course you have taken,” asked Bacon, with some surprise.
“Repent! no; God forbid that I should repent of any sacrifice which I have made to the cause of my country. But it is duty that prompts me, not glory. For as to this selfsame will-o'-the-wisp, which seems to allure so many from happiness, I trust it not. I am much of the little Prince Arthur's mind—
Duty is the prison which at last keeps man from enjoying his own happier inclination.”
“There you are wrong, Hansford,” said Bacon, “duty is the poor drudge, which, patient in its harness, pursues the will of another. Glory is the wild, unconfined eagle, that impatient of restraint would soar to a heaven of its own.”
“And is it such an object as this that actuates you in our present enterprise?” asked Hansford.
“Both,” replied the enthusiastic leader. “Man, in his actions, is controlled by many forces—and duty is chiefly prized when it waits as the humble handmaiden on glory. But in this enterprise other feelings enter in to direct my course. Revenge against these relentless wolves of the forest for the murder of a friend—revenge against that proud old tyrant, Berkeley, who, clothed in a little brief authority, would trample me under his feet,—love of my country, which impels me to aid in her reformation, and to secure her liberty—and, nay, don't frown,—desire for that fame which is to the mere discharge of plain duty what the spirit is to the body—which directs and sustains it here, but survives its dissolution. Are not these sufficient motives of action?”
“Pardon me, General,” said Hansford, “but I see only one motive here which is worthy of you. Self-preservation, not revenge, could alone justify an assault upon these misguided savages—and your love of country is sufficient inducement to urge you to her protection and defence. But these motives are chiefly personal to yourself. How can you expect them to affect the minds of your followers?”
“Look ye, Major Hansford,” said Bacon, “I speak to you as I do not to most men—because I know you have a mind and a heart superior to them—I would dare not attempt to influence you as I do others; but do you see those poor trusting fellows that are following in our wake? These men help men like you and me to rise, as feathers help the eagle to soar above the clouds. But the proud bird may moult a feather from his pinion without descending from his lofty pride of place.”
“And this then is what you call liberty?” said Hansford, a little offended at the overbearing manner of the young demagogue.
“Certainly,” returned Bacon, calmly, “the only liberty for which the mass of mankind are fitted. The instincts of nature point them to the man most worthy to control their destinies. Their brute force aids in elevating him to power—and then he returns upon their heads the blessings with which they have entrusted him. Do you remember the happy compliment of my old namesake of St. Albans to Queen Elizabeth? Royalty is the heaven which, like the blessed sun, exhales the moisture from the earth, and then distilling it in gentle rains, it falleth on the heads of those from whom she has received it.”
“I remember the compliment, which beautiful though it may be in imagery, I always thought was but the empty flattery of a vain old royal spinster by an accomplished courtier. I never suspected that St. Albans, far less his relative, Nathaniel Bacon, believed it to be true. And so, with all your high flown doctrines of popular rights and popular liberty, you are an advocate for royalty at last.”
“Nay, you mistake me, I will not say wilfully,” replied Bacon, in an offended tone, “I merely used the sentiment as an illustration of what I had been saying. The people must have rulers, and my idea of liberty only extends to their selection of them. After that, stability in government requires that the power of the people should cease, and that of the ruler begin. You may purify the stream through which the power flows, by constantly resorting to the fountain head; but if you keep the power pent up in the fountain, like water, it will stagnate and become impure, or else overflow its banks and devastate that soil which it was intended to fertilize.”
“Our ideas of liberty, I confess,” said Hansford, “differ very widely. God grant that our antagonistic views may not prejudice the holy cause in which we are now engaged.”
“Well, let us drop the subject then,” said Bacon, carelessly, “as there is so little prospect of our agreeing in sentiment. What I said was merely meant to while away this tedious journey, and make you forget your own private griefs. But tell me, what do you think of the result of this enterprise?”
“I think it attended with great danger,” replied Hansford.
“I had not thought,” returned Bacon, with something between a smile and a sneer, “that Thomas Hansford would have considered the question of peril involved in a contest like this.”
“I am at a loss to understand your meaning,” said Hansford, indignantly. “If you think I regard danger for myself, I tell you that it is a feeling as far a stranger to my bosom as to your own, and this I am ready to maintain. If you meant no offence, I will merely say that it is the part of every general to 'sit down and consider the cost' before engaging in any enterprise.”
“Why will you be so quick to take offence?” said Bacon. “Do I not know that fear is a stranger to your breast?—else why confide in you as I have done? But I spoke not of the danger attending our enterprise. To me danger is not a matter of indifference, it is an object of desire. They who would bathe in a Stygian wave, to render them invulnerable, are not worthy of the name of heroes. It is only the unmailed warrior, whose form, like the white plume of Navarre, is seen where danger is the thickest, that is truly brave and truly great.”
“You are a singular being, Bacon,” said Hansford, with admiration, “and were born to be a hero. But tell me, what is it that you expect or hope for poor Virginia, when all your objects may be attained? She is still but a poor, helpless colony, sapped of her resources by a relentless sovereign, and expected to submit quietly to the oppressions of those who would enslave her.”
“By heavens, no!” cried Bacon, impetuously. “It shall never be. Her voice has been already heard by haughty England, and it shall again be heard in thunder tones. She who yielded not to the call of an imperious dictator—she who proposed terms to Cromwell—will not long bear the insulting oppression of the imbecile Stuarts. The day is coming, and now is, when on this Western continent shall arise a nation, before whose potent sway even Britain shall be forced to bow. Virginia shall be the Rome and England shall be the Troy, and history will record the annals of that haughty and imperious kingdom chiefly because she was the mother of this western Rome. Yes,” he continued, borne along impetuously by his own gushing thoughts, “there shall come a time when Freedom will look westward for her home, and when the oppressed of every nation shall watch with anxious eye that star of Freedom in its onward course, and follow its bright guidance till it stands over the place where Virginia—this young child of Liberty—is; and oh! Hansford, will it then be nothing that we were among those who watched the infant breathings of that political Saviour—who gave it the lessons of wisdom and of virtue, and first taught it to speak and proclaim its mission to the world? Will it then be nothing for future generations to point to our names, and, in the language of pride and gratitude, to cry, there go the authors of our freedom?”
So spake the young enthusiast, thus dimly foreshadowing the glory that was to be—the freedom which, just one hundred years from that eventful period, burst upon the world. He was not permitted, like Simeon of old, to see the salvation for which he longed, and for which he wrought. And yet he helped to plant the germ, which expanded into the wide-spreading tree, and his name should not be forgotten by those who rejoice in its fruit, or rest secure beneath its shade.
Thus whiling away the hours of the night in such engrossing subjects, Hansford had nearly forgotten his sorrows in the visions of the future. How beneficent the Providence which thus enables the mind to receive from without entirely new impressions, which soften down, though they cannot erase, the wounds that a harsh destiny has inflicted.
But it is time that the thread of our narrative was broken, in order to follow the fortunes of an humble, yet worthy character of our story.
It was on a bright and beautiful morning—for mysterious nature often smiles on the darkest deeds of her children—that a group of Indians were assembled around the council-fire in one of the extensive forest ranges of Virginia. Their faces painted in the most grotesque and hideous manner, the fierceness of their looks, and the savageness of their dress, would alone have inspired awe in the breast of a spectator. But on the present occasion, the fatal business in which they were engaged imparted even more than usual wildness to their appearance and vehemence to their manner. Bound to a neighbouring tree so tightly as to produce the most acute pain to the poor creature, was an aged negro, who seemed to be the object of the vehement eloquence of his savage captors. Although confinement, torture, and despair had effected a fearful change, by tracing the lines of great suffering on his countenance, yet it would not have been difficult even then to recognize in the poor trembling wretch our old negro friend at Windsor Hall.
After discovering the deception that had been practised on them by Mamalis, and punishing the selfish ambition of Manteo, by expelling him from their tribe, the Indian warriors returned to Windsor Hall, and finding the family had escaped, seized upon old Giles as the victim on whom to wreak their vengeance. With the savage cruelty of their race, his tormentors had doomed him, not to sudden death, which would have been welcome to the miserable wretch, but to a slow and lingering torture.
It would be too painful to dwell long upon the nature of the tortures thus inflicted upon their victims. With all their coarseness and rudeness of manner and life, the Indians had arrived at a refinement and skill in cruelty which the persecutors of the reformers in Europe might envy, but to which they had never attained. Among these, tearing the nails from the hands and feet, knocking out the teeth with a club, lacerating the flesh with rough, dull muscle and oyster-shells, inserting sharp splinters into the wounded flesh, and then firing them until the unhappy being is gradually roasted to death—these were among the tortures more frequently inflicted. From the threats and preparations of his captors, old Giles had reason to apprehend that the worst of these tortures he would soon be called upon to endure.
There is, thank God, a period, when the burdens of this life become so grievous, that the prayer of the fabled faggot-binder may rise sincerely on the lips, and when death would indeed be a welcome friend—when it is even soothing to reflect that,
Such was the period at which the wretched negro had now arrived. He listened, therefore, with patient composure to the fierce, threatening language of the warriors, which his former association with Manteo enabled him, when aided by their wild gesticulation, to comprehend. But it was far from the intention of the Indians to release him yet from his terrible existence. One of the braves approaching the poor helpless wretch with a small cord of catgut, such as was used by them for bow-strings, prepared to bind it tightly around his thumb, while the others gathering around in a circle waved their war-clubs high in air to inflict the painful bastinado. When old Giles saw the Indian approach, and fully comprehended his design, his heart sank within him at this new instrument of torture, and in despairing accents he groaned—
“Kill me, kill me, but for de Lord's sake, massa, don't put dat horrid thing on de poor old nigga.”
Regardless of his cries, the powerful Indian adjusted the cord, and with might and main drew it so tightly around the thumb that it entered the flesh even to the bone, while the poor negro shrieked in agony. Then, to drown the cry, the other savages commencing a wild, rude chant, let their war-clubs descend upon their victim with such force that he fainted. Just at this moment the quick ears of the Indians caught the almost inaudible sound of approaching horsemen, and as they paused to satisfy themselves of the truth of their suspicions, Bacon and his little band of faithful followers appeared full in sight. Leaving their victim in a moment, the savages prepared to defend themselves from the assault of their intruders, and with the quickness of thought, concealing themselves behind the trees and undergrowth of the forest, they sent a shower of arrows into the unwary ranks of their adversaries.
“By Jove, that had like to have been my death-stroke,” cried Bacon, as an arrow directed full against his breast, glanced from a gilt button of his coat and fell harmless to the ground. But others of the party were not so fortunate as their leader. Several of the men, pierced by the poisoned arrows of the enemy, fell dead.
Notwithstanding the success of this first charge of the Indians, Bacon and his party sustained the shock with coolness and intrepidity. Their gallant leader, himself careless of life or safety, led the charge, and on his powerful horse he was, like the royal hero to whom he had compared himself, ever seen in the thickest of the carnage. Well did he prove himself that day worthy of the confidence of his faithful followers.
Nor loth were the Indians to return their charge. Although their party only amounted to about fifty, and Bacon's men numbered several hundred, yet was the idea of retreat abhorrent to their martial feelings. Screening themselves with comparative safety behind the large forest trees, or lying under the protection of the thick undergrowth, they kept up a constant attack with their arrows, and succeeded in effecting considerable loss to the whites, who, incommoded by their horses, or unaccustomed to this system of bush fighting, failed to produce a corresponding effect upon their savage foe.
There was something in the religion of these simple sons of the forest which imparted intrepid boldness to their characters, unattainable by ordinary discipline. The material conception which they entertained of the spirit-world, where valour and heroism were the passports of admission, created a disregard for life such as no civilized man could well entertain. In that new land, to which death was but the threshold, their pursuits were the same in character, though greater in degree, as those in which they here engaged. There they would be welcomed by the brave warriors of a former day, and engage still in fierce contests with hostile tribes. There they would enjoy the delights of the chase through spirit forests, deeper and more gigantic than those through which they wandered in life. Theirs was the Valhalla to which the brave alone were admitted, and among whose martial habitants would continue the same emulation in battle, the same stoicism in suffering, as in their forest-world. Such was the character of their simple religion, which created in their breasts that heroism and fortitude, in danger or in pain, that has with one accord been attributed to them.
But despite their valour and resolution, the contest, with such disparity of numbers, must needs be brief. Bacon pursued each advantage which he gained with relentless vigour, ever and anon cheering his followers, and crying out, as he rushed onward to the charge, “Don't let one of the bloody dogs escape. Remember, my gallant boys, the peace of your firesides and the lives and safety of your wives and children. Remember the brave men who have already fallen before the hand of the savage foe.”
Faithful to his injunction, the overwhelming power of the whites soon strewed the ground with the bodies of the brave savages. The few who remained, dispirited and despairing, fled through the forest from the irresistible charge of the enemy.
Meantime the unfortunate Giles had recovered from the swoon into which he had fallen, and began to look wildly about him, as though in a dream. To the fact that the contending parties had been closely engaged, and that from this cause not a gun had been fired, the old negro probably owed his life. With the superstition of his race, the poor creature attributed this fortunate succour to a miraculous interposition of Providence in his behalf; and when he saw the last of his oppressors flying before the determined onslaught of the white men, he fervently cried,
“Thank the Lord, for he done sent his angels to stop de lion's mouf, and to save de poor old nigger from dere hands.”
“Hallo, comrades,” said Berkenhead, when he espied the poor old negro bound to the tree, “who have we here? This must be old Ochee[37] himself, whom the Lord has delivered into our hands. Hark ye,” he added, proceeding to unbind him, “where do you come from?—or are you in reality the evil one, whom these infidel red-skins worship?”
“Oh, no, Massa, I a'ant no evil sperrit. A sperrit hab not flesh and bones as you see me hab.”
“Nay,” returned the coarse-hearted soldier, “that reasoning won't serve your purpose, for there is precious little flesh and blood about you, old man. The most you can lay claim to is skin and bones.”
Hansford, who had been standing a little distance off, was attracted by this conversation, and turning in the direction of the old negro, was much surprised to recognize, under such horrible circumstances, the quondam steward, butler and factotum of Windsor Hall. Nor was Giles' surprise less in meeting with Miss Virginia's “buck” in so secluded a spot. It was with difficulty that Hansford could prevent him from throwing his arms around his neck; but giving the old man a hearty shake of the hand, he asked him the story of his captivity, which Giles, with much importance, proceeded to relate. But he had scarcely begun his narrative, when the attention of the insurgents was attracted by the approach of two horsemen, who advanced towards them at a rapid rate, as though they had some important intelligence to communicate.
[37] The evil spirit, sometimes called Opitchi Manitou, and worshipped by the Indians.
The new comers were Lawrence and Drummond, who, as will be recollected by the reader, were left in Jamestown to watch the proceedings of the Governor, and to convey to Bacon any needful intelligence concerning them. Although he had, in the first impulse of triumph after receiving his commission, confided fully in the promises of the vacillating Berkeley, yet, on reflection, Bacon did not rely very implicitly upon them. The Governor had once before broken his word in the affair of the parole, promising to grant the commission which he craved, upon condition of his confession of his former disloyal conduct and his promise to amend. Bacon was not the man to be twice deceived, and it did not therefore much surprise him to see the two patriots so soon after his departure from Jamestown, nor to hear the strange tidings which they had come to detail.
“Why, how is this, General?” said Lawrence. “You have had bloody work already, it seems; and not without some loss to your own party.”
“Yes, there they lie,” returned Bacon. “God rest their brave souls! But being dead, they yet speak—speak to us to avenge their death on the bloody savages who have slaughtered them, and to proclaim the insane policy of Berkeley in delaying our march against the foe. But what make you from Jamestown?”
“Bad news or good, General, as you choose to take it,” replied Lawrence. “Berkeley has dissolved the Assembly in a rage, because they supported you in your demand of yesterday, and has himself, with his crouching minions, retired to Gloucester.”
“To Gloucester!” cried Bacon. “That is indeed news. But what can the old dotard mean by such a movement?”
“He has already made known his reasons,” returned Lawrence. “He has cancelled your commission, and proclaimed you, and all engaged with you, as rebels and traitors.”
“Why, this is infamous!” said Bacon. “Is the old knave such an enemy to truth that it cannot live upon his lips for one short day? And who, pray, is rash enough to uphold him in his despotism, or base enough to screen him in his infamy?”
“It was whispered as we left,” said Drummond, “that a certain Colonel Henry Temple had avouched the loyalty of Gloucester, and prevailed upon the Governor to make his house his castle, during what he is pleased to term this unhappy rebellion.”
“And by my soul,” said Bacon, fiercely, “I will teach this certain Colonel Henry Temple the hazard that he runs in thus abetting tyranny and villainy. If he would not have his house beat down over his ears, he were wise to withdraw his aid and support; else, if his house be a castle at all, it is like to be a castle in Spain.”
Hansford, who was an eager listener, as we may suppose, to the foregoing conversation, was alarmed at this determination of his impulsive leader. He knew too well the obstinate loyalty of Temple to doubt that he would resist at every hazard, rather than deliver his noble guest into the hands of his enemies. He felt assured, too, that if the report were true, Virginia had accompanied her father to Gloucester, and his very soul revolted at the idea of her being subjected to the disagreeable results which would flow from an attack upon Windsor Hall. The only chance of avoiding the difficulty, was to offer his own mediation, and in the event, which he foresaw, of Colonel Temple refusing to come to terms, he trusted that there was at least magnanimity enough left in the old Governor to induce him to seek some other refuge, rather than to subject his hospitable and loyal host to the consequences of his kindness. There was indeed some danger attending such a mission in the present inflamed state of Berkeley's mind. But this, Hansford held at naught. Hastily revolving in his mind these thoughts, he ventured to suggest to Bacon, that an attack upon Colonel Temple's house would result in the worst consequences to the cause of the patriots; that it would effect no good, as the Governor might again promise, and again recant—and, that it would be difficult to induce his followers to embark in an enterprise so foreign to the avowed object of the expedition, and against a man whose character was well known, and beloved by the people of the Colony.
Bacon calmly heard him through, as though struck with the truth of the views he presented, and then added with a sarcastic smile, which stung Hansford to the quick, “and moreover, the sight of soldiers and of fire-arms might alarm the ladies.”
“And, if such a motive as that did influence my opinion,” said Hansford, “I hope it was neither unworthy a soldier or a man.”
“Unworthy alike of both,” replied Bacon, “of a soldier, because the will and command of his superior officer should be his only law—and of a man, because, in a cause affecting his rights and liberties, any sacrifice of feeling should be willingly and cheerfully made.”
“That sacrifice I now make,” said Hansford, vainly endeavouring to repress his indignation, “in not retorting more harshly to your imputation. The time may yet come when no such sacrifice shall be required, and when none, I assure you, shall be made.”
“And, when it comes, young man,” returned Bacon, haughtily, “be assured that I will not be backward in affording you an opportunity of defending yourself—meantime you are under my command—and will please remember that you are so. But, gentlemen,” he continued, turning to the others, “what say you to our conduct in these circumstances. Shall we proceed to Powhatan, against the enemy of a country to which we are traitors, or shall we march on this mendacious old Knight, and once again wipe off the stigma which he has placed upon our names?”
“I think,” said Lawrence, after a pause of some moments, “that there is a good deal of truth in the views presented by Major Hansford. But, could not some middle course be adopted. I don't exactly see how it can be effected, but, if the Governor were met by remonstrance of his injustice, and informed of our determination to resist it as such, it seems to me that he would be forced to recant this last proclamation, and all would be well again.”
“And who think you would carry the remonstrance,” said Bacon. “It would be about as wise to thrust your head in a lion's mouth, as to trust yourself in the hands of the old fanatic. I know not whom we could get to bear such a mission,” he added, smiling, “unless our friend Ingram there, who having been accustomed to ropes in his youth, if report speaks true, need have no fear of them in age.”[38]
“In faith, General,” replied the quondam rope-dancer, “I am only expert in managing the cable when it supports my feet. But I have never been able to perform the feat of dancing on nothing and holding on by my neck.”
“General Bacon,” said Hansford, stepping forward, “I am willing to execute your mission to the Governor.”
“My dear boy,” said Bacon, grasping him warmly by the hand, “forgive me for speaking so roughly to you just now, I am almost ready to cut my tongue out of my head for having said anything to wound your feelings. But damn that old treacherous fox, he inflamed me so, that I must have let out some of my bad humour or choked in retaining it.”
Hansford returned his grasp warmly, perhaps the more ready to forgive and forget, as he saw a prospect of attaining his object in protecting the family of his friend from harm.
“But you shall not go,” continued Bacon. “It were madness to venture within the clutch of the infuriated old madman.”
“Whatever were the danger,” said Hansford, “this was my proposition, and on me devolves the peril, if peril there be in its execution. But there is really none. Colonel Temple, although a bigot in his loyalty, is the last person to violate the rites of hospitality or to despise a flag of truce. And Sir William Berkeley dare not disregard either whilst under his roof.”
“Well, so let it be then,” said Bacon, “but I fear that you place too much reliance on the good faith of your old friend Temple. Believe me, that these Tories hold a doctrine in their political creed, very much akin to the Papal doctrine of intolerance. 'Faith towards heretics, is infidelity to religion.' But you must at least take some force with you.”
“I believe not,” returned our hero, “the presence of an armed force would be an insuperable barrier to a reconciliation. I will only take my subaltern, Berkenhead, yonder, and that poor old negro, in whose liberation I sincerely rejoice. The first will be a companion, and in case of danger some protection; and the last, if you choose,” he added smiling, “will be a make-peace between the political papist and the rebel heretic.”
“Well, God bless you, Hansford,” said Bacon, with much warmth, “and above all, forget my haste and unkindness just now. We must learn to forgive like old Romans, if we would be valiant like them, and so
“With all my heart, my noble General,” returned Hansford, laughing, “and now for my mission—what shall I say on behalf of treason to his royal highness?”
“Tell him,” said Bacon, gravely, “that Nathaniel Bacon, by the grace of God, and the special trust and confidence of Sir William Berkeley, general-in-chief of the armies of Virginia, desires to know for what act of his, since such trust was reposed in him, he and his followers have been proclaimed as traitors to their king. Ask him for what reason it is that while pursuing the common enemies of the country—while attacking in their lairs the wolves and lions of the forest, I, myself, am mercilessly assaulted like a savage wild beast, by those whom it is my object to defend. Tell him that I require him to retract the proclamation he has issued without loss of time, and in the event of his refusal, I am ready to assert and defend the rights of freemen by the last arbiter between man and man. Lastly, say to him, that I will await his answer until two days from this time, and should it still prove unfavourable to my demands, then woe betide him.”
Charged with the purport of his mission, Hansford shook Bacon cordially by the hand, and proceeded to prepare for his journey. As he was going to inform his comrade, old Lawrence gently tapped him on the shoulder, and whispered, “Look ye, Tom, I like not the appearance of that fellow Berkenhead.”
“He is faithful, I believe,” said Hansford, in the same tone; “a little rough and free spoken, perhaps, but I do not doubt his fidelity.”
“I would I were of the same mind,” returned his companion; “but if ever the devil set his mark upon a man's face that he might know him on the resurrection morning, he did so on that crop-eared Puritan. Tell me, aint he the same fellow that got his freedom and two hundred pounds for revealing the insurrection of sixty-two?”
“The same, I believe,” said Hansford, carelessly; “but what of that?”
“Why simply this,” said the honest old cavalier, “that faith is like a walking-cane. Break it once and you may glue it so that the fracture can scarcely be seen by the naked eye; but it will break in the same place if there be a strain upon it.”
“I hope you are mistaken,” said Hansford; “but I thank you for your warning, and will not disregard it. I will be on my guard.”
“Here, Lawrence,” cried Bacon, “what private message are you sending to the Governor, that you must needs be delaying our ambassador? We have a sad duty to perform. These brave men, who have fallen in our cause, must not be suffered to lie a prey to vultures. Let them be buried as becomes brave soldiers, who have died right bravely with their harness on. I would there were some one here who could perform the rites of burial—but their requiem shall be sung with our song of triumph. Peace to their souls! Comrades, prepare their grave, and pay due honour to their memory by discharging a volley of musketry over them. I wot they well loved the sound while living—nor will they sleep less sweetly for it now.”
By such language, and such real or affected interest in the fate of those who followed his career, Nathaniel Bacon won the affection of his soldiery. Never was there a leader, even in the larger theatres of action, more sincerely beloved and worshipped—and to this may be attributed in a great degree the wonderful power which he possessed over the minds of his followers—moulding their opinions in strict conformity with his own; breathing into them something of the ardent heroism which inspired his own soul, and making them thus the willing and subservient instruments of his own ambitious designs.
With sad countenances the soldiers proceeded to obey the order of their general. Scooping with their swords and bayonets a shallow grave in the soft virgin soil of the forest, they committed the bodies of their comrades to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust—and as they screened their ashes forever from the light of day, the “aisles of the dim woods” echoed back the loud roar of the unheard, unheeded honour which they paid to the memory of the dead.
[38] He was in truth a rope-dancer in his early life.
When the last sad rites of burial had been performed over the grave of those who had fallen, Hansford, accompanied by Berkenhead and old Giles, proceeded to the discharge of the trust which had been reposed in him. It was indeed a mission fraught with the most important consequences to the cause of the insurgents, to the family at Windsor Hall, and to himself personally. It required both a cool head and a brave heart to succeed in its execution. Hansford well knew that the first burst of rage from the old Governor, on hearing the bold proposition of the rebels, would be dangerous, if not fatal to himself; and with all the native boldness of his character, it would be unnatural if he failed to feel the greatest anxiety for the result. But even if he escaped the vengeance of Berkeley, he feared the impulsive nature of Bacon, in the event of the refusal of Sir William to comply with his demands, would drive him into excesses ruinous to his cause, and dangerous alike to the innocent and the guilty. If Temple's obstinacy and chivalry persisted in giving refuge to the Governor, what, he thought, might be the consequences to her, whose interest and whose safety he held so deeply at heart! Thus the statesman, the lover, and the individual, each had a peculiar interest in the result, and Hansford felt like a wise man the heavy responsibility he had incurred, although he resolved to encounter and discharge it like a bold one.
It was thus, with a heavy heart that he proceeded on his way, and buried in these reflections he maintained a moody silence, little regarding the presence of his two companions. Old Giles, too, had his own food for reflection, and vouchsafed only monosyllables in reply to the questions and observations of the loquacious Berkenhead. But the soldier was not to be repulsed by the indifference of the one, or the laconic answers of the other of his companions. Finding it impossible to engage in conversation, he contented himself with soliloquy, and in a low, muttering voice, as if to himself, but intended as well for the ears of his commander, he began an elaborate comparison of the army of Cromwell, in which he had served, and the army of the Virginia insurgents.
“To be sure, they both fought for liberty, but after that there is monstrous little likeness between 'em. Old Noll was always acting himself, and laying it all to Providence when he was done; while General Bacon, cavorting round, first after the Indians and then after the Governor, seems hardly to know what he is about, and yet, I believe, trusts in Providence at last more than Noll, with all his religion; and, faith, it seems to me it took more religion to do him than most any man I ever see. First psalm singing, and then fighting, and then psalm singing agen, and then more fighting—for all the world like a brick house with mortar stuck between. But I trow that it was the fighting that made the house stand, after all. And yet I believe, for all the saints used to nickname me a sinner, and call me one of the spawn of the beast, because I would get tired of the Word sometimes—and, by the same token, old brother Purge-the-temple Whithead had a whole dictionary of words, much less the one—yet, for all come and gone, I believe I would rather hear a long psalm, than to be doomed to solitary confinement to my own thoughts, as I am here.”
“And so you have served in old Noll's army, as you call it,” said Hansford, smiling in spite of himself, and willing to indulge the old Oliverian with some little notice.
“Oh, yes, Major,” replied Berkenhead, delighted to have gained an auditor at last; “and a rare service it was too. A little too much of what they called the church militant, and the like, for me; but for all that the fellows fought like devils, if they did live like saints—and, what was rare to me, they did not deal the less lightly with their swords for the fervour of their prayers, nor pray the less fervently for their enemies after they had raked them with their fire, or hacked them to pieces with their swords. 'Faith, an if there had been many more battles like Dunbar and Worcester, they had as well have blotted that text from their Bible, for precious few enemies did they have to pray for after that.”
“You did not agree with these zealots in religion, then,” said Hansford. “Prythee, friend, of what sect of Christians are you a member?”
“Well, Major, to speak the truth and shame the devil, as they say, my religion has pretty much gone with my sword. As a soldier must change his coat whenever he changes his service, so I have thought he should make his faith—the robe of his righteousness, as they call it—adapt itself to that of his employer.”
“The cloak of his hypocrisy, you mean,” said Hansford, indignantly. “I like not this scoffing profanity, and must hear no more of it. He who is not true to his God is of a bad material for a patriot. But tell me,” he added, seeing that the man seemed sufficiently rebuked, “how came you to this colony?”
“Simply because I could not stay in England,” replied Berkenhead. “Mine has been a hard lot, Major; for I never got what I wanted in this life. If I was predestined for anything, as old Purge-the-temple used to say we all were, it seems to me it was to be always on the losing side. When I fought for freedom in England, I gained bondage in Virginia for my pains; and when I refused to seek my freedom, and betrayed my comrades in the insurrection of sixty-two, lo, and behold! I was released from bondage for my reward. What I will gain or lose by this present movement, I don't know; but I have been an unlucky adventurer thus far.”
“I have heard of your behaviour in sixty-two,” said Hansford, “but whether such conduct be laudable or censurable, depends very much upon the motive that prompted you to it. You came to this country then as an indented servant?”
“Yes, sold, your honour, for the thirty pieces of silver, like Joseph was sold into Egypt by his brethren.”
“I suspect that the resemblance between yourself and that eminent patriarch ceased with the sale.”
“It is not for me to say, your honour. But in the present unsettled state of affairs, who knows who may be made second only to Pharaoh over all Egypt? I wot well who will be our Pharaoh, if we gain our point; and I have done the state some service, and may yet do her more.”
“By treachery to your comrades, I suppose,” said Hansford, disgusted with the conceit and self-complacency of the man.
“Now, look ye here, Major, if I was disposed to be touchy, I might take exception at that remark. But I have seen too much of life to fly off at the first word. The axe that flies from the helve at the first stroke, may be sharp as a grindstone can make it, but it will never cut a tree down for all that.”
“And if you were to fly off, as you call it, at the first or the last word,” said Hansford, haughtily, “you would only get a sound beating for your pains. How dare you speak thus to your superior, you insolent knave!”
“No insolence, Major,” said Berkenhead, sulkily; “but for the matter of speaking against your honour, I have seen my betters silenced in their turn, by their superiors.”
“Silence, slave!” cried Hansford, his face flushing with indignation at this allusion to his interview with Bacon, which he had hoped, till now, had been unheard by the soldiers. “But come,” he added, reflecting on the imprudence of losing his only friend and ally in this perilous adventure, “you are a saucy knave, but I suppose I must e'en bear with you for the present. We cannot be far from Windsor Hall, I should think.”
“About two miles, as I take it, Major,” said Berkenhead, in a more respectful manner. “I used to live in Gloucester, not far from the hall, and many is the time I have followed my master through these old woods in a deer chase. Yes, there is Manteo's clearing, just two miles from the hall.”
Scarcely were the words out of the speaker's mouth, when, to the surprise of the little party, a large dog of the St. Bernard's breed leaped from a thicket near them, and bounded towards Hansford.
“Brest ef it a'ant old Nestor,” said Giles, whose tongue had at length been loosened by the sight of the family favourite, and he stooped down as he spoke to pat the dog upon the head. But Nestor's object was clearly not to be caressed. Frisking about in a most extraordinary manner, now wagging his tail, now holding it between his legs, now bounding a few steps in front of Hansford's horse, and anon crouching by his side and whining most piteously, he at length completed his eccentric movements by standing erect upon his hind legs and placing his fore feet against the breast of his old master. Struck with this singular conduct, Hansford, reining in his horse, cried out, “The poor dog must be mad. Down, Nestor, down I tell you!”
Well was it for our hero that the faithful animal refused to obey, for just at that moment an arrow was heard whizzing through the air, and the noble dog fell transfixed through the neck with the poisoned missile, which else had pierced Hansford's heart.[39] The alarm caused by so sudden and unexpected an attack had not passed off, before another arrow was buried deep in our hero's shoulder. But quick as were the movements of the attacking party, the trained eye of Berkenhead caught a glimpse of the tall form of an Indian as it vanished behind a large oak tree, about twenty yards from where they stood. The soldier levelled his carbine, and as Manteo (for the reader has probably already conjectured that it was he) again emerged from his hiding place to renew the attack, he discharged his piece with deadly aim and effect. With a wild yell of horror, the young warrior sprang high in the air, and fell lifeless to the ground.
Berkenhead was about to rush forward towards his victim, when Hansford, who still retained his seat on the horse, though faint from pain and loss of blood, cried out, “Caution, caution, for God's sake, there are more of the bloody villains about.” But after a few moments' pause, the apprehension of a further attack passed away, and the soldier and Giles repaired to the spot. And there in the cold embrace of death, lay the brave young Indian, his painted visage reddened yet more by the life-blood which still flowed from his wound. His right hand still grasped the bow-string, as in his last effort to discharge the fatal arrow. A haughty smile curled his lip even in the moment in which the soul had fled, as if in that last struggle his brave young heart despised the pang of death itself.
Gazing at him for a moment, yet long enough for old Giles to recognize the features of Manteo in the bloody corpse, they returned to Hansford, whose condition indeed required their immediate assistance. Drawing out the arrow, and staunching the blood as well as they could with his scarf, Berkenhead bandaged it tightly, and although still in great pain, the wounded man was enabled slowly to continue his journey. A ride of about half an hour brought the little party to the door of Windsor Hall.