Читать книгу Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Rebellion - St. George Tucker - Страница 17

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“Like gun when aimed at duck or plover,

Kicks back and knocks the shooter over.”

There was at Windsor Hall, an old family servant, known alike to the negroes and the “white folks,” by the familiar appellation of Uncle Giles. He was one of those old-fashioned negroes, who having borne the heat and burden of the day, are turned out to live in comparative freedom, and supplied with everything that can make their declining years comfortable and happy. Uncle Giles, according to his own account, was sixty-four last Whitsuntide, and was consequently born in Africa. It is a singular fact connected with this race, that whenever consulted about their age, they invariably date the anniversary of their birth at Christmas, Easter or Whitsuntide, the triennial holydays to which they are entitled. Whether this arises from the fact that a life which is devoted to the service of others should commence with a holyday, or whether these three are the only epochs known to the negro, is a question of some interest, but of little importance to our narrative. So it was, that old uncle Giles, in his own expressive phrase was, “after wiking all his born days, done turn out to graze hisself to def.” The only business of the old man was to keep himself comfortable in winter by the kitchen fire, and in summer to smoke his old corn-cob pipe on the three legged bench that stood at the kitchen door. Added to this, was the self-assumed duty of “strapping” the young darkies, and lecturing the old ones on the importance of working hard, and obeying “old massa,” cheerfully in everything. And so old uncle Giles, with white and black, with old and young, but especially with old uncle Giles himself, was a great character. Among other things that increased his inordinate self-esteem, was the possession of a rusty old blunderbuss, which, long since discarded as useless by his master, had fallen into his hands, and was regarded by him and his sable admirers as a pearl of great price.

Now it so happened, that on the morning to which our story refers, uncle Giles was quietly smoking his pipe, and muttering solemnly to himself in that grumbling tone so peculiar to old negroes. When he learned, however, of the intended attack of the Indians, the old man, who well remembered the earlier skirmishes with the savages, took his old blunderbuss from its resting-place above the door of the kitchen, and prepared himself for action. The old gun, which owing to the growing infirmities of its possessor, had not been called into use for years, was now rusted from disuse and neglect; and a bold spider had even dared to seek, not the bubble reputation, but his more substantial gossamer palace, at the very mouth of the barrel. Notwithstanding all this, the gun had all the time remained loaded, for Giles was too rigid an economist to waste a charge without some good reason. Armed with this formidable weapon, Giles succeeded in climbing up the side of the low cabin kitchen, by the logs which protruded from either end of the wall. Arrived at the top and screening himself behind the rude log and mud chimney, he awaited with a patience and immobility which Wellington might have envied, the arrival of the foe. Here then he was quietly seated when the conference to which we have alluded took place between the Indian warriors.

“Bird flown,” said Manteo, the leader of the party. “Nest empty.”

Two or three of the braves stooped down and began to examine the soft sandy soil to discover if there were any tracks or signs of the family having left. Fortunately the search seemed satisfactory, for the foot-prints of Bernard's and Hansford's horses, as they were led from the house towards the stable on the previous evening, were still quite visible.

This little circumstance seemed to determine the party, and they had turned away, probably to seek their vengeance elsewhere, or to return at a more propitious moment, when the discharge of a gun was heard, so loud, so crashing, and so alarming, that it seemed like the sudden rattling of thunder in a storm.

Luckily, perhaps for all parties, while the shot fell through the poplar trees like the first big drops of rain in summer, the only damage which was done was in clipping off the feather which was worn by Manteo as a badge of his position. When we say this, however, we mean to refer only to the effect of the charge, not of the discharge of the gun, for the breech rebounding violently against old Giles shoulder, the poor fellow lost his balance and came tumbling to the ground. The cabin was fortunately not more than ten feet high, and our African hero escaped into the kitchen with a few bruises—a happy compromise for the fate which would have inevitably been his had he remained in his former position. The smoke of his fusil mingling with the smoke from the chimney, averted suspicion, and with the simple-minded creatures who heard the report and witnessed its effects the whole matter remained a mystery.

“Tunder,” said one, looking round in vain for the source from which an attack could be made.

“Call dat tunder,” growled Manteo, pointing significantly to his moulted plume that lay on the ground.

“Okees[8] mad. Shoot Pawcussacks[9] from osies,”[10] said one of the older and more experienced of the party, endeavouring to give some rational explanation of so inexplicable a mystery.

A violent dispute here arose between the different warriors as to the cause of this sudden anger of the gods; some contending that it was because they were attacking a Netoppew or friend, and others with equal zeal contending that it was to reprove the slowness of their vengeance.

From their position above, all these proceedings could be seen, and these contentions heard by the besieged party. The mixed language in which the men spoke, for they had even thus early appropriated many English words to supply the deficiencies in their own barren tongue, was explained by Mamalis, where it was unintelligible to the whites. This young girl felt a divided interest in the fate of the besieging and besieged parties; for all of her devotion to Virginia Temple could not make her entirely forget the fortunes of her brave brother.

In a few moments, she saw that it was necessary to take some decisive step, for the faction which was of harsher mood, and urged immediate vengeance, was seen to prevail in the conference. The fatal word “fire” was several times heard, and Manteo was already starting towards the kitchen to procure the means of carrying into effect their deadly purpose.

“I see nothing left, but to defend ourselves as we may,” said Hansford in a low voice, at the same time raising his musket, and advancing a step towards the window, with a view of throwing it open and commencing the attack.

“Oh, don't shoot,” said Mamalis, imploringly, “I will go and save all.”

“Do you think, my poor girl, that they will hearken to mercy at your intercession,” said Colonel Temple, shaking his head, sorrowfully.

“No!” replied Mamalis, “the heart of a brave knows not mercy. If he gave his ear to the cry of mercy, he would be a squaw and not a brave. But fear not, I can yet save you,” she added confidently, “only do not be seen.”

The men looked from one to the other to decide.

“Trust her, father,” said Virginia, “if you are discovered blood must be shed. She says she can save us all. Trust her, Hansford. Trust her, Mr. Bernard.”

“We could lose little by being betrayed at this stage of the game,” said Temple, “so go, my good girl, and Heaven will bless you!”

Quick as thought the young Indian left the room, and descended the stairs. Drawing the bolt of the back door so softly, that she scarcely heard it move, herself, she went to the kitchen, where old Giles, a prey to a thousand fears, was seated trembling over the fire, his face of that peculiar ashy hue, which the negro complexion sometimes assumes as an humble apology for pallor. As she touched the old man on the shoulder, he groaned in despair and looked up, showing scarcely anything but the whites of his eyes, while his woolly head, thinned and white with age, resembled ashes sprinkled over a bed of extinguished charcoal. Seeing the face of an Indian, and too terrified to recognize Mamalis, he fell on his knees at her feet, and cried,

“Oh, for de Lord sake, massa, pity de poor old nigger! My lod a messy, massa, I neber shoot anudder gun in all my born days.”

“Hush,” said Mamalis, “and listen to me. I tell lie, you say it is truth; I say whites in Jamestown; you say so too—went yesterday.”

“But bress your soul, missis,” said Giles, “sposen dey ax me ef I shot dat cussed gun, me say dat truf too?”

“No, say it was thunder.”

At this moment the tall dark form of Manteo entered the room. He started with surprise, as he saw his sister there, and in such company. His dark eye darted a fierce glance at Giles, who quailed beneath its glare. Then turning again to his sister, he said in the Indian tongue, which we freely translate:

“Mamalis with the white man! where is he that I may drown my vengeance in his blood.”

“He is gone; he is not within the power of Manteo. Manitou[11] has saved Manteo from the crime of killing his best friend.”

“His people have killed my people for the offence of the few, I will kill him for the cruelty of many. For this is the calumet[12] broken. For this is the tree of peace[13] cut down by the tomahawk of war.”

“Say not so,” replied Mamalis. “Temple is the netoppew[14] of Manteo. He is even now gone to the grand sachem of the long knives, to make Manteo the Werowance[15] of the Pamunkeys.”

“Ha! is this true?” asked Manteo, anxiously.

“Ask this old man,” returned Mamalis. “They all went to Jamestown yesterday, did they not?” she asked in English of Giles, who replied, in a trembling voice,

“Yes, my massa, dey has all gone to Jimson on yestiddy.”

“And I a Werowance!” said the young man proudly, in his own language. “Spirits of Powhatan and Opechancanough, the name of Manteo shall live immortally as yours. His glory shall be the song of our race, and the young men of his tribe shall emulate his deeds. His life shall be brilliant as the sun's bright course, and his spirit shall set in the spirit land, bright with unfading glory.”

Then turning away with a lofty step, he proceeded to rejoin his companions.

The stratagem was successful, and Manteo, the bravest, the noblest of the braves, succeeded after some time in persuading them to desist from their destructive designs. In a few moments, to the delight of the little besieged party, the Indians had left the house, and were soon buried in the deep forest.

“Thanks, my brave, generous girl,” said Temple, as Mamalis, after the success of her adventure, entered the room. “To your presence of mind we owe our lives.”

“But I told a lie,” said the girl, looking down; “I said you had gone to make Manteo the Werowance of the Pamunkeys.”

“Well, my girl, he shall not want my aid in getting the office. So you, in effect, told the truth.”

“No, no; I said you had gone. It was a lie.”

“Ah, but, Mamalis,” said Virginia, in an encouraging voice, for she had often impressed upon the mind of the poor savage girl the nature of a lie, “when a falsehood is told for the preservation of life, the sin will be freely forgiven which has accomplished so much good.”

“Ignatius Loyola could not have stated his favourite principle more clearly, Miss Temple,” said Bernard, with a satirical smile. “I see that the Reformation has not made so wide a difference in the two Churches, after all.”

“No, Mr. Bernard,” said old Temple, somewhat offended at the young man's tone; “the stratagem of the soldier, and the intrigue of the treacherous Jesuit, are very different. The one is the means which brave men may use to accomplish noble ends; the other is the wily machinations of a perfidious man to attain his own base purposes. The one is the skilful fence and foil of the swordsman, the other the subtle and deceitful design of the sneaking snake.”

“Still they both do what is plainly a deception, in order to accomplish an end which they each believe to be good. Once break down the barrier to the field of truth, and it is impossible any longer to distinguish between virtue and error.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Temple, “I am the last to blame the bridge which carries me over, and I'll warrant there is not one here, man or woman, who isn't glad that our lives have been saved by Mamalis's falsehood—for I have not had such a fright in all my days.”