Читать книгу Hansford: A Tale of Bacon's Rebellion - St. George Tucker - Страница 19

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“Religion, 'tis that doth distinguish us

From their bruit humour, well we may it know,

That can with understanding argue thus,

Our God is truth, but they cannot do so.”

Smith's History.

As may be well imagined, the Indian attack formed the chief topic of conversation at Windsor Hall during the day. Many were the marvellous stories which were called to memory, of Indian warfare and of Indian massacres—of the sad fate of those who had been their victims, the tortures to which their prisoners had been subjected, and the relentless cruelty with which even the tender babe, while smiling in the face of its ruthless murderer, was dashed pitilessly against a tree. Among these narratives, the most painful was that detailing the fate of George Cassen, who, tied to a tree by strong cords, was doomed to see his flesh and joints cut off, one by one, and roasted before his eyes; his head and face flayed with sharp mussel shells, and his belly ripped open; until at last, in the extremity of his agony, he welcomed the very flames which consumed him, and rescued his body from their cruelty.[16]

Uncle Giles, whose premature action had so nearly ruined them all, and yet had probably been the cause of their ultimate safety, was the hero of the day, and loud was the laugh at the incident of the gun and kitchen chimney. The old man's bruises were soon tended and healed, and the grateful creature declared that “Miss Ginny's lineaments always did him more good than all the doctors in the world;” and in truth they were good for sore eyes.

It was during the morning's conversation that Bernard learned from his host, and from Virginia, the intimate relations existing between Mamalis and the family at Windsor Hall. Many years before, there had been, about two miles from the hall, an Indian village, inhabited by some of the tribe of the Pamunkeys. Among them was an old chieftain named Nantaquaus,[17] who claimed to be of the same lineage as Powhatan, and who, worn out with war, now resided among his people as their patriarchal counsellor. In the hostilities which had existed before the long peace, which was only ended by the difficulties that gave rise to Bacon's Rebellion, the whole of the inhabitants of the little village had been cut off by the whites, with the exception of this old patriarch and his two orphan grand-children, who were saved through the interposition of Colonel Temple, exerted in their behalf on account of some kindness he had received at their hands. Grateful for the life of his little descendants, for he had long since ceased to care for the prolongation of his own existence, old Nantaquaus continued to live on terms approaching even to intimacy with the Temples. When at length he died, he bequeathed his grand-children to the care of his protector. It was his wish, however, that they should still remain in the old wigwam where he had lived, and where they could best remember him, and, in visions, visit his spirit in the far hunting ground. In compliance with this, his last wish, Manteo and Mamalis continued their residence in that rude old hut, and secured a comfortable subsistence—he by fishing and the chase, and she by the cultivation of their little patch of ground, where maize, melons, pompions, cushaus, and the like, rewarded her patient labour with their abundant growth. Besides these duties, to which the life of the Indian woman was devoted, the young girl in her leisure moments, and in the long winter, made, with pretty skill, mats, baskets and sandals, weaving the former curiously with the long willow twigs which grew along the banks of the neighbouring York river, and forming the latter with dressed deer skin, ornamented with flowers made of beads and shells, or with the various coloured feathers of the birds. Her little manufactures met with a ready sale at the hall, being exchanged for sugar and coffee, and other such comforts as civilization provides; and for the sale of the excess of these simple articles over the home demand, she found a willing agent in the Colonel, who, in his frequent visits to Jamestown, disposed of them to advantage.

Despite these associations, however, Manteo retained much of the original character of his race, and the wild forest life which he led, bringing him into communication with the less civilized members of his tribe, helped to cherish the native-fierceness of his temper. Clinging with tenacity to the superstitions and pursuits of his fathers, his mind was of that sterile soil, in which the seeds of civilization take but little root. His sister, without having herself lost all the peculiar features of her natural character, was still formed in a different mould, and her softer nature had already received some slight impress from Virginia's teachings, which led her by slow but certain degrees towards the truth. His was of that fierce, tiger nature, which Horace has so finely painted in his nervous description of Achilles,

“Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis, acer!”

While her's can be best understood by her name, Mamalis, which, signifying in her own language a young fawn, at once expressed the grace of her person and the gentleness of her nature.

Such is a brief but sufficient description of the characters and condition of these two young Indians, who play an important part in this narrative. The description, we may well suppose, derived additional interest to Bernard, from its association with the recent exciting scene, and from the interest which his heart began already to entertain for the fair narrator.

But probably the most amusing, if not the most instructive portion of the morning's conversation, was that in which Mrs. Temple bore a conspicuous part. The danger being past, the good woman adverted with much pride to the calmness and fortitude which she had displayed during the latter part of the trying scene. She never suspected that her conduct had been at all open to criticism, for in the excess of her agitation, she had not been aware, either of her manner or her language.

“The fact is, gentlemen,” she said, “that while you all displayed great coolness and resolution, it was well that you were not surrounded by timid women to embarrass you with their fears. I was determined that none of you should see my alarm, and I have no doubt you were surprised at my calmness.”

“It was very natural for ladies to feel alarm,” said Hansford, scarcely able to repress the rising smile, “under circumstances, which inspired even strong men with fear. I only wonder that you bore it so well.”

“Ah, it is easy to see you are apologizing for Virginia, and I must confess that once or twice she did almost shake my self-possession a little by her agitation. But poor thing! we should make allowance for her. She is unaccustomed to such scenes. I, who was, you may say, cradled in a revolution, and brought up in civil war, am not so easily frightened.”

“No, indeed, Bessy,” said old Temple, smiling good humouredly, “so entirely were you free from the prevailing fears, that I believe you were unconscious half the time of what was going on.”

“Well, really, Colonel Temple,” said the old lady, bristling up at this insinuation, “I think it ill becomes you to be exposing me as a jest before an entire stranger. However, it makes but little difference. It won't last always.”

This prediction of his good wife, that “It,” which always referred to her husband's conduct immediately before, was doomed like all other earthly things to terminate, was generally a precursor to hysterics. And so she shook her head and patted her foot hysterically, while the Colonel wholly unconscious of any reasonable cause for the offence he had given, rolled up his eyes and shrugged his shoulders in silence.

Leaving the good couple to settle at their leisure those little disputes which never lasted on an average more than five minutes, let us follow Virginia as she goes down stairs to make some preparation for dinner. As she passed through the hall on her way to the store-room, she saw the graceful form of Mamalis just leaving the house. In the conversation which ensued we must beg the reader to imagine the broken English in which the young Indian expressed herself, while we endeavor to give it a free and more polite translation.

“Mamalis, you are not going home already, are you,” said Virginia, in a gentle voice.

“Yes,” replied the girl, with a sigh.

“Why do you sigh, Mamalis? Are you unhappy, my poor girl?”

“It is very sad to be alone in my poor wigwam,” she replied.

“Then stay with us, Manteo is away, and will probably not be back for some days.”

“He would be angry if he came home and found me away.”

“Oh, my poor girl,” said Virginia, taking her tenderly by the hand, “I wish you could stay with me, and let me teach you as I used to about God and heaven. Oh, think of these things, Mamalis, and they will make you happy even when alone. Wouldn't you like to have a friend always near you when Manteo is away?”

“Oh yes,” said the girl earnestly.

“Well, there is just such a Friend who will never desert you; who is ever near to protect you in danger, and to comfort you in distress. Whose eye is never closed in sleep, and whose thoughts are never wandering from his charge.”

“That cannot be,” said the young Indian, incredulously.

“Yes, it both can be and is so,” returned her friend. “One who has promised, that if we trust in him he will never leave us nor forsake us. That friend is the powerful Son of God, and the loving Brother of simple man. One who died to show his love, and who lives to show his power to protect. It is Jesus Christ.”

“You told me about him long ago,” said Mamalis, shaking her head, “but I never saw him. He never comes to Manteo's wigwam.”

“Nay, but He is still your friend,” urged Virginia earnestly. “When you left the room this morning on that work of mercy to save us all, I did not see you, and yet I told my father that I knew you would do us good. Were you less my friend because I didn't see you?

“No.”

“No,” continued Virginia, “you were more my friend, for if you had remained with me, we might all have been lost. And so Jesus has but withdrawn Himself from our eyes that He may intercede with his offended father, as you did with Manteo.”

“Does he tell lies for us?” said the girl with artless simplicity, and still remembering her interview with her brother. Virginia felt a thrill of horror pass through her heart as she heard such language, but remembering the ignorance of her poor blinded pupil, she proceeded.

“Oh! Mamalis, do not talk thus. He of whom I speak is not as we are, and cannot commit a sin. But while He cannot commit sin Himself, He can die for the sins of others.”

“Well,” said the poor girl, seeing that she had unwittingly hurt the feelings of her friend, “I don't understand all that. Your God is so high, mine I can see and understand. But you love your God, I only fear mine.”

“And do you not believe that God is good, my poor friend?” said Virginia, with a sigh.

“From Manitou all good proceeds,” replied Mamalis, as with beautiful simplicity she thus detailed her simple creed, which she had been taught by her fathers. “From him is life, and joy, and love. The blue sky is his home, and the green earth he has made for his pleasure. The fresh smelling flowers and the pure air are his breath, and the sweet music of the wind through the woods is his voice. The stars that he has sown through heaven, are the pure shells which he has picked up by the rivers which flow through the spirit land; and the sun is his chariot, with which he drives through heaven, while he smiles upon the world. Such is Manitou, whose very life is the good giving; the bliss-bestowing.”

“My sweet Mamalis,” said Virginia, “you have, indeed, in your ignorance, painted a beautiful picture of the beneficence of God. And can you not—do you not thank this Giver of every good and perfect gift for all his mercies?”

“I cannot thank him for that which he must bestow,” said the girl. “We do not thank the flower because its scent is sweet; nor the birds that fill the woods with their songs, because their music is grateful to the ear. Manitou is made to be adored, not to be thanked, for his very essence is good, and his very breath is love.”

“But remember, my friend, that the voice of this Great Spirit is heard in the thunder, as well as in the breeze, and his face is revealed in the lightning as well as in the flower. He is the author of evil as well as of good, and should we not pray that He would avert the first, even if He heed not our prayer to bestow the last.”

If Virginia was shocked by the sentiments of her pupil before, Mamalis was now as much so. Such an idea as ascribing evil to the great Spirit of the Universe, never entered the mind of the young savage, and now that she first heard it, she looked upon it as little less than open profanity.

“Manitou is not heard in the thunder nor seen in the lightning,” she replied. “It is Okee whose fury against us is aroused, and who thus turns blessings into curses, and good into evil. To him we pray that he look not upon us with a frown, nor withhold the mercies that flow from Manitou; that the rains may fall upon our maize, and the sun may ripen it in the full ear; that he send the fat wild deer across my brother's path, and ride on his arrow until it reach its heart; that he direct the grand council in wisdom, and guide the tomahawk in its aim in battle. But I have tarried too long, my brother may await my coming.”

“Nay, but you shall not go—at least,” said Virginia, “without something for your trouble. You have nearly lost a day, already. And come often and see me, Mamalis, and we will speak of these things again. I will teach you that your Manitou is good, as well as the author of good; and that he is love, as well as the fountain of love in others; that it is to him we should pray and in whom we should trust, and he will lead us safely through all our trials in this life, and take us to a purer spirit land than that of which you dream.”

Mamalis shook her head, but promised she would come. Then loading her with such things as she thought she stood in need of, and which the poor girl but seldom met with, except from the same kind hand, Virginia bid her God speed, and they parted; Mamalis to her desolate wigwam, and Virginia to her labours in the household affairs, which had devolved upon her.[18]