The Big Brother
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George Cary Eggleston >> The Big Brother
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So saying, he split off a few splinters from a piece of rich heart-pine,
which Southern people call "light-wood," because the negroes use it
instead of lamps or candles.
"Come now," said Sam, "its nearly noon, and I think I can get fire for
you. Go up on top of the drift-pile, Tom, and look out for Indians. If
you don't see any we can all go down to the spring together long enough
to start a fire. Then I must come back to Judie, and I'll keep a
look-out for Indians while you and Joe get the corn on. When you get it
on, come back here and wait until it has time to cook. Stop a minute,
Tom. Let's understand each other. If the one on the look-out sees
Indians, he must let the others know; but it won't do to holler. Let me
see. Can you whistle like a kildee, Tom?"
"Yes, or like any other bird."
"Can you, Joe?"
"I reckon I _kin_, Mas' Sam," said Joe, who, to prove his powers
straightway gave a shrill kildee whistle, which nearly deafened them
all.
"There, that'll do, Joe. Well, let's understand then, that if anyone of
us sees Indians, he must whistle like a kildee. If the Indians hear it
they'll think nothing of it."
Tom went to the look-out, and seeing no savages anywhere, returned, and
the whole party, little Judie excepted, proceeded to the spring. Sam
then laid his sticks down in a pile, and taking out his watch removed
the crystal. This he filled with clear water from the spring, and
holding it over the cotton ravellings, moved it up and down until the
sunlight, passing through it, gathered itself into a small bright spot
on the cotton. Joe, eager to see, thrust his head over Sam's shoulder,
and directly between the glass and the sun.
"Take your head away, Joe, or I'll have to draw the fire right through
it," said Sam, laughing.
"Mercy, Mas' Sam, don't do dat. I'se 'feard o' your witches' ways,
anyhow," said Joe, drawing back. The glass was again put in position
and the spot of bright sunlight reappeared. Presently a little cloud of
smoke rose, and a moment afterwards, the cotton was fairly afire. It was
not difficult now to get the light-wood and dry sticks to blazing, and a
good fire was soon secured.
"Now boys," said Sam, "I'll go back to the drift-pile and keep a
look-out. If you hear the kildee call, run in as quickly as you can.
When you get the corn and mussels on, and covered up, come back at
once."
No Indians showing themselves anywhere in the neighborhood, the boys got
their dinner on or rather _in_ the fire, and then returned to the root
cavern to await the completion of the cooking process. When they were
all safely stowed away in their places, Tom gave voice to the curiosity
with which he was almost bursting.
"Sam," he said, "how did you do that?"
"How did I do what, Tom?"
"How did you make the sun set the cotton on fire?"
"I don't know whether I can make you understand it or not," said Sam,
"but I'll try. You know light always goes in straight lines, if left to
itself, don't you?"
"No, I didn't know that!
"Yes you did, only you never thought of it. If you want to keep light
out of your eyes, you always put your hand between them and the light,
because you know the light goes straight and so will not go around your
hand."
"Yes, that's true, and when I want to make a shadow anywhere, I put
something right before the light."
"Certainly. Well, the rays of the sun all come to us straight, and side
by side. They are pretty hot, but not hot enough to set fire to anything
that way. But if you can gather a good many of these rays together and
make them all shine on one little spot, they will set fire to whatever
they fall on. Now a piece of glass or any other thing that you can see
through easily,--that is, any _transparent_ thing, lets the sunlight
through it, and if it is flat on both sides, it doesn't change the
directions of the rays. But if both sides are rounded out, or if one
side is rounded out and the other side is flat, it turns all the rays a
little, and brings them right together in a point not far from the
glass. If the sides are hollowed _in_ instead of bulging out, the rays
scatter, and if one side bulges out and the other bulges in, as they do
in a watch crystal, one side scatters and the other side collects the
rays, and so it is the same as if the glass had been perfectly flat, one
side undoes the other's work. Now I have no glass which bulges out on
both sides, and none that bulges out on one side and is flat on the
other, but my watch crystal bulges out on one side and in on the other.
But when I filled it with water, the water being as clear as the glass,
it made it flat on top and bulging underneath, and so it gathered the
sun's rays together in the light spot you saw, and set fire to the
cotton."
"Yes, but why did you have to wait till noon?" asked Tom.
"Because the glass must be held right across the rays of light, and as I
couldn't turn the crystal to either side without spilling the water, I
had to use it at noon, when the sun was almost exactly overhead, and its
rays came nearly straight down. If I had had a glass rounded out on both
sides I could have got fire any time after the sun was well up in the
sky. Now let me tell you what they call all these different kinds of
glasses. One that is flat on one side and bulges out on the other is
called a _convex lens_; if it bulges out on both sides it is a _double
convex lens_; if it is hollowed in on one side and flat on the other it
is a _concave lens_; if hollowed in on both sides we call it a _double
concave lens_; and when it is hollowed in on one side and bulged out on
the other, as any watch crystal does, it is a _concave convex lens_."
"Where did you learn all that, Sam?" asked Tom.
"I learned part of it with father's spectacles, and part out of a book
father lent me when I asked him why I couldn't make the bright, hot spot
with a pair of near-sighted glasses that I found in one of mother's old
work boxes. You see, when people begin to get old, their eyes flatten a
little, and so everything they look at seems to be shaved off. They see
well enough at a distance, but can't see small things close to them."
"Is that the reason pa always looks over his spectacles when he looks at
me?" asked Judie.
"Yes, little woman. He can't see to read without his glasses, but he
can see you across the room without them, well enough. Well, to remedy
this defect, old people wear spectacles with double convex lenses in
them. But near-sighted people have exactly the opposite trouble. They
can't see things except by bringing them near their eyes, because their
eyes are not flat enough, and so their spectacles are made with double
concave lenses. When I asked father about it, he gave me a book that
explained it all, and that is where I learned the little I know about
it."
"The _little_! I'd like to know what you call a good deal," said Tom. "I
never saw anybody that knew half as much as you do."
"That is only because we live in a new country, Tom, where there are no
very well educated people, and because you don't know how much there is
to learn in the world. If these Indians ever get quiet, I hope to learn
a good deal more every year than I know now. But it's time to see about
our mussel bake. Run to the look-out, Tom, and then we can all go down
and bring up the dinner."
CHAPTER VI.
SURPRISED.
The baked corn and mussels made a savory dish, or one which would have
been savory enough but for the absence of salt. The boys knew well
enough that salt was not to be had, however, and so they made a joke of
its absence, and even pretended that they did not like their food salted
at any time. Little Judie was so hungry that she cared very little
whether food tasted well or not, provided it satisfied her appetite.
The rest and the more wholesome food seemed to restore Sam to something
like his customary strength during the first ten days of his stay in the
"root fortress," as he had named their singular dwelling. His wounded
foot got better, though it was still far from well, and, better than
all, his fever left him. As he regained strength he began to lay plans
again. To stay where they were was well enough as a temporary device for
escaping the savages, but Sam's main purpose now was to get the little
people under his charge back to civilization somewhere, and then to do
his part in the war between the Indians and whites. He must first find a
way to get Tom and Judie and Joe into one of the forts or into some safe
town, and how to do this was the problem. He was unwilling to take them
away from their present pretty secure hiding-place until he could decide
upon some definite plan offering a reasonable prospect of escape. If he
could have known as much as we now know of the movements of the savages,
he would have had little difficulty. The larger part of the Indians had
left the peninsula now forming Clarke County, and crossed to the
south-eastern shore of the Alabama river,--the side on which Sam's root
fortress stood, and if he could have known this, he would have made an
effort to cross the river again and reach Fort Glass. The chief
difficulty in the way of this undertaking would have been that of
crossing the river, which was now swollen by recent rains. He knew
nothing about the matter, however, and as Fort Mims, the first point
attacked by the savages, was on the south-east side of the river, he
reasoned that having afterwards crossed to Clarke County the Indians
would not again cross to the south-east side in any considerable force.
In this, as we know, he was mistaken, and the error led him into some
danger, as we shall see. Thinking the matter over, he decided that his
first plan of a march down through the Tensaw Country to the
neighborhood of Mobile would be the safest and best thing to undertake.
He was unwilling, however, to begin it with his companions without
making a preliminary reconnoissance. Accordingly he explained the plan
to Tom and Joe, and said:
"I'm going to-night down towards old Fort Mims, to see if the country is
pretty free from Indians, and to find out what I can about the chance of
getting away from here. I'll leave you here with Judie, and you must be
extra careful about exposing yourselves. You've corn and mussels and
sweet potatoes enough already cooked, to last you a week, and I'll
probably be back before that; if not you must eat them raw till I do
come: it won't do to build a fire while I'm away." After giving minute
directions for their guidance during his absence, Sam put a sweet potato
in one pocket and an ear of corn in the other, and set out on his
journey, walking with a stout stick, having discarded his crutch as no
longer necessary. How far he walked that night, I am unable to say, his
course being a very circuitous one. The moon rose full, soon after dark,
and shone so brightly that Sam dared not cross the fields, but skirted
around them keeping constantly in the woods and the edges of canebrakes.
The next night and the next he continued his journey, though he found
the country full of Indians. He saw their "sign" everywhere, and now and
then saw some of the Indians themselves. The fourth evening found him so
lame (his foot having swelled and become painful again) that he could
not possibly go on. He had already gone far enough to discover that the
country on that side of the river was too full of Indians for him to
carry his little party safely through it, and so he determined to work
his way back to the root fortress, and try the other side. Seeing a
house in a field near by the place in which he had spent the day, he
resolved to visit it for the purpose of bringing away any article he
could find which might be useful to him in his effort to provide for his
little band. In a grove near the house he found a horse,--a young and
powerful animal, and as he feared his lameness would not permit him to
reach his root fortress again on foot, he determined to ride the animal
in spite of the fact that on horseback he would be in much greater
danger of discovery by the Indians than on foot. The horse had a bridle
on, and had evidently escaped, probably during a skirmish, from its
white or red master.
Sam tied him in the grove, and went on to the house, which had been
sacked and partially burned. Looking around in the moonlight, Sam
discovered a hatchet, and, in the corner of what had once been a
store-house, the remains of a barrel of salt. These were two valuable
discoveries. The hatchet would be of great service to him not only in
the root fortress but even more in forcing a pathway through the
canebrakes when he should again cross the river and try to reach one of
the forts. The salt he must have at any cost, and as he had no bag he
made one by ripping off the sleeve of his coat and tying its ends with
strips of bark. He had just filled it, and tied up the ends when,
hearing a noise, he turned, and saw two Indians within six feet of him.
CHAPTER VII.
CONFUSED.
The two Indians who had startled Sam, were on the point of entering the
old dwelling house, and seemingly were unaccompanied by any others. Sam
happened fortunately to be standing in shadow, and they passed without
seeing him. But what was he now to do? He was at the back of the house,
and a high picket fence around the place made it impossible for him to
escape by the front-way, towards which the savages had gone. Looking
through the door-way, he saw that the pair had passed through the room
nearest him and into the adjoining apartment. He knew that other Indians
were in the neighborhood, and that a dozen of them might wander into the
enclosure at any moment. Resolving upon a bold manoeuvre, he stepped
lightly into the rear room of the house, and climbed up inside the wide
mouthed chimney. Whether the Indians heard him or not he never knew, but
at any rate he was none too soon in hiding, for he had hardly cleared
the fireplace in his ascent when four or five savages came into the room
and began to demolish the few articles of furniture left in the house.
They had got whiskey somewhere, and having drank freely were even
noisier than white men get under the influence of strong drink. They
remained but a short time, when, setting fire again to the half-burned
house, they left the place yelling as savages only can. Sam escaped as
soon as he could from his uncomfortable quarters and made his way to the
grove. Mounting his horse he rode away in the direction of the root
fortress, keeping in the woods as well as he could and taking every
precaution to avoid coming suddenly upon savages.
As he rode only at night, the Indians' almost universal habit of
building camp-fires wherever they stop for the night, helped him to
avoid them. When morning came he sought a place deep in the forest, when
he turned his horse loose to graze all day, while he slept at some
distance from the animal, so that the noise of the beast's stamping and
browsing might not lead to the discovery of his own whereabouts.
As the evening of the second day of his return came round, Sam found
himself genuinely sick. His foot and leg were much inflamed, and the
excitement of the preceding night, together with his continued exposure
to the drenching dews of the Southern autumn, had brought back his fever
with increased violence, and a very brief experiment convinced him that
he could not go further that night. He mounted his horse, but had ridden
less than a mile when he felt a giddiness coming over him and found it
necessary to abandon the effort to ride that night. He could hardly see,
and the pain in his head, neck, back and limbs was excruciating. He
dismounted and threw himself down on the ground without taking the
trouble even to separate himself from his horse. The truth is, Sam had
what they call in South Carolina country fever, a high type of malarial
fever, which stupefies and benumbs its victim almost as soon as it
attacks him. The dews in the far South, especially in the fall, are so
heavy that the water will drip and even stream off the foliage of the
trees all night, and Sam had been drenched every night during both his
journeys, having no fire by which to warm himself or dry his clothes.
Even without this drenching the poisonous exhalations of the swamps and
woods would doubtless have given him the fever, and as it was he had it
very severely. He laid down again almost under his horse's feet and fell
into a sort of stupor. He knew that his fever required treatment, and
that it would rapidly sap his strength, and the thought came to him:
What if he should die there and never get back to the tree fortress? He
was too sick to care for himself, but the thought of little Judie
haunted his dreams, and he was seized with a semi-delirious impulse to
remount his horse and ride straight away to the hiding-place in which he
had left her, regardless of Indians, and of everything else. He dreamed
a dozen times that he was doing this, and finally, when morning came, he
forgot all about the danger of travelling by daylight, and mounting his
horse in a confused, half-delirious way, rode straight out of the woods
towards the open country, which he had hitherto so carefully avoided.
CHAPTER VIII.
WEATHERFORD.
The fiercest and most conspicuous leader of the Indians in this war was
William Weatherford, or the Red Eagle, as the Indians called him. He is
commonly spoken of in history as a half-breed, but he was in reality
almost a white man, with just enough of the Indian in his composition to
add savage emotions to Scotch intellect and Scotch perseverance. His
father was a Scotchman, and his mother a half-breed Indian Princess. He
was brought up in the best civilization the border had, his father being
wealthy. He became very rich himself, and, despite his savage instincts,
which were always strong, his wealth, in land and slaves, made him a
conservative. At first he favored a war with the whites, but a calmer
afterthought led him to desire peace, and when he found that the
tempest he had helped to stir up would not subside at his bidding, he
began casting about for a way of escape. He was a man of unquestionable
genius; a soldier of rare strategic ability; an orator of the truest
sort, and his courage in danger was simply sublime. Such a man was
likely to be of great value to the Indians in their approaching war, and
when they began to suspect his loyalty to the nation, they watched him
narrowly. Finding it impossible to postpone the war, and not wishing to
sacrifice his fine property near the Holy Ground, he made a secret
journey to the residence of his half brother David Tait and his brother
John Weatherford, who lived among what were known as the "peacefuls,"
namely, the Indians disposed to remain at peace with the whites in any
event. His brothers, hearing his story, advised him to bring his
negroes, horses and movable property generally, together with his
family, to their plantations, and to remain there, inactive and neutral,
during the struggle. When he returned to his residence for the purpose
of doing this, however, he found that the hostile Indians had seized his
family and his negroes as hostages, and, under the compulsion of their
threat that they would kill his wife and children if he should dare to
remain at peace, he joined in the war against the whites, becoming the
fiercest of all the chieftains. He planned and led the assault upon Fort
Mims, and was everywhere foremost in all the fighting. When the Creeks
were utterly routed at the battle of the Holy Ground a month or so after
the time of which I am writing, General Jackson issued a proclamation
refusing terms of peace to the chiefs until Weatherford, whom he had
determined to put to death, should be brought to him, alive or dead.
Weatherford hearing of this, although he was safe beyond the borders and
might have easily made his escape to Florida, as his comrade Peter
McQueen did, rode straightway to Jackson's head-quarters, where he said
to the commander who had set a price upon his head:--
"I am Weatherford. I have come to ask peace for my people. I am in your
power. Do with me as you please. I am a soldier. I have done the white
people all the harm I could. I have fought them and fought them bravely.
If I yet had an army I would fight and contend to the last. But I have
none. My people are all gone. I can now do no more than weep over the
misfortunes of my nation."
Jackson was so impressed with the sublime courage and the dignity of the
man upon whose head he had set a price, that he treated him at once with
chivalrous consideration. He told him that the only terms upon which the
Indians could secure peace were unconditional submission and uniform
good conduct; but "as for yourself," he said, "if you do not like the
terms, no advantage shall be taken of your present surrender. You are at
liberty to depart and resume hostilities when you please. But if you are
taken then, your life shall pay the forfeit of your crimes."
Weatherford calmly folded his arms and replied; "I desire peace for no
selfish reasons, but that my nation may be relieved from its sufferings;
for independent of the other consequences of the war, my people's cattle
are destroyed and their women and children destitute of provisions. I
may well be addressed in such language now. There was a time when I had
a choice and could have answered you. I have none now. Even hope has
ended. Once I could animate my warriors to battle. But I cannot animate
the dead. My warriors can no longer hear my voice. Their bones are at
Talladega, Tallashatche, Emuckfaw and Tohopeka. I have not surrendered
myself thoughtlessly. While there were chances of success I never left
my post nor supplicated peace. But my people are gone, and I now ask
peace for my nation and myself. On the miseries and misfortunes brought
upon my country, I look back with the deepest sorrow, and wish to avert
still greater calamities. If I had been left to contend with the Georgia
army, I would have raised my corn on one bank of the river and fought
them on the other. But your people have destroyed my nation. General
Jackson, you are a brave man,--I am another. I do not fear to die. But I
rely upon your generosity. You will exact no terms of a conquered and
helpless people but those to which they should accede. Whatever they may
be it would now be folly and madness to oppose them. If they are
opposed, you shall find me among the sternest enforcers of obedience.
Those who would still hold out can only be influenced by a mean spirit
of revenge. To this they must not and shall not sacrifice the last
remnant of their country. You have told us what we may do and be safe.
Yours is a good talk, and my nation ought to listen to it. They _shall_
listen to it."[1]
[Footnote 1: For these speeches of Weatherford's and for other
historical details I am indebted to a valuable and interesting book,
"Romantic Passages in South Western History," by A. B. Mull, Mobile, S.
H. Goetzsl & Co. publishers, which is now, unfortunately out of print.
The speeches are well authenticated I believe.]
Jackson was too generous and too brave a man to remain unmoved under
such a speech from a man who thus placed his own life in jeopardy for
the sake of his people. He bade the chieftain return home, and promised
peace to his people, a promise faithfully kept to this day. All this
however occurred nearly two months after the time of which I write, and
it is introduced here merely by way of explaining the things which
happened to Sam on the morning of the rash resumption of his journey.
This man Weatherford, the fiercest enemy the whites had, with a party
of about twenty-five Indians, bivouacked, the night before, in the edge
of the woods, and when Sam mounted his horse that morning the Indians
were lying asleep immediately in his path as he rode blindly out of the
thicket. The first intimation he had of their presence was a grunt from
a big savage who lay almost under his horse's feet. Coming to himself in
an instant, Sam took in the whole situation at a glance, and with the
rapidity and precision which people who are accustomed to the dangers
and difficulties of frontier life always acquire, he mentally weighed
all the facts bearing upon the question of what to do, and decided. He
saw before him the savages, rising from the ground at sight of him. He
saw their horses browsing at some little distance from them. He saw a
rifle, on which hung a powder-horn and a bullet-pouch, standing against
a bush. He saw that he had already aroused the foe, and that he must
stand a chase. His first impulse was to turn around and ride back, in
the direction whence he had come; but in that direction lay the thicket
through which he could not ride rapidly, and so if he should take that
course, he would lose the advantage which he hoped to gain from the
fleetness of his particularly good horse. Besides, in the thicket he
must of course leave a trail easily followed. Just beyond the group of
Indians he saw the open fields, and he made up his mind at once that he
would push his horse into a run, dash right through the camp of the
savages, pick up the convenient rifle if possible, and reaching the open
country make all the speed he could. In this he knew he would have an
advantage, inasmuch as he would get a good many hundred yards away
before the savages could catch and mount their horses for the purpose of
pursuing him, and he even hoped that they, seeing how far he was in
advance of them, would abandon the idea of pursuit altogether. All this
thinking, and weighing of chances, and deciding was the work of a single
half second, and the plan, once formed, was executed instantly. Without
pausing or turning he pushed his horse at a full run through the group
of savages, receiving a glancing blow from a war club and dodging
several others as he went. He succeeded in getting possession of the
rifle which stood by the bush, and reached the field before a gun could
be aimed at him. It was now his purpose to get so far ahead as to
discourage pursuit, and with this object in view he continued to urge
his horse forward at his best speed. This hope was a vain one, as he
soon discovered. The Indians, infuriated by his boldness, mounted their
horses and gave chase immediately. Sam had an excellent habit, as we
know, of keeping his wits about him, and of preparing carefully for
difficulties likely to come. The first thing to be done was to escape,
if possible, and so he continued to press his high-spirited colt
forward, while he debated the probabilities of being overtaken, and
discussed with himself the resources at his command if the savages
should come up with him. He was armed now, at any rate, and if running
should prove of no avail, he could and would sell his life very dearly.
Indeed the possession of the rifle roused all the spirit of battle there
was in him, and great as the odds were against him, he was sorely
tempted to pause long enough to shoot once at least. He remembered Tom
and Judie and Joe, however, and their dependence upon him for guidance
and protection, and for their sake more than for his own, suppressed
the impulse and continued his flight. The Indians were nearly half a
mile behind him, and, as nearly as he could tell, were not gaining upon
him very rapidly. His colt seemed equal to a long continued race, and as
yet showed no sign of faltering or fatigue. The question had now
resolved itself, Sam thought, into one of endurance. How long the
Indians would continue a pursuit in which he had the advantage of half a
mile the start, he had no way of determining, but that his horse's
endurance was as great at least as their perseverance, he had every
reason to hope.
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