Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History BookOpen Original Text through the ring.
"Would you keep a mother from her boy, and he to be lost to her for
ever? Shall she have no parting with the young brave she bore in her
bosom? Away, keep me not back--I will look upon him, I will love him.
He shall have the blessing of Matiwan, though the Yemassee and the
Manneyto curse."
The victim heard, and a momentary renovation of mental life, perhaps a
renovation of hope, spoke out in the simple exclamation which fell
from his lips:
"Oh, Matiwan--oh, mother!"
She rushed towards the spot where she heard his appeal, and thrusting
the executioner aside, threw her arms desperately about his neck.
"Touch him not, Matiwan," was the general cry from the crowd; "touch
him not, Matiwan,--Manneyto knows him no more."
"But Matiwan knows him--the mother knows her child, though Manneyto
denies him. Oh, boy--oh, boy, boy, boy." And she sobbed like an infant
on his neck.
"Thou art come, Matiwan--thou art come, but wherefore? To curse, like
the father--to curse, like the Manneyto?" mournfully said the captive.
"No, no, no! Not to curse, not to curse. When did mother curse the
child she bore? Not to curse, but to bless thee. To bless thee and
forgive."
"Tear her away," cried the prophet; "let Opitchi-Manneyto have his
slave."
"Tear her away, Malatchie," cried the crowd, now impatient for the
execution. Malatchie approached.
"Not yet, not yet," appealed the woman. "Shall not the mother say
farewell to the child she shall see no more?" and she waved Malatchie
back, and in the next instant drew hastily from the drapery of her
dress a small hatchet, which she had there carefully concealed.
"What wouldst thou do, Matiwan?" asked Occonestoga, as his eye caught
the glare of the weapon.
"Save thee, my boy--save thee for thy mother, Occonestoga--save thee
for the happy valley."
"Wouldst thou slay me, mother, wouldst strike the heart of thy son?"
he asked, with a something of reluctance to receive death from the
hands of a parent.
"I strike thee but to save thee, my son; since they cannot take the
totem from thee after the life is gone. Turn away from me thy
head--let me not look upon thine eyes as I strike, lest my hands grow
weak and tremble. Turn thine eyes away; I will not lose thee."
His eyes closed, and the fatal instrument, lifted above her head, was
now visible in the sight of all. The executioner rushed forward to
interpose, but he came too late. The tomahawk was driven deep into the
skull, and but a single sentence from his lips preceded the final
insensibility of the victim.
"It is good, Matiwan, it is good; thou hast saved me; the death is in
my heart." And back he sank as he spoke, while a shriek of mingled joy
and horror from the lips of the mother announced the success of her
effort to defeat the doom, the most dreadful in the imagination of the
Yemassee.
"He is not lost, he is not lost. They may not take the child from his
mother. They may not keep him from the valley of Manneyto. He is
free--he is free." And she fell back in a deep swoon into the arms of
Sanutee, who by this time had approached. She had defrauded
Opitchi-Manneyto of his victim, for they may not remove the badge of
the nation from any but the living victim.
MARION.
"_The Swamp Fox._"
(_From the Partisan._)
I.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
His friends and merry men are we;
And when the troop of Tarleton rides,
We burrow in the cypress tree.
The turfy hammock is our bed,
Our home is in the red deer's den,
Our roof, the tree-top overhead,
For we are wild and hunted men.
II.
We fly by day, and shun its light,
But, prompt to strike the sudden blow,
We mount and start with early night,
And through the forest track our foe.
And soon he hears our chargers leap,
The flashing sabre blinds his eyes,
And ere he drives away his sleep,
And rushes from his camp, he dies.
III.
Free bridle-bit, good gallant steed,
That will not ask a kind caress,
To swim the Santee at our need,
When on his heels the foemen press,--
The true heart and the ready hand,
The spirit stubborn to be free,
The twisted bore, the smiting brand,--
And we are Marion's men, you see.
IV.
Now light the fire, and cook the meal,
The last perhaps that we shall taste;
I hear the Swamp Fox round us steal,
And that's a sign we move in haste.
He whistles to the scouts, and hark!
You hear his order calm and low--
Come, wave your torch across the dark,
And let us see the boys that go.
V.
We may not see their forms again,
God help 'em, should they find the strife!
For they are strong and fearless men,
And make no coward terms for life;
They'll fight as long as Marion bids,
And when he speaks the word to shy,
Then--not till then--they turn their steeds,
Through thickening shade and swamp to fly.
VI.
Now stir the fire, and lie at ease,
The scouts are gone, and on the brush
I see the colonel bend his knees,
To take his slumbers too--but hush!
He's praying, comrades; 'tis not strange;
The man that's fighting day by day,
May well, when night comes, take a change,
And down upon his knees to pray.
VII.
Break up that hoe-cake, boys, and hand
The sly and silent jug that's there;
I love not it should idly stand,
When Marion's men have need of cheer.
'Tis seldom that our luck affords
A stuff like this we just have quaffed,
And dry potatoes on our boards
May always call for such a draught.
VIII.
Now pile the brush and roll the log;
Hard pillow, but a soldier's head
That's half the time in brake and bog
Must never think of softer bed.
The owl is hooting to the night,
The cooter crawling o'er the bank,
And in that pond the flashing light
Tells where the alligator sank.
IX.
What! 'tis the signal! start so soon.
And through the Santee swamp so deep,
Without the aid of friendly moon,
And we, Heaven help us! half asleep!
But courage, comrades! Marion leads,
The Swamp Fox takes us out to-night;
So clear your swords, and spur your steeds,
There's goodly chance, I think, of fight.
X.
We follow where the Swamp Fox guides,
We leave the swamp and cypress tree,
Our spurs are in our coursers' sides,
And ready for the strife are we,--
The Tory camp is now in sight,
And there he cowers within his den,--
He hears our shouts, he dreads the fight,
He fears, and flies from Marion's men.
[Illustration: [Handwriting: Most truly & aff^ly yours
R E Lee]]
ROBERT EDWARD LEE.
~1807=1870.~
ROBERT EDWARD LEE was born at Stratford, Westmoreland County,
Virginia, descended from a long line of illustrious ancestors. He was
educated as a soldier at West Point, served with great distinction
under General Scott in the Mexican War, and commanded the troops which
suppressed the John Brown Raid in 1859. When his State seceded in
1861, he resigned his commission of Colonel in the United States Army,
and returned to Virginia. He was appointed commander-in-chief of the
Virginia forces, and later of the Confederate Army. His course during
the war has elicit Previous Next |