Cofachiqui, and Other Poems/Cofachiqui
For works with similar titles, see Cofachiqui.
COFACHIQUI.
COFACHIQUI.PART I
THE MEETING OF DE SOTO AND COFACHIQUI.
OF all the wild romances done or told,When first old Europe with the New World met,None had beginning brighter or more bold,Or saw its sun more darkly clouded set,Or of its hero's crimes and faults the debtDemanded payment fuller and more dire,Than that begun on Tampa's beach (while yet'Twas music, sunshine, steeds, silk, steel and fire)And ended low and lone in Mississippi's mire.
As fresh and pleasant was the dayAs well might be at close of May So near the torrid belt.Fresh from the gulf the breezes blewFor thirty leagues the pine woods throughAnd with the odorous turpentineDeep-laden stirred the blood like wine And left the heat unfelt.Near where the belt of pine woods brokeAnd merged into a greener woodOf sycamore, magnolia, oakAnd gum, an Indian village stood, Not many leagues above where rolledInto the Chattahachi bold The Tronstisca's tide,With orange ocher slightly tinged,Now here with wood or cane-brake fringed And there a meadow-side.Broad space about the town was seenThe tasseled corn-fields waving green.No tepees of the bison skin,As dwelt the fierce Dakotas in;No lodges of the birchen bark,Like those built by the Chippewas dark;No squalid huts of bulrush mats,Such as the Winnebago plaits, Composed this Indian ville;But spacious houses good and high,And with long grass thatched thick and dry,With walls of tree-trunks peeled or dress'd,Did for their builders well attest Both industry and skill.
The ruler of this Indian townWas not some warrior of renown,In battle skillful, strong and bold,Nor yet a wizard sage and old, But sooth! a maiden young.The daughter of a dead cacique,Through all the place in vain you'd seek For wiser head or tongue.Her graceful form of middle hightAt once seemed plump and airy light;Her crown of thick, long, jet-black hair, Her eyes of depth and luster rare,And many traits in that dark faceWere like a maid's of Jewish race.So maiden Esther might have seemedWhen on the Persian king she beamed.It was not beauty that one saw—Each feature perfect, not a flaw—But some expression which aloneBrighter than faultless beauty shone,Something too vague for words to speak,Which makes a woman's face uniqueAnd prints it on one's memory clear,To haunt his fancy many a year And bid his pulses thrill,When after, in another face,Some slight resemblance he may trace To the charm that haunts him still.That such high gifts of face and mindShould 'mong that simple people findA lover ready to admireIn each young chief who dared aspire To Cofachiqui's hand,Was sure to be, and at the timeTo which refers our opening rhymeTwo young cacicques, both of renown,As suitor guests were in the town, Each with attendant band.
The first was Vitachuco bold,A high cacique whose deeds were toldIn many a southern battle-song.Full oft his arm had been proved strong, Upon the "Dark and Bloody Ground,"Against the Shawnees swarming 'round,Whene'er that savage northern hordeHad o'er the broad Ohio poured.O'er neighboring tribes his royal swayStretched far from Pensacola BayTo where the swirling TennesseeBreaks forth from northern mountains free.
The other chief who dared to standA rival for the princess' handWas younger, but of giant frame,And Talladega was his name.His father was an Indian kingOf giant size and high renown,Who ruled o'er many a populous town;And Tascaluza's name did ringFrom Florida's southeastern strandFar to the Mississippi grand.And Talladega, though yet young,Had given the Natchez cause to dreadAnd quail before his war-club swungBroad-sweeping 'round his towering head.
In honor of her noble guests,And urged thereto by strong requests,Fair Cofachiqui did proclaimA grand match of that stirring game,The Indians' favorite, football free,Where all might either play or see,Upon a meadow fair and wide.Of all the players there, one side Should be by Vitachuco led,The other Talladega head.The first the color green should wearIn paint on chest and plumes in hair;The other should be marked by redFrom waist-belt to the feathered head.
Among the Greens the second placeHeld young Ateamba—manly graceCombined he with a comely face.Proved good in war and good in chase,Good in the wrestle and the race.The princess' townsman was the youth,And rumor whispered that in truthOf all her suitors proud and highHe found most favor in her eye.
At either end, to mark the boundOf that long, level playing ground,Three poles were placed to form a gate—The rude game's passage—way of fate—Bedecked with plumage brave and brightAnd trophies of the chase and fightHalf way between the boundary gatesThe crowd the opening signal waits.On each side ranged in order fair,The players stood in silence there—To east the Red, to west the Green—Twelve paces wide was clear between.In this wide opening. took his standAn umpire holding in his hand.A huge ball filled with mosses light And bound with buckskin strong and tight.When ready, with a startling cryStraight up he tossed the huge ball high.
Then Talledega's giant strideClears quickly half that opening wide,And with his arms of matchless lengthAnd supple hands of iron strengthStretched far above all other grasps,The swift-descending ball he clasps.With instant rush both friends and foesImpetuous 'round him densely close.With trips and pushes, tugs and blowsThe Greens that giant form assailTo overthrow, without avail,And struggling strong in his defense,The Reds mix in the mêlée dense.Short space they strove with clamor loud,Till showed some opening through the crowd;Then Vitachuco, who had eyedAs yet the struggling throng aside,Leaped instant through the opening way,And like a tiger on his prey,All his vast force with one quick springDid he on Talladega fling.When that tremendous onset cameAn instant reeled that giant frameAnd then came crashing to the groundAmid the struggling mass around,Like some lone lighthouse whose tall form.Long has defied the raging storm,Till iron thews and ribs of rock Give way to the resistless shock,When on it full the cyclone ravesIn utmost wrath of winds and waves.
But Talladega, as he fell,Flung off the ball, and aimed so well,Though in such strait, and cast so strong,It flew beyond the struggling throngTo where a Red had ta'en his stand.This caught the ball with skillful handAnd for the green goal 'gan a race,While many a Green gave instant chase.But as the hostile goal he neared,A keeper of the gate appearedAnd on the weary runner cameLike the fresh hound on tired game.The Red, to meet this danger near,Was forced from his straight course to sheerAnd losing way, quick from the rearThree Greens at once upon him clenchedAnd from his grasp the huge ball wrenched.Quick toward the red goal they beganTheir flight, but quickly as they ranAbout them closed with clamor loudOf Red and Green a mingled crowd.
Then higher still the turmoil rose;With yells and leaps and kicks and blows Strove every frantic one.The plumage which so gay had tossedNow vanished quickly like white frost Before the morning sun. Blood flowed from many a swollen limb,Each face with sweat and dust was grim,On each broad chest the paint that gleamedWas furrowed thick with sweat that streamed;
Showed Vitachuco in the throngA player agile, skilled and strong;And Talladega's giant strideBroke through the turmoil far and wide.His long arms griped and headlong tossedTh' opposing Greens whose way he crossed.But inch by inch the Reds did yield,And toward the middle of the fieldBack, slowly back, the ball was urged,And there the contest doubtful surged.At last, with one decisive kick,Which mingled fortune, skill and trick,Did Vitachuco spurn the ball.It flew high o'er the heads of all,And quick of limb and keen of eye,Ateamba caught it on the fly.As the great rabbit of the WestDarts through the sage when hotly pressed,So with the ball Ateamba spedRight toward the goal kept by the Red.
A goalman red sprang forth to meetAnd grapple with the runner fleet;But swerving swift as swallows sweep,Ateamba, with one nimble leap,Apast the baffled goalman flashedAnd onward for the red gate dashed. Forth instant sprang five goalmen red,Alert and swift, with hands outspreadTo form a line through which must breakAteamba, if the goal he'd make.Too long the line to pass around,Through it he scarce might hope to bound.To the goal 't was three score paces yetWhen those stretched arms Atcamba met.Like lightning back his arm he drewAnd hurled the ball with aim so trueAnd with such unexpected forceThat with high curve it struck the groundSo near the gate that in its courseIt passed with thrice repeated boundQuite through the now unguarded gate,Deciding thus the hot game's fate.
Up quickly came the surging crowd,One party filled with triumph proud,The other stung with fierce chagrinAlmost intolerably keen.So hot their blood, so deeply stirredTheir spirits, that a taunting wordMight well have signaled bloody strifeAnd cost full many a brave his life,But that before the game beganStrictly disarmed was every man.
Ere this excitement was allayed,A messenger arrived and saidThat thither marched in rapid courseA strange if not a hostile force; Strange beasts they rode, strange dress they wore,And stranger still the arms they bore.Each chief well knew the courier toldOf Soto and the Spaniards bold,Who'd ten days since come sweeping downUpon a neighboring chieftain's town,Whose warriors some resistance made,But quailed before a fusiladeThat seemed to them the fatal flashOf lightning and the thunder's crash.Then, when resistance vain did cease,The strangers sat them down in peace.
Such news Tascambia had heardIn wonder vague, but now was stirredTo tumult every heart in town,From princess, chief and warrior down,At thought of meeting face to faceThese warriors of an unknown race.And then the question quickly rose,"Meet we these men as friends or foes?"Most deemed it vain and rash to fight—As gods they held the strangers white.For war was Vitachuco's voiceAnd such was Talladega's choice,Both burning in their princess' sightTo show their prowess in the fight.But Cofachiqui's gentle heartImpelled her to the peaceful part,And her good sense bade her refrainFrom strife disastrous, bloodshed vain. Her gentle words to silence quelledThe spirit fierce and proud which swelledBold Vitachuco's heart with ireAnd blazed in Talladega's eyes like fire.
A quiet deep then settled downUpon the lately clamorous town.From child and squaw to chief and brave,With eager hearts but faces grave,With wondering minds but lips all dumb,The Indians waited till should comeTheir visitors with faces fairWho bore the lightnings of the air.Into the woods no Indian scoutTo watch the strangers ventured out.
Thus in suspense the long hours passed;Upon their waiting ears at lastCame suddenly a bugle's blast;A peal of martial music brokeFrom the dark woods of gum and oakThat rose a bowshot's space or moreBeyond the river's farther shore.Soon as they heard the warning blastThe Indians thronged the bank full fast,And, gazing o'er the stream, they sawA scene of wonder and of awe.
Forth from the greenwood's sounding aislesEmerged the Spaniards' glittering files.A score of horsemen first advanced—Their guidons streamed, their horses pranced; Like lightning flashed each polished sword;And then the musketeers outpoured.Behind the swarming musketeersRode out three hundred cavaliers.With sash and plume each knight was gay,With silk and steel gleamed their array.With jingling spurs and scabbards' clankThey swept around the footmen's flanks,And nearer toward the river bankThey formed their long and brilliant ranks;And as the low, unclouded sunShone full on breast-plate, sword and gun,The polished steel intensely gleamed,Above it silken banners streamed.
A space the Spaniards silent stoodAs at their backs the dark-green wood;Then from the line of muskets brokeA sudden fringe of flame and smoke;Rang out the bugles' brazen throats,The drums pealed thick their thrilling notes.Forth from the ranks De Soto rode—Fast by each side a footman strode.From golden spurs to helmet brightDe Soto seemed the perfect knight,And port and presence well becameThe bold adventurer's world-wide fame.His form showed litheness, strength and grace,His pleasant, frank and manly face(Albeit somewhat grave and cold)Was shaded by a mustache boldTurned backward with majestic sweep— Its hue, once glossy black and deep,Now flecked with many a silver hair,But less from age than toil and care.
The Spaniard at De Soto's side,Juan Ortiz, a soldier tried,Was shipwrecked many a year beforeAnd cast on Florida's wild shore.He'd sojourned long the Indians 'mongAnd well had learned their uncouth tongue. At Soto's other handAn Indian brought from Tampa's beachWho knew full well the differing speech Of this interior land.
The river's edge De Soto gained,Nor there his prancing horse he reined, But in the river dashed.Although the stream was swift and wide,The footmen struggled at his side— Their belts the waters plashed.Soon on the other side they stood,And Soto then, as best he could,Made signs of friendship to the throngOf Indians that stretched along A stone's throw from the streamAnd with admiring fear and aweThe Spaniards' brilliant pageant saw As specters in a dream.
At Soto's sign the royal maidAdvanced to meet him—not afraid. Too proud and brave was she to fearE'en beings from another sphere.On this side Vitachuco walked,On that tall Talladega stalked;Behind the three Atcamba came—Too modest other place to claim.
As Cofachiqui near him drew,Full well her rank De Soto knew.Down from his horse he lightly sprangAnd on the ground his helmet rang.Ne'er courtier to his queen displayedA finer courtesy and graceThan Soto to this Indian maidWith untaught mind and nut-brown face.And not the Spaniard's grace aloneBy manner or by speech was shown;He placed in Cofachiqui's handGifts that she deemed from fairy land:A tiny bell, a mirror brightAnd sparkling bead work red and white.
Right well the artless Indian maidEach gracious word and gift repaid.She welcome gave with accents sweetAnd for a counter present meetUntwined from 'round her jet-black hairA string of pearls, pure large and rare,Which might a queenly crown have graced.The string 'round Soto's neck was placedAs to the little maid low bowedThe Spaniard's head so high and proud. And then De Soto turned his gazeWith genial, free and flattering phraseUpon the chieftains who in prideStood mute the gentle maid beside;And soon his compliments did chaseThe gloom from each vindictive face;And while his praises oped each heart,He careless spoke with covert artOf his condition proud and highAs one descendant from the sky;Said his complexion strange and whiteWas birthright from that source of lightWhich gleamed upon his armor bright.The powers that armed the thunder's crashAnd reddened in the lightning's flashWere his; but as the powers of airWere seldom fierce and often fair,And like the sun benign and bright,He too would rather smile than smite.
The Indians soon were friends as freeAs with such guest they well dare be,And Cofachiqui did installDe Soto in her fairest hallWhere for his sojourn he might restWith honors like a royal guest.His soldiers, who had crossed the tideAnd bivouacked by the river side,With food were lavishly supplied,And for their horses grass and maizeWere brought by those who staid to gazeWith admiration and good-will, But mixed with awe and shyness still,Upon the guests who did appearAs beings from another sphere.
When next the morning mists uprolledThe chieftains, Vitachuco boldAnd giant Talladega too,From out Tascambia withdrewAnd by a straight trail each returnedTo where his people's lodge-fires burned.In secret both were ill at ease,Despite De Soto's care to please.Though still was kind their princess' look,They could not such a rival brook,And to retire they thought it bestAnd come again another day,What time the unexpected guestWould be, they trusted, far away.
Days passed and still De Soto staid;But woe unto the royal maid!The flower of courtesy so brightThat erst had graced the gallant knightQuite withered in the baleful lightOf gold, as might the rose-wreath scorchIn pitchy flame of pine-knot torch.The Spaniard's greed some trinkets firedAnd for more gold he strait inquired.He wrongly thought that millions moreIn secret somewhere lay in store.His unsuspecting hostess kindWas to her house by guard confined And Soto all her people gave.To know that henceforth for his slaveTheir well loved princess he would holdSave for her weight in ransom gold.
PART II.
THE BATTLE OF THE LAKE.
AN oft repeated story—the vain clashOf rude, barbaric arms 'gainst Latin mail,Of hosts unnumbered, brave, untaught and rash,Whose onsets fierce and stubborn efforts failWhile steadier skill and deadlier arms prevail.'Gainst giant Teutons firm the Legions stand,Bide the wild onset, like tornade and hail,Of fiery Gauls; and Cortez' little bandPlunge through the sea-like hosts of Montezuma's land.
At Vitachuco's capital,Within a high and spacious hall,Hewn from the trunks of cypress woodAnd roofed with grass mats many hued, The Spanish leader sateAt noon-day meal. Among the restWho 'round De Soto's table pressed,Rose Vitachuco's haughty crest, With pearls and plumes ornate.
That proud cacique, whose lightest wordHis myriad braves with reverence heard,Had with De Soto treaty made And purchased peace with tribute paid Of food for horse and man.But long did he did he negotiateBefore he bowed his pride and hateAnd curbed his hot revenge to wait The working of his plan.
With Soto master in his hall,While he was there at Soto's call,And with the Spanish fetters stillOn his loved princess, he could ill His rage subdue or hide.Though hard and constant was the task,He hid his hate 'neath friendship's mask,And all that Soto well could ask He lavishly suppied;
But secretly sent couriers ten,All warriors tried and wily men,To muster up his warriors allAnd on fierce Tascaluza call For braves three thousand more.He bade his warriors all repairTo Allagarda, as though thereThey came to bring for Spanish fare Of grain and meat great store;
But leave their bows and war-clubs hidIn lines the tall, rank grass amid,That waved on Allagarda's plainLike billows on the heaving main, And at the hour of noon To muster promptly on that fieldIn ranks behind their arms concealed,And be their yell of battle pealed And weapons grasped, as soon,
As they before them should espyTheir chieftains 'broidered belt waved high;Then on their foes like panthers leap,Or as the black tornadoes sweep Upon the Indian Isles.But when was deepest Indian plotAgainst the white men ever brought,And fatal treachery did not Expose the deep-laid wiles?
One of their couriers, in dreadThat Spanish vengeance on his head,For part he'd taken in the plot,Would fall, if failure were its lot, Like lightning on the oak,And lest the plot, if not his own,Some other traitor tongue had shown,The details of the scheme made known— Thus was the secret broke.
He thought that squadron's charge and wheel,Those iron hearts and brands of steel,Would rend his warriors' myriad hem,And no avail were stratagem Against their vigilance.Shrewdly the traitor thought, and soThe plot goes on with naught to show To the cacique the Spaniards know While feigning ignorance.
"Brave Spaniard," Vitachuco said,"Through many lands thy band thou'st led,And much of war's array, I ween,And of its splendor thou hast seen; And wilt thou care to gazeAwhile upon whate'er arrayMy unskilled braves in their poor wayShall in thine honor make to-day— Look while thou canst not praise?
"No steeds shall prance, no blades shall flash,No banners wave, no armor clash,No thunders roar, no trumpets ring,As when the hosts of thy great king, As I have heard thee say,Go forth against their Paynim foes—Not e'en shall war-clubs, spears or bows,Or arms at all be borne by thoseWhom thou shalt see to-day.
They are my people who are hereTo bring supplies for thee; and nearUs lies a level space and free,Where all the long lines thou canst see— This is their muster ground.Like panthers they, with muzzled jawsAnd strong, lithe limbs bereft of claws,Whose agile movements win applause From hunters gathered 'round.
Is this, Cacique, then, all thy plot?It has without a single thoughtOf Soto's vigilance been made.E'en though it had not been betrayed, Sure, it were vain and weakTo think that leader shrewd would goAlone to face a myriad, thoughTold it was but an unarmed show— Told by their own cacique.
"Thanks, brave Cacique," De Soto said,"I'll gladly look on your parade;My soldiers too will gladly seeThis pageant they shall go with me; And as a slight returnMade for thy gracious courtesy,Thou 'lt see the sweep of cavalry;The volleyed flash of musketry In mimic fight shall burn.
"But ill, I fear, will be repaidThe courtesy of your parade;For 'gainst the hosts of your broad landThe thin ranks of my scanty band Will make but poor array.But true is every sword and heart,Each man well knows the soldier's art,And Spanish soldiers never part From weapons, night nor day."
One moment doubt and quick dismayThe chieftain's mind held in their sway, And 'countering De Soto's gaze,A moment quailed his black eyes' blaze Beneath that deep, stern look.But then his native hardihoodThat moment's panic soon withstood;His face resumed its calm, stern mood, Again the word he took.
As when the hunter's bark is drawnDown through the narrow, dark cañonBy the swift current's mighty sweep,Hemmed in by high walls rising steep, He 'gainst the current strivesNo more, but turns adown the tideAnd boldly trusts his skill to guideHis bark from jagged rocks aside, And on through dangers drives;
So did the chief the peril meet;He hoped no longer to retreat,Or take the Spaniards unaware,And he resolved their might to dare In open, desperate fight.The meal is done: the Spanish trainIs formed anon, and soon they gain,Near by the town, the open plain, With bloom and verdure bright.
On this side lies a little lakeWhose wavelets 'mong the lilies breakOn its low shore, while far aroundStretch wooded hills the plain to bound; The intervening spaceFrom reedy lake to mountain woodFor half a league showed fair and good;And here a dusky myriad stood As though in battle place.
But weapons none in hand they bore,Nor at their belts or backs they wore,Yet each one there was warrior right;With lofty plumes each crest was bright Above the dark, stern face.How soon at Vitachuco's sign,Along that still and unarmed line,Stout bows shall bend and spears incline And brandish many a mace.
The Spaniards come. Before them strideThe chief and Soto side by side.The Spaniards halt; and now the darkCacique has loosed his belt; but hark! A musket shot rings clear!Quick at that musket's signal soundTen sturdy soldiers at a boundTh' amazed, betrayed cacique surround And hurl him to the rear.
The Indian ranks a moment wait,Astounded by their leader's fate;Then, with a startling battle cryWhich seems to rend the very sky, They grasp their arms concealed.De Soto on his charger springs, High o'er his head his saber swings,And "Charge! my men," his loud voice rings, "And hurl them from the field!"
His spurs are in his horse's flanks;He dashes on the Indian ranks;Before him rears a ridge of spears;A thousand bowmen to their ears Draw back the straining strings.A thousand feathered shafts are sped;De Soto's horse, the Indians' dread,Pierced by ten arrows, floundering dead, To earth his rider flings.
So near his foes, in deadly plightA moment seems the unhorsed knight.But as he nimbly gains his feetAnd grasps his sword his foes to meet, His comrades past him go.On the three hundred horsemen dashAnd high three hundred sabers flash;Down through the tall, bright plumes they crash And through the heads below.
And quickly as they rise againThey dimly gleam through blood, as whenThe carbine's flash red through the smokeIs seen; at each successive stroke More redly dim the steel.As through the Indian ranks they rush,The fiery horses 'neath them crushThe natives, and a crimson flush Soon dyes each iron heel.
But while the horsemen's bloody swordsRage through the right wing's dusky hordes,The deep ranks of the long left wingAround the slower footmen swing With a shrill battle scream.But, as their swarming foes advance,The close-ranked footmen keep their stanceAnd fast their arquebuses glance And their keen halberds gleam.
The horsemen's sabers rise and fallTo frantic shout and bugle callHigh swells the muskets' rattling roar,The clattering drums their wild notes pour, Swords clash and cymbals clang;Flint spears are hurled with vengeful throw;Around them hiss like driving snowThe volleyed shafts that many a bow Sends forth with spiteful twang.
'Neath them the Spanish armor rung,And like a maddened hornet stung,At times, a keen and flinty pointThat chanced to strike a loosened joint Or place devoid of mail.The heavy war-clubs downward swungUpon the bright steel helmets rungDull, like a bell with muffled tongue Tolled by the passing gale.
But war-clubs' blows and archers' rain And savage valor all were vain:The sweeping saber's fearful clash,The arquebuse's fatal flash, Such dreadful havoc madeAmong the dense, disordered throngThat late had marched ten thousand strongIn savage pomp and pride along, In paint and plumes arrayed.
The strange and dreadful Spanish armsAnd horses filled them with alarms;But long before they turned and fledThe battle plain was strewn with dead And slippery with their gore;And ere they reached the mountain woodWhich near the field of battle stood,The bloody sabers that pursued Cut down full many more.
Nine hundred men, a chosen band,The best and bravest of the land,Were not among the fleeing horde.When parted by the horse and sword They rallied soon again,As waters which the rushing prowDivides unite again, and now,Though all seemed lost, they thought but how The fight to still sustain.
Pressed back by the returning tideOf Spaniards to the deep lake's side,Which, at a spear's length from the shore, Attained a fathom's depth or more, They plunged undaunted in,And swam a bow-shot from the beach,Where, far beyond the saber's reachAnd trampling hoofs, they turnéd each, A new fight to begin.
They formed together, four and four,In living platforms which upboreEach one a fifth, a brave who drewHis string unwet, and strong and true His arrows flew to shore,And well for them—that Spanish throngThat stretched the water's marge along—'Gainst those unerring shafts and strong, That they steel doublets wore.
Sometimes the keen, barbed points, e'en then,Struck down the strong and mail-clad men;But still the escopetas rangAnd still the deadly bullets sang, And archers dropped their bows.And from their comrades' shoulders fell,With stifled groan or dying yellAnd blood-wreaths curdling red to tell Where the waters o'er them close.
And still, until the day was gone,The desultory strife went on,And still the braves made 'gainst their fateResistance hopeless, desperate, And strongly still upbore. Unheeded as the musket ballThe Spaniards' oft repeated call,Proclaiming truce to each and all Who'd come in peace to shore.
'Tis night; the evening star has set,And all the down-trod grass is wetWith tears of dew that weep the blue,Unclouded skies from starry eyes O'er many a warrior prone.No cries come from that battle plain;The wounded, silent as the slain,With bodies gored and racked with pain, Disdain to make a moan.
And still around the little lakeThe Spaniards did a circle make,And yet, at times, upon the nightLeaped forth the flashing musket's light— The swimmers yet held out.But long their bows had been unbentAnd every sheaf of arrows spent;To swimming all their efforts went, Though skilled their arms and stout.
The morning sun has mounted highInto the clear blue summer sky,And one by one those wretched bravesHave sunk into their watery graves Or captives come to land.But seven, with courage high imbued,Sustained by matchless fortitude And great endurance, unsubdued, Still ply the weary hand.
Seven steel coats clang upon the ground,Seven Spaniards in the water bound,Strong men and skillful swimmers each;The worn-out Indians soon they reach And drag them to the shore.Awhile they lie, nor move nor speak,Till one replies in accents weakTo Soto's question, "Why, Cacique, Did you not yield before?"
"Our sovereign Vitachuco's handHas favored us with high commandAbove his bravest, and this trust,The token of his favor, must Be kept unbroken, thoughTo keep it might (it did) requireThat we should in yon lake expire,Or even die the death of fire And torture lingering slow.
"And why do you degrade us, then?Nor let us die like braves and men?We should have perished in yon lake,Still fighting for his royal sake Who made us what we were.That we surrender to his foes,E'en though with arms too weak for blows,Is deepest of disgrace and woes A warrior may incur."
"T were shame to chivalry did IFail to admire your courage high,Your fortitude and constancy,"Said Soto, "and your loyalty, Misplaced e'en though it be.The freedom justly lost by youAs forfeit of rebellion due,I grant again to heroes true— In honor go ye free.
Th' enthusiastic Spaniards eachApprove with warmth De Soto's speech;But sadly and with humbled lookThe boon of life and freedom took Those chiefs, so proud before.Though free their limbs from captives' banFrom menial service free their hands,Yet, held at grant of Spanish brands, The gift small value bore.Days passed, and the cacique once moreAt Soto's board sat as beforeAnd pledged his broken faith anewTo Soto, who had feigned to view His lapse with lenient eye.But all the captives of the lake,Save seven, was Soto pleased to take,And of them slaves a time to make— Slaves! with such spirits high!
As safe behind the bars that keepThe tiger may the keeper sleep; As safely in the magazineMay lamps be lit and fire be seen, As Soto's soldiers mayLive thus among a horde of slavesRevengeful as those fiery braves,Untamable as wild sea waves, Save 'neath their chieftain's sway.
And the cacique as calmly boreHimself, and proud, as when beforeHe sat among the cavaliers,And by their hidden bows and spears His myriad formed array.Up suddenly the Indian sprangAnd wild and high his war-cry rang!Re-echoed like a cymbal's clang The hills a mile away.
One leap—he gained De Soto's side;With all the force that hate supplied,Full on those bearded lips he hurled,From that strong arm that oft had whirled The six-foot club, a blow.Down Soto sank that blow beneath,Down senseless, with his sword in sheath;From mangled lips and shattered teeth Gushed out the crimson flow.
Up sprang the cavaliers about;A dozen ready swords leaped out.On the cacique with whirl and flash,On head and limb, with thrust and slash, The swords came, many a one.Like pine tree 'neath the axman's blows,He reeled and sank among his foes,He struggling fell, but never rose— Life's fierce career was run.
When Vitachuco with that yellSo tiger-like on Soto fell,All the red slaves who owned him chiefRoused fiercely in one moment brief And sprang upon their lords.Not theirs to pour the archer rainAnd level lines of spears again,As erst on Allagarda's plain— Not these their lot affords.
Some, desperate, struck with naked hands,With fagots some and blazing brandsAnd stones; but oh! how vain and weakWere these their deep revenge to wreak Where battle line had failed.But with the courage of despairThey met the swords with hands all bare,And none of all those mad slaves there From sure destruction quailed.
More prompt their certain doom had beenTo fall beneath the sabers keen,But that the Spaniards proud awhileDisdained their bright swords to defile In the blood of unarmed slaves.But those whom spared the cavaliers Died by the red allies flint spearsOr volleys from the musketeers— They all found bloody graves.
PART III.
THE GOLD-HUNTERS.
WHAT deeds, what crimes have men not done for gold?We read them in the records of to-day,Yet damp, and in that chronicle of old,Which tells how Israel's children turned awayFrom God—the blazing mount forgot--to prayTo the dumb golden idol they had madeOf gems once worn by Egypt's daughters gay;And Babylon's golden god, its homage paid.By all who of the fiery furnace were afraid.
And often since have golden gods been placedBefore the heart with fierce devotion fired,Till, all God's image from that heart erased,It seemed by fiercest fiends to be inspired.Unawed by dangers, by fatigues untired,For love of gold men dared the desert graves,Pressed on with energy to be admired;'Mid barren mountains toiling like black slaves,They founded mighty states far by the western waves.
Vitachuco's wounds still bled,Fresh and free, their currents red,When an Indian courier spedStraight as bees do homeward fly, To the camp of the ally.When he scarce three leagues had gone,Sped the news another on.Messengers so fleet and trueOnward with the tidings flew,Which at noon had left the town,That, when evening shades came down,Thirteen leagues their flight had passed.
Came the messenger at last.To a camp where by the fireTalladega and his sireWaited tidings of the foe—Waited hopefully to knowWhat of Vitachuco's plot,If that fiery chief had wroughtVengeance on De Soto's head,Ruin on the Spaniards dread.When that chieftain's call was madeFor three thousand warriors' aid,To his aid three thousand went,Prompt by Tascaluza sent.They returned a scattered horde,Fled from Spanish horse and sword.
Now again disastrous wordTascaluza wrathful heard:How that brave and fierce caciqueFell in last attempt to wreakRetribution dire and dueOn De Soto's robber crew.Broken was that colleague's power, Slain with him his army's flower,Braves enslaved or, leaderless,Scattered in the wilderness—Lost his cause beyond redress.
Cofachiqui still a slaveLanguished, said the courier brave.Talladega wrathful heard,But still to his sire deferred—Tascaluza took the word:"Cofachiqui, sayest thou,Wears the Spanish fetters now?Feeble were the hawk's wings, weakWere his talons and his beak!Spite of his attack so bold,Still the vulture keeps his holdOn the dove, and still shall keepTill the mighty eagle's sweepDrives the filthy tyrant far,On the dead once more to war—Ne'er upon fair forms of life.More to wage rapacious strife."
"Well hast thou thy likeness wrought,"Vitachuco's courier thoughtAngrily, but spoke no word;"Small the odds to that poor bird,Were she in the vulture's craw,Or the savage eagle's claw.""Nay, great chief," outspoke he then,"Thou hast wronged my master. WhenDid the cruel hawk, from love, E'er attempt to save the dove?Rather say the timid doeFell beneath the cougar's blow,And the buck that for her foughtOn himself the monster brought,Brought the strong and fang-set jawsAnd the long and deadly claws.Bravely perished he, but howVainly! Whence is rescue now?"
Shaking fiercely his head,Tascaluza answering said:"Soon the cougar shall be tornBy the mighty bison's horn;Trampled 'neath his hoofs shall lie;Thus that beast of prey shall die."Then he some brief orders gaveAnd there came to him a braveBearing two large eagle quills.What is that which, shining, fillsThose translucent tubes? 'Tis gold.Dust and scales minute they hold;Brought from where 'mid northern mountainsRise the Chattahachi's fountains.Some barbaric ornamentTo make of it was the intent.
Speaking to a courier fleet,(Whom he called) brave and discreet,He disclosed a plan which mightLure the Spaniards avaricious,Searching for the metal bright, Into ambuscade auspicious,Where surprise and quick assailMight those dread arms countervail.
Tascaluza's explanationEnded with this exhortation:"Now, then, by the break of dayGain the Spanish camp. Away!"Twilight tints shone faintly stillFar adown the western skyWhen the chieftain spoke his will.All the messenger's replyWas to take those eagle quills;Over rivers, vales and hillsAll the long night they were borne,And the twilight of the morn,Gleaming on the grass blades damp,Saw them in the Spanish camp.
Soto, at that morn's repast,Gladdened at the tale 't was toldBy a servant who at lastBrought him news of real gold.As the maize bread Soto broke,Thus the dusky servant spoke:"I have known that thou hast soughtFar and wide for yellow ore,And that many times beforeYellow stuff to thee was broughtWhich thou seemedst to value not.I have something different quiteFrom all else that's met thy sight, Yellow, sparkling, pure and bright.Thinking 't is the ore you seek,I have thus presumed to speak,And I hold the metal still,Subject to the white chief's will."
"Let me see it," Soto cried,As he threw the bread aside.Forth the yellow dust was brought,Safely in each little case."This indeed's the ore I sought,"Cried the Spaniard, with his faceGleaming brighter than the oreHe had poured into his hand."It is gold! and is there more,Is there plenty in that landWhence this came?" "Oh, yes; there's much,"Said the crafty brave, "of such.Far off toward the the setting sun,In the streams which rippling run,Thou canst see this metal glow'Neath the shallow water's flow,While the sands upon the shoreFlash with lumps of yellow ore."
When De Soto, asking eager,'Mid excited exclamationsAnd Ortiz's ejaculations,Gained his servant's knowledge meager,"Send," he said, "the men who knowWhere those golden streamlets flow."Came the messenger and told Where he gathered up that gold;Said that all might be supplied—He would go with them as guide.Long with questions Soto plied him,Sternly, somewhat doubting, eyed him.But not once by failing toneOr by changing look was shownThat a false tale he was weaving,And De Soto heard believing.Briefly to Ortiz he said,As he took once more the bread,"We must seek without delayFor this gold. We move to-day."
Through the camp the order went,"Pack the baggage! strike the tent!We shall reach before we restEl Dorado in the west."And the order was obeyedPromptly, and no man delayed,Though some frowned and murmured low,"Must we further undergoUseless perils and privations,Sojourn 'mong these savage nations,Seeking what may not be found,Though we seek the earth around;For in seeking El Dorado,We but seek a mocking shadow."
Yet they went where Soto led,As the feet obey the head.To the northwest on they press Through a savage wilderness.Talladega the third dayGuided them upon their way,And thenceforth to Tallapuza,Where the royal TascaluzaIn his savage pomp awaitedSoto and his Spaniards hated,And, while wearing friendship's guise,Deeply planned their sacrifice.
The Spaniards reached the town at lastAnd onward to the plaza passed.The plaza square was smooth and wide,About it ranged on every sideThe low, broad, thatch-roofed houses stood,Substantial and for shelter good.Some of pine trunks smoothly hewed,Some of logs round, rough and rude.
In the middle of the square,'Neath a great magnolia's shade,Sat the Indian monarch there,On a throne whereon displayedWas each barbaric ornamentThe savage deems magnificent:Tinted shells were strung with pearlsFit to deck a princess' curls;Plumage of the brightest hue,Shimmering mingling red and blue,Changing in the light to green;Soft, rich furs and were seen.Over Tascaluza's head Was a canopy ontspreadMade of deerskin snowy whiteDeeply fringed with crimson bright.Many a strange device it boreAnd was borne by warriors four.
Soon along the nearer sideOf the plaza smooth and wideThe Spaniards formed their dress paradeWith arms and banners full displayed.'Round the giant Indian kingStood his braves, a deep, dense ring,And in the plaza's farther spaceMany a warrior held his place.Not unarmed the warriors stand;Spear or bow grasps every hand;Quivers full hang at their backs;In each belt the flint war-ax.Though their weapons were displayed,Not a hostile move was made;The red lion showed his claws,But in peace restrained his paws;Proudly stalked but still foreboreAngry growl or threatening roar.
Opened wide the warriors' ringAs up toward the Indian kingSoto came with martial stride,Talladega at his side.As when mighty monarchs meet,Graciously each other greet,With ceremonious courtesy, Where pride and deference agree,Met the white chief and the red,Each his courteous greeting said.
Soto's lips wore gracious smiles,But his eager eyes the whilesNoted that the Indian kingWore full many a golden ring,In ear and nose, on neck and hands,Pendants thick and broad, bright bands.When his compliments were passedAnd the greetings done at last,Soto 'gan to talk of goldAnd of what he had been toldOf the streams whose beds were teemingWith the precious metal gleaming.
All that Talladega heardHe confirmed with earnest word,But to Soto he averredThat the golden region layMany a long day's march away,And that Soto's course must thenceAltered be in consequenceOf a vast and wild morassWhich no human foot could pass,Lying in their course direct,And their way must thence deflectFar around the southern margeOf this pathless swamp so large."When you journey from this place,"Said the chieftain, "turn your face That the setting sun shall stand'Twixt your face and better hand,As before that star has done,That lone, pale and central one'Round which all the others run."
He himself must go that wayTo a town that owned his sway,It was on their proper course,He would gladly join their force,Through the forest be their guide,If they'd give him beast to ride.Well the wily Indian kingKnew that weeks of wanderingWould destroy his dreaded foesMore than myriad spears and bows.
Soto readily compliedWith the king's desire to ride.Resting there but one brief day,They resumed their weary way.Tascaluza's destined steed,Chosen for the burden's need,Tallest, strongest of the lot,Was to Tascaluza brought.Mounted with an easy swingOf his limbs the giant king.Gaining his unwonted seat,Found he no place for his feet:The longest stirrups of the troop,Though lengthened to their longest loop,Seemed to his length of leg a toy— The hobby trappings of a boy.The useless stirrups were so shortHis feet hung down without supportSo low that the tall horse he rodeSeemed but a burro 'neath his load.
Day by day the Spaniards pressedOnward slowly south by west.At times like verdant islands seenRose the oak groves bright and green;'Round them like a blue-green floodStretched afar the pitch-pine wood.From the red or yellow sandRose the lofty trunks and grand,Forming many a colonnade—Lofty roofs their thick boughs made.Echoed those dark arches 'roundMany a loud, unwonted sound:Armor's clang and bloodhound's bay,Pack-mule's loud, discordant bray,Musket's crack and ax's stroke,Snatch of song and boisterous joke.
Once when waned the autumn day,And the column made its wayThrough a valley broad and low,And the march was hard and slow,For the vines and canes grew rankAnd the soil was soft and dank,Suddenly a clamor ranFrom the rear-guard to the van.Of the captive natives three Made an effort and were free—Sprang into the underwoodAnd from sight their 'scape made good.Oue was young Ateamba brave,One an Indian maiden slave,One the maid of royal rankFrom the Tronatisca's bank.
Quick and hot pursuit was made,On the trail the bloodhounds bayed.Foremost in pursuit to bound,Nearest to the baying hound,Was a Spaniard scarred and grayKnown as Pancho Amarey.Battle-worn was he and old,Active, ardent, though, and bold.He the fleeing Indian maidClaimed as booty of his blade.
Soon the trail he follows leadsTo the Tensaw's bordering reeds.In water dark or rushes greenNaught of either maid was seen,But at bay Atcamba stood,Near the water on a log,Keeping off each baying dogWith a club of cypress wood.When the sword of AmareyRose the fugitive to slay,Dove he from the river's brinkLike an otter or a mink,And the Spaniard's eager sight Marked no traces of his flight.
Then along the river's boundsRushed the Spaniard and the hounds,Seeking where the trail once moreMight be found upon the shore.But the questing bloodhounds failTo resume the broken trail;Baffled, they at length turn backOn the marching column's track,Leaving there hot AmareyFrom his comrades far away.When the Spaniards left the spotWhere brave Vitachuco fought—Hopeless fought and dauntless died—From the woods, where scattered wideSince the battle's deadly routThey had lain, came stealing outSquaw and child and warrior stout.'Round the dead chief they did crowd,Wailing lamentations loud.When the night began to gloomThey bore the body to the tombAnd thus wildly, mournfully,Sang his dirge and eulogy:
O thou towering magnifolia,Chattahachi's proud magnolia,Prone on earth dost pale and perish,Never more to flower and flourish.Never more shall thy broad shadow From the sun shield the parched meadow.Evil was the storm that reft thee,Evil cloud sent bolt that cleft thee.
Vitachuco, sovereign peerless!Low must be thy lodge and cheerless;Low must lie thy proud head royal,Wail in woe thy people loyal.Who of all thy tribe so faithlessThat he to have kept thee scathelessWould not his own life have offered?Would not torture-fire have suffered?
In the game thy foot was strongest,'Neath its strokes the balls leaps longest.In the chase no aim was truer,None could more fatigue endure.Vain was all the fleet deer's running,Vain the dun coyote's cunning,Vain the strength of savage bruin,To elude thy weapon's ruin.'Mong the brave thou wert the bravest,Fiercest blows in fight thou gavest.When the foe came on thee rushing,Downward came thy war-club crushing.Fatal was thine arrow singing,Sharper than the scorpion stinging.Once so terrible, but nowCraven hand might smite that brow.
Closed those eagle eyes forever, And that still form more shall neverFeel of battle wound the anguish,Or in love's caresses languish.Ne'er the war-cry of the foemanNor the gentle song of womanShalt thou hear, nor e'er the rattleAnd the rush and roar of battle.As on earth thou hast done well,So thou shalt forever dwellIn the happy hunting land,Where shall never fail thy hand,Where thy foot shall never tireAnd success shall e'er inspire.Now on earth farewell forever,Here again we 'll see thee never.
PART IV.
THE TORTURE.
"MAN'S inhumanity to man." Of allThe foes malign, of earth, or sea, or air,That may the soul of hapless man appall,None have relentless hate that will not spare,Or fiendish cruelty beyond compare,Like that which him his brother man can show:The terrible revenge which bids him bearLimbs wrenched, flesh torn, the scourging thorn's sharp blowThe flaming splinter's thrust, the torture-fire's red glow. And what! it may be said, believe may weThat courage high, the spirit, as you tellWhich strikes for kindred, home and country free,The loyal honor which not death can quell,Regard for guest and self-devotion swellThe cruel, brutal, treacherous heart that gleesTo see the tortured captive writhe? Ne'er dwellHigh virtues, noble sentiments like theseWith demon cruelty whose deeds the warm blood freeze.
Not so. Not only in the untamed soulsOf the dark warriors of the spear and bowDwell passions far apart as are the poles,Bright virtues whose outbreaking, fitful glowBy contrast strong (its force who does not know?)Makes their dark passions more abhorrent seem.At stormy close of autumn day, e'en soThe setting sun's outbreaking, dazzling beamBut makes the eastern cloud grow darker with its gleam.
Thus mingle dark and bright on many a pageWhere high and martial deeds recorded stand,The deeds of modern or chivalric age.The knights of Spain, with dauntless heart and handWrung from the fiery Moors their native land,Wrought mighty deeds at faith and country's call,Deeds of high valor, pure, chivalric, grand,Till rose the cross above Granada's wallAnd peerless Christian knights trod in Alhambra's hall.
Then swarming overseas to a new shore,They braved all dangers and endured all pain, But did such fiendish deeds as ne'er beforeStained knighthood's name and made the name of SpainAnd Spaniard stronger terms for lust of gain,Base treachery and cruelty and cruelty inhumanWhich to the fiery bed, the hound, the chain,Could doom a royal guest and noble woman—Of ruth and honor void alike to friend or foeman.
Night with vapors chill and dampDark o'erhung the Spanish camp,On the sluggish Tensaw's bank,Fringed with rushes, low and dank.From a hundred fires ascendedJetty wreaths with red blaze blended.'Round them soldiers sat or slumbered,Some with armor still encumbered.Each within his canvas tent,'Mid the lights and shadows blentOf the half-illumined nightLooming spectrally and white,Slept the chieftains of the band;'Round them guardsmen kept their stand.
Not an arrow's flight awayFrom the men who sleeping lay,Thick corralled and watched by guard,Where the thin and sandy swardWas by hoof-strokes torn and tramped,Pack-mule brayed and war steed stamped.Where the farthest wandering raysOf the outmost camp-fire's blazeCould no farther pierce among Massive trunks and boughs low hung,But were foiled and struggling fell,Crouched a silent sentinel.Faint the broken fire-beams playedOn his drawn Toledo blade.Over all the pine trees flungLofty crests which moveless hung.
Just without the Spanish lineAnd beyond their watch-fires' shine,In the silence and the dark,Lighted not by flame or spark,Rose a lodge of bison skinLight and strangely wrought; within,On a couch of pine boughs sere,Spread with skin of bear and deer,Tascaluza sleeping lay,Dreaming of the plotted fray.By his lodge a sentinelNoted every sound that fell.'Round his few attendants slept'Neath the dews the sad night wept.
Time with noiseless steps strode on;Half the starless night was gone.Suddenly a warning sound!Crouched the sentry to the ground,Straining eye and ear intentWhile his ready bow he bent.What the light sound which he heard?Had the wind the pine boughs stirred?No; the air was still as death; Not e'en moved the zephyr's breath.Surely human foot could ne'erTread that ground with pine boughs sereSpread and such slight rustling makeAs would scarce the rabbit wake,Even though that foot had beenHunter's clad in moccasin.
Yes; the crouching sentinelKnew the stealthy footsteps wellKnew them not the gray wolf's treadNor the steps of panther dread,Nor the Spaniard's heavy boot,But the the tread of Indian foot.Suddenly the owl's deep hootTrembled on the murky night—Thrice repeated came with slightIntervals, and seemed to floatFrom uncertain points remote.But the watch the warning knew;Back an answering signal flew.
Then a dark form in the nightAnd a rapid tread and light,And the silence further brokenBy one word of greeting spoken,As that form the sentry nears,By him flits and disappearsIn the lodge, from which soon comeVoices low with stifled hum.Then two forms come from thh tent;Like the lofty pine unbent, Crested with dark, drooping plumes,High the second figure looms.
As the two forms lightly steppedO'er the braves who 'round them slept,Every sleeper raised his head,Wakened e'en by that soft tread,'Round him gazed a moment, thenCareless laid him down again.Scarcely could the active guideWith his swift steps match the strideOf the chief—a long, slow sweep—As their silent way they keepOver swamp and sandy swell,Grassy glade and forest dell,Till, at last, on their dark way,Fell a faint, far-reaching ray,Like a vein of ruddy goldPiercing through black lava rock,To the surface heaved of oldBy some fierce volcanic shock.And it was not long alone;Soon a hundred others shone'Tween and on the great trunks 'roundAnd upon the leaf-strewn ground.Then a flood of strongest lightPoured upon their dazzled sight.
Full revealed by that strong sheenWas a wild and stirring scene.Gathered 'round a council fire,Decked in savage war attire, Young men, lithe and straight as spears,Old men, bent with weight of years,Chieftain, warrior, squaw and child,Forming an assemblage wild.First that council's ring within,Seated on the bear's dark skin,Were the chiefs whose lengthened ageFitted them for counsel sage;Then the chiefs of lesser fameAnd the well tried warriors came;Young braves then, and boys whose bowsMimic war waged with the crows.Outermost of all the crowd,Humble squaws watched the debateOf the chieftains with their loudWords and gestures passionate.
Quite without the council throng,But within the fire-light strong,Stood a Spaniard with his handsO'er his head and rawhide bandsWrapped his wrists and fastened themTo a young pine's slender stem.Half reclining on the ground,Eyes upon the captive bound,Warriors guarded AmareyAs fierce tigers watch their prey.
Tascaluza, at a glance,Noted every circumstanceOf that wild scene as he cameToward the rolling council flame; And before that haughty strideQuickly formed an opening wideTo the center of the ring,While, in homage to their king,Every head, though plumed and proud,Low to Tascaluza bowed.The cacique stood towering highO'er the council, his fierce eyeO'er each face around him ran,As to speak he thus began:
"When in hot and eager chaseWe encounter face to faceSome strong, savage beast of prey,Then our thought is but to slay,As we can and as we may.But when we have trapped and toiledSome fierce monster that's despoiledAll our lodges, then we maySettle in debate at leisureHow to make his death repayAll our losses in our pleasure.Chiefs and braves, let your debateBe upon the captive's fate."
One by one that council grave,Chieftain high and war-famed brave,Rose but to repeat that longTale of perfidy and wrong,Tale of ravage and of bloodSpilled by Chattahachi's flood,Leaving thence a dark red stain To the broad and sounding main;Villages in ruins laid,The return for kindness made;Of their braves by hundreds slainOn sad Allagarda's plain:Chieftains proud and noble bravesMade the hated Spaniards' slaves;Of the fair and noble maidFrom the Tronatisca's shadeDragged a captive in the trainOf the ruthless men of Spain;And the part this captive playedIn the ravage and the slaughter:Indian blood had stained his bladeAnd an Indian chieftain's daughterFor his concubine and slaveHe had taken; she had fled;Then her Spanish tyrant gaveSwift pursuit which quickly ledHim astray; the thicket rangWith a sudden, startling yellAnd like panthers on him sprangTwenty braves, and on the ground,Sooner than the tongue could tell,Lay the Spanish tyrant bound.
Thus the chieftains spoke—each wordTascaluza silent heard—Voiceless, though fierce passion's stormHeaved and shook his giant formAs the earthquake heaves the plain,As the tempest heaves the main. As amid the crater's glow,Smoky columns swaying slowRise up darkly high in air,'Mid the council fire's red glare,Rolling billows of red lightOn the black shores of the night,Tascaluza darkly towered,Fiercely on the captive glowered.
"I have heard enough!" he cried;"All the path is black and wideWhere De Soto and his bandWander through the Indian land.Each one merits torture slowAnd the spirit land of woe.And as for this ravisher,Spaniard, robber, murderer,Let him feel our pine's hot breath,Let him die the fiery death!"
Back and forth swift echo flies,Bearing loud approving cries.Amarey then knew full wellHorrid death was in that yell,And his firm-pressed lips grew whiter,But his eyes grew sterner, brighter.As in August's sultry tideThunder clouds from far and wideGather darkly overhead,Threatening hang a space of dread,Scatter then and farther onAre again together drawn, Fiercer, darker than before,In terrific fury pour,So that cloud of red men burst,Out into the night dispersed,Every requisite to makeReady for the torture stake.
Then with flinty hatchet's strokeFelled and hewed a stake of oak,Strong and filled with sap and meetTo withstand the pitch-pine's heat;Just where fell the farthest rays.Of the rolling council blazeFixed it firmly in the ground,And the captive to it bound—Bound him with the rawhide's thong,Green and pliant, tough and strong,With his hands high o'er his head—Scarce his feet the ground could tread.Then around the stake they placedFragments of the pine woods' waste,Scaly cones and light limbs dry,Long since reft by tempests high,Knots and hearts of old boughs, richWith the gummy, odorous pitch.
'Round the stake in circle deepThen the dusky warriors sweep.Of the foremost of that bandArmed is every red right hand,Not with weapons edged with flint,But with many a reedy splint— Splinters sharp as points of thorns,Sharp as fangs of snake-that-warns,Large and filled with pitch, they mightBurn as torches in the night.
Then advanced one wan and old,One who claimed the power to holdConverse with the spirit world.O'er his head a torch he whirled,And with lean and withered handTo the fuel placed the brand.Upward glanced a tongue of fire,Growing broader, rising higher.Casting back that glancing beam,Hundreds of fierce eyeballs gleam.Pine trunks huge and rough and high,Arched with feathery canopy,Darkly show in the red lightGrowing stronger and more bright.As the red flames upward creepIn the white, set face they peep;In the victim's eyes they shineAs up toward his knees they twine.
Amarey was brave and tried;He had soldiered far and wide;Danger seen in many lands;Trod o'er Afric's burning sands;Heard the Li! li! li![1] wild scream;Seen the blue steel glance and gleamWhen with cimetars of flame Moslem horse to battle came;Stormed o'er Cuzco's golden wall;Seen the Mexic banner fallWhen Cortez charged with heart of flameAnd his chosen with him came.Hitherto his courage highPerils could not terrify,Hardships break his hardihood,Suffering quell his fortitude.Now he realized full sureThat this torment to endureHe would need an iron frame,Nerves and sinews too the same;Need his patron saint to grantHim a heart of adamant.
As the rapid flames advanceDeep and wild the wizard chants:"Spirit of evil, death and gloom,View this base marauder's doom;Laugh in thine appalling glee;Fit the victim is for thee.And besides this torture fireMay thou glut thine anger direWith five hundred victims baseOf this same accursed race.May the famine's bony graspLong their wasting forms enclasp;Burning thirst with horrid painsScorch their tongues and fire their veins.Onward by their sore needs pressed,Never know the joy of rest. "May their naked flesh be tornBy the piercing cactus thorn;May the cougar on them feed,Or the sting of centipede,Or the massasauger's bite,Poison all their flesh so white,Till their bones unburied lie,Marking to the red man's eyeAs they whiten and decayEvery camp upon the wayFrom Mauvila, stained with bloodTo the Mississippi's flood.As a future prolongationOf their earthly pains and woes,Dreadful, endless in duration,Swift beginning at life's close,May their spirits ever roamWhere no happiness can come,In a drear and desert landFilled with cactus and with sand."
The prophet ceased his curses direTo watch the swelling, glowing fire.'Round the victim's body curledTongues of flame and darkly swirledClouds of smoke about his head;Added to his torment dreadMany a blazing splinter's wound.Still 't was borne without a soundFor five minutes' space or so,Minutes each like ages slow;Then the mighty fortitude Of the Spaniard was subdued.
Wildly burst he into prayer:"Holy Mary! Mother fair!By thy son to Calvary led,By the blood which there he shed,By the anguish thou didst feelWhen the thrust of Roman steelAnd the cruel nails they drovePierced those hands, that heart of love,While thou gazedst from below,Filled with pity, anguish, woe,I implore in mercy's name,Spare me from this cruel flame!Mortal man may not endure—Oh! deliver, mother pure!O thou Christ, the Son of God,Who Gethsemane hast trod,Who in anguish sweat drops shed,Bloody drops with earth-bowed head,Was thine agony more direThan the torment of this fire?Did the thorn crown deeper pierceThan these flaming splinters fierce?Thou canst pity, then, oh! spare!I've not strength like thine to bear."
Faint the last words choking hungOn the crackling lips and tongue.Strong imploring in that cry,Help beseeching from on high,Anguish that would not be pent, Faith triumphant, all were blent,And the heathen warriors thereKnew the solemn voice of prayer.
Round an awful stillness falls;"Hark! upon his gods he calls!"Then said one with chieftain's belt,Speaking what the many felt."Fiercely burns the white man's wrath,Fallen braves bestrew his path;Flashes from his weapon flyLike the storm-cloud's fiery eye,And its voice in thunder speaks.'Round and o'er his hairy cheeksGleams a head-dress bright and fierce;Spears cannot his garments pierce;And the wondrous beast he ridesIn its strength and swiftness prides.Mighty, then, his gods must be.Have they also crossed the sea?Who, then, can withstand their ire?Who can quench their awful fire?Lofty trees will writhe and break,Lightning scathe and firm hills quake;Or the earth will swallow downAll our tribe beneath their frown."Then a thrill of trembling aweFilled the soul of brave and squaw.Tenfold blacker seemed the night,Filled with specters of affright.
Tascaluza then upspoke; Proud and fierce the words outbroke:"Hast thou learned, O chief, to speakWords of fear like women weak?Tascaluza and his braves,Are they Soto's trembling slaves?Will they for his lightnings quail?For his weapons' thunder pale?Flee before his armor's flash,When his riders on us dash?One great spirit rules the world—Can he from his seat be hurled?He is good as well as great;He who did our tribes create,Will he not likewise befriend?Cannot his strong arm defendHis red children in the fightWhen they stand for home and rightGainst a base marauding band,Outcast, may hap, from their land?Very few their warriors are,While the spears our warriors bearMany are as are the bladesOf the grass in Tensaw's glades.Swifter than the pigeon's wing,Sharper than the hornet's stingIs the Indian arrow flight,And the Spanish armor brightTascaluza's club can crushAs the strong beak of the thrushBreaks the beetle's shining shell."
Tascaluza paused—full well Had his boasting turned the tideOf their fears and roused their pride.Allagarda's bloody plainWas forgotten with its slainChiefs and braves by hundreds piled.Re-assured, they shouted wild;Flinty spears on high were flung,Dark shields 'gainst the war-clubs rung,And they turned again to gazeOn their victim in the blaze.
But the charred and blackened frameMotionless was 'mid the flame—Gone the pangs that thrilled him through,Groans of anguish from him drew.As the string when the bow is bentBy a strong hand violentSharply parts and, falling slack,Lets the bended bow spring back,So the tortured nerves gave wayAnd the quick sense lost its sway,And the warrior's dismal yellOn his ear unheeded fell;Though the spirit for a spaceLingered in the clay's embrace.
Soon the flames grew less intenseAnd the black smoke grew less dense,As the heaped-up fuel shrankAnd the live brands crumbling sank,Till the embers smoldered lowWith a red and fitful glow. In their midst there lay a pileOf charred bones; the crowd the whileThat had gathered 'round the fire,When they saw their foe expireAnd the scene of torment cease,Soon began to fast decrease,Till of all those dusky facesOnly three still held their places.O'er the others towerédTascaluza's plumely head—Turned he from the torture-fireIterating curses dire,Burning thirst and reptile's sting,Weary, endless wandering,Famine, pest and fiery painOn the ruthless men of Spain—Turned to leave, and in the gloomVanished his dark form and plume.
PART V.
MAUVILA.
'TWAS morn. The star of Lucifer grew paleAnd trembled at the sun's approaching tread—God's regent—and as with an azure vailThrice doubled, hid his face. From her proud headThe East let down her yellow hair that shedIts beauty down her shoulders, with the flushOf day's returning tide now faintly red,As with the warm blood rising in the blushOn Beauty's cheek, betraying the deep feelings' rush. The Morning pressed her bright and dewy lipsTo Earth, like meeting lovers' fond caress.Night passing had strewn gems which did eclipseIn brightness pure the costliest stones which pressA royal brow, or deck a royal dress.Each subject of the Day awoke and stirred,And act or voice expressed its happiness,While leading all the feathered choir were heardThe ever-changing notes of the glad mocking-bird.
Before the morning's pure, bright beam.The waning camp-fire's ruddy gleam,Mixed with the foul and pitchy smoke(Not the blue wreaths from flames of oak) Grew dimmer, more obscure,As human passions, burning clearTo our benighted vision here,Are, in the light of heaven severe, With smoke of sin impure.
In nooks far up the pine trees' hightSome lingering remnants of the nightHid trembling from the coming light.Of stirring life some tokens slight Showed in the camp below.Then, as the sentry loudly spoke,The Captain of the Guard awoke,Saw day around him fully broke And bade the bugle blow.
Short space to reign had silence ereBurst forth the war notes wild and clear, The cymbal's clang and bugle's blareAnd drum peals rolled upon the air In rude but rhythmic glee.Upstarting forms and armor's clangSoon followed as the bugle sangAnd all the woods' dark arches rang To that loud reveillé.
At the first stir the dusky slavesWho once were haughty chiefs and braves,Now humbled 'neath the Spaniard's heel,Tamed by the Spaniard's fire and steel, Stern, sullen, but subdued,Came forth and 'gan with irksome care(A task unwonted) to prepareTheir hated masters' morning fare Of Indian foraged food.
The meal dispatched with soldier haste,Regarding hunger more than taste,The scanty baggage of the trainWas ready packed for march again And on the pack-mules placed.Then at the bugle's warning blastThe squadrons formed their ranks full fast,But trimly all their files were massed— Precision joined with haste.
Oft have I seen the mist cloud whiteWhich lay upon the ground all nightRise with the sun into the skyAnd form in masses dense and high, And move upon their wayWith stern, majestic sweep and slow,With sun-bright crests but dark below,And stored with bolts to speed and glow, Ere long, and burn and slay.
Thus formed the ranks--the march began;The chief with Soto in the van;Then triple ranks of horsemen rode,And next with sword and matchlock strode Each sturdy musketeer;And then of sumpter mules a trainBrought from the mountain paths of Spain,And mounted guards a score or twain Brought up the column's rear.
Before the rear-guard marched a band.Of captive natives of the land,Who wore with dark and silent moodThe galling yoke of servitude E'en on their native soil.Some on their limbs the fetters woreAnd burdens haughty warriors boreAnd chieftains' daughters who before Knew naught of such rough toil.
But with the coming of the dayCame not again bold Amarey.His absence Soto's mind oppressedWho Tascaluza thus addressed: "Still comes the absent not.Fell he a victim to the hate Of thy fierce braves who 'round us wait?Mark thou! if such has been his fate— If harm has been his lot
"By knowledge or permit of thine—Yes, if before again shall shineIn the red west the evening star,He be not safe returned, thus far Shall retribution reach:Long shalt thou wear the iron chainIn some deep dungeon cell of Spain,And—"Soto checked the headlong strain Of his audacious speech.
The chief was silent for a spaceWhile o'er his grave and haughty faceThere passed a faint and transient light,As on a still, clear summer night Appears the lightning's flashAlong the border of the sky,While far below the reach of eyeThe storm-king's gloomy banners fly, Unheard his thunders crash.
Thus deeply Tascaluza keptConcealed the storm that fiercely sweptHis breastèèthe storm of wrath and pride,And thus in even tones replied: "O chief from o'er the sea,My braves by my command are boundTo search with care the region 'round.Thy soldier lost, as soon as found Shall be restored to thee.
"And, trust me, ere the coming nightThy comrade's form shall greet thy sight.And now I'll send a courier fleetThat at Mauvila welcome meet May wait my noble guest."The Indian king did forward rideTo where a band of warriors triedWent forth to pioneer and guide The column. His behest
To one of these he thus made known,When he had drawn him off alone:"In haste unto Mauvila runAnd say for me unto my son: Prepare of food great store,And bring for Soto's use the best,Such as befits a royal guest,And furnish quarters where may rest Six hundred men or more;
"And food for all the menial train,And for their horses furnish grain,And place for both without the town."The coming storm showed in a frown As he went on to speak."Tell him these charges he must keepThough sterner cares shall on him sweep,Demanding his attention deep." And then the fierce cacique
Glanced at the coming column's head And lowered his voice as if in dreadLest one of his fierce words might reachSome Spaniard who of Indian speech Might something understand."And tell him this: the blow must fallOn Soto from Mauvila's wall,And promptly to make ready all Needs active brain and hand.
"Tell him to rally all my bandsAnd with ten thousand zealous handsTo have Mauvila fortifiedAnd its defences multiplied With all the skill he hath.Let bastion, ditch and gate be madeAnd plant in haste the high stockadeAnd let the tough pine palisade Ward off the fires of death."
While the last word was his tongueThe chieftain's hand a signal flung,And then, as if the errand's needDemanded more than human speed, The courier sprang away.The chief regained De Soto's side.Few words (though Soto ceaseless pliedFair words and smiles) through that long ride Did Tascaluza say.
The ice of wounded pride moroseWhich Soto's menaces had frozeWas far too deep to melt away Beneath the bright and changeful play Of Spanish smiles and grace.The smiling grace was fair and bright,But little warmth was in its light;It came, the savage knew full right,Not from the heart, but face.
Now, as the Indian town they neared,De Soto, who some treachery feared,Before him secretly sent out,To view the town a mounted scout, Who soon returned to tellThat, like a hive of bees alarmed,The town with well armed warriors swarmed;Stockades were 'round it being formed Assault as to repel.
At last Mauvila came in sightAnd Soto ordered, in despiteOf counsel from Ortiz receivedAnd signs which well might be perceived Of treachery designed,His men, who long in camp had fared,To occupy the place preparedFor them, and scarce it seemed he shared Ortiz's suspicious mind.
But eight and twenty hours had fledSince Tascaluza's courier sped,And eight were spent upon the road,But with that mandate for a goad, Such zeal had been displayed, Protracted through the live-long night,With bustle filled, red with fire-light,That when the Spaniards came in sight Frowned the high palisade.
A deep, wide ditch yawned at its footAnd bastions at the angles putMight sweep the moat with archer showers,And at each gate were flanking towers— The whole with warriors swarmed.So great the work well Soto mayBelieve it not of one short day,But trust that, as the dark guides say, 'T was weeks before performed.
They said there came against them forthA hostile horde from farther north,That, ere it reached this palisade,Turned back defeated and dismayed; And gathered at this call,Their warriors still staid in the place.But Soto plainly saw the traceOf recent work upon the face Of bank and wooden wall.
On through the gates all unopposedThe Spaniards march with ranks well closed;Their music peals its wildest noteAnd high their brightest banners float, While polished steel belowWith their reflected hue gleams red;The horses prance and toss the head; The musketeers as one man tread, With measured step and slow.
But when the soldierly paradeThe circuit of the town had made,Compliant with the king's demand,Which Soto cared not to withstand, He sent without the wallsThe horses and the musketeers,While the dismounted cavaliersWith Soto and his officers Dwelt in Mauvila's halls.
That he, expecting an attack,Should thus divide his force seems lackOf that strict prudence which a lifeShould teach when spent in martial strife; But thus does history say.Long after when his broken ranksHad reached the Mississippi's banks,Sore as his worn steed's goaded flanks, Was his heart for that dark day.
Long did his troubled mind recallMauvila's fatal fosse and wall;Long cursed the war-tried Spanish chiefThat only sleep, ill starred and brief, Of vigilance outworn.Grown confident, he had no fearsThat his dismounted cavaliersWere not a match for all the spears By savage thousands borne.
High noon—around a board of stateThe Spanish officers awaitReturn from message sent to bringTo dine with them the Indian king. But thus the chieftain proudMade answer hot: "I will not go.I'm busy here. Let Soto knowI'm king and none obedience owe." Angry his voice and loud.
The Spanish messenger replied,"My master waits and woe betideIf you come not; and you must come."At these rude words an angry hum Ran through the crowd without.The cavalry unmounted waitBefore De Soto's palace gate.Above that rising hum of hate They hear a warrior shout,
In Tascaluza's hall, "What, must?Thou vagabond and robber, dostThou dare such insolence to speakTo Tascaluza, our cacique, So powerful and good?Base wretch! by the great sun I swear,No more thy tyranny we'll bear.Upon them, warriors; do not spare One of this devil's brood!"
As thunder peal that scarce is pastWhen beating rain-floods follow fast, So from a dark and gathering cloudOf warriors, at that summons loud, A rain of missiles poured.But as those missiles on them stormed,The ready Spaniards promptly formed,While 'round them in fierce tumult swarmed A fast increasing horde.
The Spaniards, with their horses leftBeyond the palisades, were 'reftOf half their terrors, and could stemBut ill the tide that surged 'round them, And Soto gave command:"Fall back and mount!" They backward drew,But faced the shower of shafts that flewAnd glanced in fire from buckler true And from each circling brand.
They reached their steeds; each cavalierSprang to his saddle with a cheer;And then, as from a potent charm,A triple strength seemed in each arm, Fresh courage in each soul.Back through the gate the horsemen urge;From vaulting hoofs and saber scourgeThe foes recoil-wild surge on surge The dark tides backward roll.
But see! amid the din and rout,To bar them from their friends without,The oaken gates behind them close,And on them now their thronging foes With doubled fury fall.But desperate strength still cuts a way,And 'neath the battle-axes' swayThe gates go down, and their array Is soon without the wall.
But out in hot pursuit soon poured,Led by their chief, the savage horde,And from the palisades and towersPoured out the archers' rattling showers Upon the little band.But up the musketeers now came,And from their line of glancing flame.Recoiled the foe like frightened game; Their bravest will not stand.
But though his braves fast 'round him fall,Not saber stroke nor musket ballHas done the giant chief great harm;To stay the flight still strong his arm, And strong his voice and heart.The rallying foe are closing 'round,The musketeers are giving ground,When in the fray the chargers bound, The dusky masses part.
As through the mass the horsemen bore,There waked again the musket's roar,And terror stricken more and more,Back through the gate the Indians pour In dense and struggling tide.But ere the whites could follow through, Up sprang the barricades anew,Unceasing still the missiles flew From the high wall's loopholed side.
Again the crashing battle-axThe barrier's oaken strength does tax;In splintered ruin soon they fall,And once again within the wall Halberds and sabers go.Thus back and forth the stubborn fightWas waged with brave and desperate mightFrom noon until an hour from night— Unconquered still the foe.
Then to augment the 'minished bandGrasped every Indian woman's handSome weapon, club or spear or bow,And dauntless met the saber's blow. Each Spaniard held his handA moment, loth to sheath his swordIn woman's breast, but strove to wardThe blows the eager women poured. But see! a blazing brand!
Like meteor flashes torches whirledAnd 'gainst the dry thatched roof were hurled,And upward soon a dense smoke curled. The writhing streaks of flameTwined 'mid the smoke a moment low,Then, gathering, burst in one broad glow,And down the pitch-pine walls below The fiery serpents came.
The stubborn foe who faced the flashOf musket and the halberd's crash,The gleaming saber's thrust and slash, The steed's o'erpowering bound,Saw with dismay this climax dread,This fiery ruin 'round, o'erhead—Each unhurt warrior turned and fled To the dark woods around.
Though scores of Indians dead and dyingIn every street and ditch were lying,Yet Soto of this victory wonMight well exclaim, "I am undone With one such victory more!"For of his men without a woundWere few, and sixty-three were foundUpon that corpse-encumbered ground Stretched lifeless in their gore.
But 'mid the dying and the deadLay Tascaluza's kingly headAnd giant form? or had he fledWhen came the final panic dread, Though dauntless he before?He was not there; whate'er befellHim, death or flight, none there could tell;None heard again his battle yell, His form was seen no more.
PART VI.
DEATH AND BURIAL OF DE SOTO.
DEAD! dead! another great conquistador,The hero first of Cuzco's famous fightAnd many another fray—his fights all o'er.A land of flowers and gold in fancy's sight—Long, long he sought it, his ambition's hightTo conquer there a viceroy's power and fame.He sought for streams whose beds with gold were bright,And found no golden stream, but linked his nameTo that vast stream whose bed of mire his grave became.
The Mississippi! river grand!No peer it has in any land.Its early bright, unsullied flow,Its wavelets rippling soft and lowOn banks where rainbow pebbles gleam,Still mingle in my boyhood's dream.I've loved along its sluggish sloughs,When gently fell the evening dews,To cast for greedy pike the baitOr for the swarming wild ducks wait;And oft when wild the western breeze.Swayed all its islands birchen trees,I've loved to launch the light bateauAnd skimming o'er its white-caps row.
I've seen it where its rise it takes 'Mong Minnesota's smiling lakesAnd o'er St. Antoine's rapids sweepInto its narrow vale and deep,And mirror many a northern bluff—Here smooth turf slopes, there rocks piled rough,Now crags that loom like castles grand,Then striped cliffs of rainbow sand—With thick groves crowning many a crest(In June with vivid verdure dressed,But bright with gold and crimson blazeTheir leaves through mild October's haze.)I've seen this vast and virgin floodPolluted with Missouri's mud,From far off plains and mountains tornAnd down that boiling current borne;And seen in turn this sullied flowPollute the lucent Ohio.I've seen its breast at midnight darkReflect the bomb-shell's fiery areAnd redden 'neath the fitful flashOf cannon with continuous crash,When long the Northern gunboats layBefore grim Vicksburg's cliffs of clay.I've watched its broad, majestic flowBy the Crescent City sweeping slowWhere league on league the levees lieWith wares from every land piled high.
By th' upper Mississippi's sideThe fair Winona loved and diedAnd Red Wing stalked the hills in pride,Here Black Hawk made his last brave stand In battle for his native land.Adown these upper waters brightSped the canoe of birch bark lightWhich bore the Jesuits, JolietAnd good Marquette, upon their way.When dark the southern stream had rolledA century o'er De Soto bold.Not travel's tide nor trade's deep hum,Nor cannon's crash nor roll of drum,Nor whistles' shrill and startling scream,Nor huge hulls urged by panting steam,Which vex the mighty river's breast,Shall e'er disturb De Soto's rest.
To evening waned the sultry dayWhen Soto's poor, reduced arrayFiled out from a dense gloomy woodWhich near the Mississippi stood.Slow marched the sadly 'minished trainOut on the long and narrow plainWhich stretched along the river bankAnd waved with wild grass thick and rank.
In Cancer twice had stood the sun,Three winters frosts had come and goneSince Soto 'round Mauvila's wallHad seen so many comrades fall—Two bitter years of toil, distressAnd wandering in the wilderness.The work sore disappointment wroughtCould hardly chill that heart so hot,Or quench the proud, high spirit's flame; But all the ills of his hard lotHad broken down that iron frame.No more the saddle was his seat,No more, while stirrups pressed his feet,He felt his steed beneath him prance,But lay he in rude ambulance.
In sorry plight the brilliant bandThat sailed with him from Spanish strand.The bearing proud and spirits highWere gone—instead the glance might spyThe wan, thin face and downcast eye.Now shabby was each silken vestIn which the cavaliers were dressed.In far worse plight, the footmen's dressHid hardly half their nakedness—In many months of service worn,In many a shred and tatter tornBy scraggy bush and bramble thorn.
The armor which once gleamed so brightIn proud parade or bloody fightNow red with rust, with swamp stains black,No more the sunbeams mirrored back.The silken flags of brilliant hueWhich in the sea breeze gayly flewIn tatters now abandoned layIn some dark swamp upon the way,Or, furled their folds, soiled, bleached and torn,As irksome burdens careless borne.Of all the steeds that pranced so gayUpon the beach of Tampa Bay The gaunt, galled half that were not deadNow plodded on with drooping head.
The weary men had marched for daysIn difficult and devious ways,By miry marshes often vexed,By many a bayou's curves perplexed;But now within their gaze at lastSpread out the Mississippi vast.They saw the mighty current deepGo seaward with majestic sweep,And down that tide, broad, smooth and swift,Each in some fancied bark did driftTo the tropic gulf whose blue waves boreThem gayly from the Cuban shore.
The Spaniards camping near the bankAs toward the far horizon sankThe sun, beheld transmuted lieThe turbid stream to silver byThe sunbeams' potent alchemy— The clouds as gold becameOr glowing rubies to the gazeWhen touched by the last upward rays From the hidden fount of flame.But what were sunset's gorgeous dyes,Or silver waters to the eyes Of men worn out with care?If they, unclad and starving, thoughtSave of their hard and hapless lot,And for the bright mirage cared aught,'T was mockery of the wealth they sought, Elusive as the air. For sorry cure for all their illsWere silver plains or ruby hills,And small the power of gold to blessThe starved wretch in the wilderness.Beside one day of life in Spain,With vineyards sloping to the plainFrom pastured hills to fields of grain,Oh! poor were El Dorado's gold,Golconda's diamond wealth untoldAnd riches vast of Ophir old.
As gathered 'round the shades of night,The Spaniards' bivouac fires gleamed bright.Amid that strong but changeful glowThere stood a camp-hut small and lowOf plaited reeds and bison skin;Upon a bed of furs withinThe Spanish leader dying lay,His life by fevers worn away.His sunken cheeks were ghastly pale,His sunken eyes did wholly failOf that erst deep, determined lightWhich oft had blazed in bloody fight.Thin, shrunken, feeble lay the handWhich once so well the weighty brandOr ponderous battle-ax had swung.In feeble murmurs on his tongueFaltered the voice that oft had pealedIn stern, strong shout on battle-field. His last commands he gave:
"Hew out this night from the cypress tree A coffin heavy and strong for me;For before the light of another day,'Neath yon river my body you must lay Where none may find my grave;That no teeth of wolf nor beak of crow,Nor the knife of the savage, brutal foe De Soto's corpse shall mar;But with my body I'll link my nameTo earth's grandest river, and thus my fame Shall be borne to ages far,And the mire of this vast stream shall beInstead of a marble tomb to me." De Soto changed his theme:"Bear my dying love to my faithful wife;She is dearer to me by far than life, Or e'en than ambition's dream.God pity that heart so strained and soreThat waits for me on the Cuban shore;It will break when the tidings come [and it did]That its idol's form is forever hid'Neath this turbid stream's eternal sweep,So far away and so vast and deep."
Scarce could be heard the last words weak,And then De Soto ceased to speak, As though for failing breath.One quivering gasp, one faintest sob,And that strong heart had ceased to throb; Victor at last was Death.
'Twas the lone hour midway betweenSad midnight's gloom and morn's glad sheen; Above the eastern forest's rimThe shrunken moon through vapors dimA weird and melancholy gleamCast on the woods, the plain, the stream.By mingled moon- and camp-fire's lightWas done the last sad funeral rite.Then six strong men the coffin boreIn silence to the river shore.A rude raft by the bank was moored—Drift-logs with thongs of bark secured.On this frail float the bearers placedThe coffin and embarked in hasteAnd pushed it from the river sideWith pole and paddle stoutly plied.Advantage of an eddy ta'en,The middle waters soon they gain,And push the coffin overboard.In armor clad and girt with sword,In greenwood shroud weighted with stone,Down goes De Soto to his lone, Dark bed forevermore;While the six bearers make their wayAgainst the current as they may To the camp upon the shore.
Despite the watchful picket chainAnd guards who paced their beats in vain,One unsuspected Indian eyeDe Soto's funeral did espy—The eye of one who long had seenWith growing satisfaction keenThe toil-worn Spaniards day by day Sink down upon their weary way;And when he saw his bitterest foePlunge down to lie forever lowBeneath this gloomy water's flow,He deemed the remnant's speedy fateWas sure enough e'en for his hate,And naught was left that he should careLife's galling burden more to bear.His son, the flower of all his pride,Slain fighting bravely by his side,Slain by an escopeta ballBehind Mauvila's wooden wall,With power, home and kindred gone,Naught left in life to lean upon.
A cypress tree-trunk large and lone,Long since by tempests overthrown,Reached from the bank out far and lowAbove the mighty currents flow.Out on this trunk as careless trodThe chief as though the way were broad.Then wildly on the night did ringThe death song of the Indian king.And first in boastful phrases toldThe hunter and the warrior boldOf feats in chase and battle doneAnd many a bloody victory won.Then mingled in the boastful songThe strains of woe o'erpowering strong;Though pride would fain have hid the griefUnworthy of an Indian chief,And dark despair that still outbroke, Though apathy strove hard to choke,As northern torrents black with mudRend the strong ice at springtime flood.Then Tascaluza's dirge-like chant Rose to a battle scream;That giant form so deathly gaunt Plunged far into the stream.The waters with a rippling moan O'er the plumed head did close.Both in one grave, deep, vast and lone, Lay those two leader foes.It scarcely needs these rhymes to tellWhat every reader guesses well,That when the Spaniards' princess slaveAnd with her young Atcamba braveWith one quick dash their 'scape made goodThrough water deep and tangled wood,Successfully their way they madeBack from the Tensaw's gloomy glade To the Tronatisca'sside;And that ere long they had been thereWas Cofachiqui wise and fair Brave young Atcamba's bride;That many were their happy years,Unclouded by the woes and fears The ruthless Spaniards gave;Nor dreamed they of the distant dayWhen, e'en their children's children gray Long sleeping in the grave,The Anglo-Saxon stern should come,With ax and plow or gun and drum,To rend their remnant from their homeOn distant western plains to roam;Less cruel than the Spaniard's hate,Inexorable, yet, as fate.
THE END.
- ↑ Li! li! li!—the battle cry of the Moors.