The story of this remarkable woman is one that holds a lesson for all. Eccentric, careless, and fearless; handsome, witty, and learned; ambitious, shrewd, and visionary,--she was one of the strangest compounds of "unlikes" to be met with in history.
She deliberately threw away a crown, wasted a life that might have been helpful to her subjects, regarded only her own selfish and personal desires, and died a prematurely old woman at sixty-five, unloved and unhonored.
Her story, if it teaches any thing, a.s.sures us that it is always best to have in youth, whether as girl or boy, the guidance and direction of some will that is acknowledged and respected. Natures unformed or over-indulged, with none to counsel or command, generally go wrong.
A mother"s love, a father"s care, these--though young people may not always read them aright--are needed for the moulding of character; while to every bright young girl, historic or unhistoric, princess or peasant, Swedish queen or modern American maiden, will it at last be apparent that the right way is always the way of modesty and gentleness, of high ambitions, perhaps, but, always and everywhere, of thoughtfulness for others and kindliness to all.
MA-TA-OKA OF POW-HA-TAN: THE GIRL OF THE VIRGINIA FORESTS.
(Generally known as "The Princess Pocahontas.") A.D. 1607.
Throughout that portion of the easterly United States where the n.o.ble bay called the Chesapeake cuts Virginia in two, and where the James, broadest of all the rivers of the "Old Dominion," rolls its glittering waters toward the sea, there lived, years ago, a notable race of men.
For generations they had held the land, and, though their clothing was scanty and their customs odd, they possessed many of the elements of character that are esteemed n.o.ble, and, had they been left to themselves, they might have progressed--so people who have studied into their character now believe--into a fairly advanced stage of what is known as barbaric civilization.
They lived in long, low houses of bark and boughs, each house large enough to accommodate, perhaps, from eighty to a hundred persons--twenty families to a house. These "long houses" were, therefore, much the same in purpose as are the tenement-houses of to-day, save that the tenements of that far-off time were all on the same floor and were open closets or stalls, about eight feet wide, furnished with bunks built against the wall and spread with deer-skin robes for comfort and covering.
These "flats" or stalls were arranged on either side of a broad, central pa.s.sage-way, and in this pa.s.sage-way, at equal distances apart, fire pits were constructed, the heat from which would warm the bodies and cook the dinners of the occupants of the "long house," each fire serving the purpose of four tenements or families.
In their mode of life these people--tall, well-made, attractive, and coppery-colored folk--were what is now termed communists, that is, they lived from common stores and had all an equal share in the land and its yield--the products of their vegetable gardens, their hunting and fishing expeditions, their home labors, and their household goods.
Their method of government was entirely democratic. No one, in any household, was better off or of higher rank than his brothers or sisters. Their chiefs were simply men (and sometimes women) who had been raised to leadership by the desire and vote of their a.s.sociates, but who possessed no special authority or power, except such as was allowed them by the general consent of their comrades, in view of their wisdom, bravery, or ability. They lived, in fact, as one great family bound in close a.s.sociation by their habits of life and their family relationships, and they knew no such unnatural distinction as king or subject, lord or va.s.sal.
Around their long bark tenements, stretched carefully cultivated fields of corn and pumpkins, the trailing bean, the full-bunched grapevine, the juicy melon, and the big-leafed tabah, or tobacco.
The field work was performed by the women, not from any necessity of a slavish condition or an enforced obedience, but because, where the men and boys must be warriors and hunters, the women and girls felt that it was their place and their duty to perform such menial labor as, to their unenlightened nature, seemed hardly suitable to those who were to become chiefs and heroes.
These st.u.r.dy forest-folk of old Virginia, who had reached that state of human advance, midway between savagery and civilization, that is known as barbarism, were but a small portion of that red-skinned, vigorous, and most interesting race familiar to us under their general but wrongly-used name of "Indians." They belonged to one of the largest divisions of this barbaric race, known the Algonquin family--a division created solely by a similarity of language and of blood-relationships--and were, therefore, of the kindred of the Indians of Canada, of New England, and of Pennsylvania, of the valley of the Ohio, the island of Manhattan, and of some of the far-away lands beyond the Mississippi.
So, for generations, they lived, with their simple home customs and their family affections, with their games and sports, their legends and their songs, their dances, fasts, and feasts, their hunting and their fishing, their tribal feuds and wars. They had but little religious belief, save that founded upon the superst.i.tion that lies at the foundation of all uncivilized intelligence, and though their customs show a certain strain of cruelty in their nature, this was not a savage and vindictive cruelty, but was, rather, the result of what was, from their way of looking at things, an entirely justifiable understanding of order and of law.
At the time of our story, certain of these Algonquin tribes of Virginia were joined together in a sort of Indian republic, composed of thirty tribes scattered through Central and Eastern Virginia, and known to their neighbors as the Confederacy of the Pow-ha-tans. This name was taken from the tribe that was at once the strongest and the most energetic one in this tribal union, and that had its fields and villages along the broad river known to the Indians as the Pow-ha-tan, and to us as the James.
The princ.i.p.al chief of the Pow-ha-tans was Wa-bun-so-na-cook, called by the white men Pow-hatan. He was a strongly built but rather stern-faced old gentleman of about sixty, and possessed such an influence over his tribesmen that he was regarded as the head man (president, we might say), of their forest republic, which comprised the thirty confederated tribes of Pow-ha-tan. The confederacy, in its strongest days, never numbered more than eight or nine thousand people, and yet it was considered one of the largest Indian unions in America. This, therefore, may be considered as pretty good proof that there was never, after all, a very extensive Indian population in America, even before the white man discovered it.
Into one of the Pow-ha-tan villages that stood very near the sh.o.r.es of Chesapeake Bay, and almost opposite the now historic site of Yorktown, came one biting day, in the winter of 1607, an Indian runner, whose name was Ra-bun-ta. He came as one that had important news to tell, but he paused not for shout or question from the inquisitive boys who were tumbling about in the light snow, in their favorite sport of Ga-wa-sa or the "snow-snake" game. One of the boys, a mischievous and st.u.r.dy young Indian of thirteen, whose name was. Nan-ta-qua-us, even tried to insert the slender k.n.o.b-headed stick, which was the "snake" in the game, between the runner"s legs, and trip him up. But Ra-bun-ta was too skilful a runner to be stopped by trifles; he simply kicked the "snake"
out of his way, and hurried on to the long house of the chief.
Now this Indian settlement into which the runner had come was the Pow-ha-tan village of Wero-woco-moco, and was the one in which the old chief Wa-bun-so-na-cook usually resided. Here was the long council-house in which the chieftains of the various tribes in the confederacy met for counsel and for action, and here, too, was the "long tenement-house" in which the old chief and his immediate family lived.
It was into this dwelling that the runner dashed. In a group about the central fire-pit he saw the chief. Even before he could himself stop his headlong speed, however, his race with news came to an unexpected end.
The five fires were all surrounded by lolling Indians, for the weather in that winter of 1607 was terribly cold, and an Indian, when inside his house, always likes to get as near to the fire as possible. But down the long pa.s.sage-way the children were noisily playing at their games--at gus-ka-eh, or "peach-pits," at gus-ga-e-sa-ta, or "deer-b.u.t.tons," and some of the younger boys were turning wonderful somersaults up and down the open s.p.a.ces between the fire-pits. Just as the runner, Ra-bun-ta, sped up the pa.s.sage-way, one of these youthful gymnasts with a dizzy succession of hand-springs came whizzing down the pa.s.sage-way right in the path of Ra-bun-ta.
There was a sudden collision. The tumbler"s stout little feet came plump against the breast of Ra-bun-ta, and so sudden and unexpected was the shock that both recoiled, and runner and gymnast alike tumbled over in a writhing heap upon the very edge of one of the big bonfires, Then there was a great shout of laughter, for the Indians dearly loved a joke, and such a rough piece of unintentional pleasantry was especially relished.
"Wa, wa, Ra-bun-ta," they shouted, pointing at the discomfited runner as he picked himself out of the fire, "knocked over by a girl!"
And the deep voice of the old chief said half sternly, half tenderly:
"My daughter, you have wellnigh killed our brother Ra-bun-ta with your foolery. That is scarce girls" play. Why will you be such a po-ca-hun-tas?"(1)
(1) Po-ca-hun-tas, Algonquin for a little "tomboy."
The runner joined in the laugh against him quite as merrily as did the rest, and made a dash at the little ten-year-old tumbler, which she as nimbly evaded, "Ma-ma-no-to-wic,"(1) he said, "the feet of Ma-ta-oka are even heavier than the snake of Nun-ta-quaus, her brother. I have but escaped them both with my life. Ma-ma-no-to-wic, I have news for you. The braves, with your brother O-pe-chan-ca-nough, have taken the pale-face chief in the Chickahominy swamps and are bringing him to the council-house."
(1) "Great man" or "strong one," a t.i.tle by which Wa-bun-so-na-cook, or Powhatan, was frequently addressed.
"Wa," said the old chief, "it is well, we will be ready for him."
At once Ra-bun-ta was surrounded and plied with questions. The earlier American Indians were always a very inquisitive folk, and were great gossips. Ra-bun-ta"s news would furnish fire-pit talk for months, so they must know all the particulars. What was this white cau-co-rouse, (captain or leader) like? What had he on? Did he use his magic against the braves? Were any of them killed?
For the fame of "the white cau-co-rouse," the "great captain," as the Indians called the courageous and intrepid little governor of the Virginia colony, Captain John Smith, had already gone throughout the confederacy, and his capture was even better than a victory over their deadliest enemies, the Manna-ho-acks.
Ra-bun-ta was as good a gossip and story-teller as any of his tribesmen, and as he squatted before the upper fire-pit, and ate a hearty meal of parched corn, which the little Ma-ta-oka brought him as a peace-offering, he gave the details of the celebrated capture. "The "great captain,"" he said, "and two of his men had been surprised in the Chicka-hominy swamps by the chief O-pe-chan-ca-nough and two hundred braves. The two men were killed by the chief, but the "captain," seeing himself thus entrapped, seized his Indian guide and fastened him before as a shield, and thus sent out so much of his magic thunder from his fire-tube that he killed or wounded many of the Indians, and yet kept himself from harm though his clothes were torn with arrow-shots. At last, however," said the runner, "the "captain" had slipped into a mud-hole in the swamps, and, being there surrounded, was dragged out and made captive, and he, Ra-bun-ta, had been sent on to tell the great news to the chief."
The Indians especially admired bravery and cunning. This device of the white chieftain and his valor when attacked appealed to their admiration, and there was great desire to see him when next day he was brought into the village by the chief of the Pa-mun-kee, or York River Indians, O-pe-chan-ca-nough, brother of the chief of the Pow-ha-tans.
The renowned prisoner was received with the customary chorus of Indian yells, and then, acting upon the one leading Indian custom, the law of unlimited hospitality, a bountiful feast was set before the captive, who, like the valiant man he was, ate heartily though ignorant what his fate might be.
The Indians seldom wantonly killed their captives. When a sufficient number had been sacrificed to avenge the memory of such braves as had fallen in fight, the remaining captives were either adopted as tribesmen or disposed of as slaves.
So valiant a warrior as this pale-faced cau-co-rouse was too important a personage to be used as a slave, and Wa-bun-so-na-cook, the chief, received him as an honored guest(1) rather than as a prisoner, kept him in his own house for two days, and adopting him as his own son, promised him a large gift of land. Then, with many expressions of friendship, he returned him, well escorted by Indian guides, to the trail that led back direct to the English colony at Jamestown.
(1) "Hee kindly welcomed me with good wordes," says Smith"s own narrative, "a.s.suring me his friendship and my libertie."
This rather destroys the long-familiar romance of the doughty captain"s life being saved by "the king"s own daughter," but it seems to be the only true version of the story, based upon his own original report.
But though the oft-described "rescue" did not take place, the valiant Englishman"s attention was speedily drawn to the agile little Indian girl, Ma-ta-oka, whom her father called his "tomboy," or po-ca-hun-tas.
She was as inquisitive as any young girl, savage or civilized, and she was so full of kindly attentions to the captain, and bestowed on him so many smiles and looks of wondering curiosity, that Smith made much of her in return, gave her some trifling presents and asked her name.
Now it was one of the many singular customs of the American Indians never to tell their own names, nor even to allow them to be spoken to strangers by any of their own immediate kindred. The reason for this lay in the superst.i.tion which held that the speaking of one"s real name gave to the stranger to whom it was spoken a magical and harmful influence over such person. For the Indian religion was full of what is called the supernatural.
So, when the old chief of the Pow-ha-tans (who, for this very reason, was known to the colonists by the name of his tribe, Pow-ha-tan, rather than by his real name of Wa-bun-so-na-cook) was asked his little daughter"s name, he hesitated, and then gave in reply the nick-name by which he often called her, Po-ca-hun-tas, the "little tomboy"--for this agile young maiden, by reason of her relationship to the head chief, was allowed much more freedom and fun than was usually the lot of Indian girls, who were, as a rule, the patient and uncomplaining little drudges of every Indian home and village.
So, when Captain Smith left Wero-woco-moco, he left one firm friend behind him,--the pretty little Indian girl, Ma-ta-oka,--who long remembered the white man and his presents, and determined, after her own wilful fashion, to go into the white man"s village and see all their wonders for herself.
In less than a year she saw the captain again, For when, in the fall of 1608, he came to her father"s village to invite the old chief to Jamestown to be crowned by the English as "king" of the Pow-ha-tans, this bright little girl of twelve gathered together the other little girls of the village, and, almost upon the very spot where, many years after, Cornwallis was to surrender the armies of England to the "rebel"
republic, she with her companions entertained the English captain with a gay Indian dance full of noise and frolic.
Soon after this second interview, Ma-ta-oka"s wish to see the white man"s village was gratified. For in that same autumn of 1608 she came with Ra-bun-ta to Jamestown. She sought out the captain who was then "president" of the colony, and "entreated the libertie" of certain of her tribesmen who had been "detained,"--in other words, treacherously made prisoners by the settlers because of some fear of an Indian plot against them.
Smith was a shrewd enough man to know when to bl.u.s.ter and when to be friendly. He released the Indian captives at Ma-ta-oka"s wish--well knowing that the little girl had been duly "coached" by her wily old father, but feeling that even the friendship of a child may often be of value to people in a strange land.
The result of this visit to Jamestown was the frequent presence in the town of the chieftain"s daughter. She would come, sometimes, with her brother, Nan-ta-qua-us, sometimes with the runner, Ra-bun-ta, and sometimes with certain of her girl followers. For even little Indian girls had their "dearest friends," quite as much as have our own clannish young school-girls of to-day.