Anecdotes of the American Indians. John Lauris Blake
Indian is cold;
But his heart in his wild-wood
Is like molten gold.
The warrior has clasped them—
He’s red in their gore!
Has raved and wept o’er them—
But ne’er will weep more!
“Ye snow-brow destroyers!
Ye false and ye foul!
For this, by Manito!
For this shall ye howl!
I swear that pale thousands
Shall weep for this blow;
For each drop here wasted,
Red rivers shall flow!
“When smoke dims the distance,
And shrieks fill the air,
Then white lips will whisper,
‘Fly! Weatherford’s there!’
Your warriors shall perish;
We’ll laugh at their shame;
And the blood of your loved ones
Shall hiss in the flame!”
How was that vow answered?
Ask Mimms: it will tell!
Where the battle was hottest
There his hatchet fell;
Where the shriek was the loudest,
Where freest ran blood,
Be sure, mid his victims,
There Weatherford stood!
But feeble the red men,
Though fierce in the fray;
Like mists in the morning,
They melted away.
“Give us peace!” prayed the vanquished;
“The white chieftain gives
No peace”—was the answer—
“While Weatherford lives.”
That lion-souled chieftain’s1
Alone in his tent:
’Tis midnight; still over
His toil he is bent.
The drapery is rustled—
He turns not his ear:
“Ho! Look up, proud warrior,
Thy foeman is here!”
A dark form stood o’er him,
His red arm on high;
But quailed not the chieftain
Beneath his dark eye.
“What art thou, bold savage?
Sooth, light the foot fell
That stole through the watch
Of my tried sentinel.”
“Where Weatherford willeth,
Even there will he go;
He heeds not thy sentry
When seeking his foe.”
“I fear thee not, boaster!”
“Thou needest not fear;
For peace for my people,
For peace came I here.
“Thou’d’st have me sent to thee,
And sent to thee bound;
But Weatherford dies not
The death of a hound:
No recreant, no trembler,
No captive am I—
I’ve fetterless lived, and
Will fetterless die.
“To save my crushed people
I die, but die free—
A sacrifice worthy
Of them and of thee!”
“No—back to thy forest—
Bold warrior go!
I strike not the head
That is bent to the blow
“Aye, go! but remember
When meet we again,
Thy lot is the gibbet,
The cord and the chain.
Be strong for the battle!
No quarter we yield:
No fear and no mercy!
Now, back to the field!”
“I long have fought with thee,
And still would fight on—
But my true Seminoles—
My warriors are gone!
My brave ones I’d rally,
And fight at their head;
But where is the warrior
Can rally the dead!
“At red Talledegha,
Emuckfaw they stood—
Thou knowest that our valleys
Are black with their blood.
By the wailing Savannah
Unburied they lie;
Spare, warrior, the remnant,
Let Weatherford die!”
No longer the soldier
The bold plea could hear,
But quick from his bronzed cheek
He hurried a tear.
“Devoted and brave! As
Thou will’st shall it be;
Here’s peace to thy people,
And friendship for thee!”
THE FOLLOWING IS THE INCIDENT ON WHICH THE FOREGOING LINES ARE FOUNDED.2
Billy Weatherford, the celebrated savage warrior, is, at length, vanquished—the destroyer is conquered—the hand which so profusely dealt death and desolation among the whites, is now paralyzed—it is motionless. He died at his late residence near Montpelier, in this state, on the 9th inst. His deeds of war are well known to the early settlers in South Alabama, and will be remembered by them while they live: and be talked of, with horror, by generations yet unborn. But his dauntless spirit has taken its flight—“he is gone to the land of his fathers.”
Billy Weatherford, denominated ‘The Prophet’ was about one-fourth Indian (some say a half breed) his ancestry, on the white side, having been Scottish. It has been said, that he boasted of having no Yankee (meaning