I.
The moon look’d down with loving light
On river, grove, and hill,
And Jamestown slept in quietness,
Her homes were closed and still;
The evening prayer from pious lips
Had been address’d to heaven,
And for relief from famine’s power
Had many thanks been given;
And while his people were at rest
Sir John was out alone,
And walking by the river bank,
Where the moon-lit waters shone,
To see his vessel well secured
Against the chafing wave.
Fear not for him; Sir John was arm’d—
And more, Sir John was brave.
But as he turn’d him from the shore,
His homeward route to trace,
An arrow swift as light flew past—
So near, it fann’d his face;
And quick upon his pathway rush’d
An Indian, stout and tall.
Sir John his faithful carbine drew,
Well-charged with shot and ball;
But though a squirrel he could bring
From the highest forest bough,
And though he took deliberate aim,
His carbine fail’d him now.
On came the savage, dark and fierce,
Fire beaming from his eye,
Leaping like tiger on his prey,
His war-club raised on high;
But when within ten feet he came,
He made a sudden stand,
For now Sir John’s bright sword was out,
And flashing in his hand;
And firm he stood and sternly look’d
Upon his savage foe,
In readiness, at every point,
To give him blow for blow.
A moment’s pause, and then again
The Indian forward sprang,
And now against his falling club
Sir John’s keen broadsword rang;
And thrice the clash of club and sword
Echo’d the woods around,
And then the weapon of Sir John
Fell broken to the ground.
At once he rush’d with desperate power
And grappled with his foe,
And, face to face, he saw and knew
’ Twas fierce Nemattanow.
More deadly grew the conflict then;
It was no feeble strife,
When two such warriors, hand to hand,
Were struggling, life for life.
The hatchet of Nemattanow
Bore a well-sharpen’d blade,
And now to draw it from his belt
His hand was on it laid;
But quick the strong arm of Sir John
Clasp’d the stout Indian round,
And with a mighty effort brought
His foeman to the ground.
And as they fell, Nemattanow
Clutch’d fast his flowing hair,
And twisted it about his hand,
As if he would prepare
To cut away his living scalp
Before he took his life;
And now with vigorous gripe he seized
His deadly scalping-knife.
Again Sir John with iron nerve
Summon’d his utmost strength;
Their grapple, from the river side,
Was scarcely twice his length;
The grassy bank was smooth and steep,
And dark and deep the flood—
A moment more, that scalping-knife
Would surely drink his blood—
With wiry spring and giant power
A sudden whirl he gave,
And over and over, down they roll’d,
And plunged beneath the wave.{[17]}