The amulet: A novel

by Charles Egbert Craddock

The row of chiefs glittered in the brilliant sunlight, in their rich fur shirts, their feather-woven mantles, their plumed crests, their gayly painted faces, their silver bracelets worn above the elbow, their silver head-bands and earrings, their many glancing necklaces of roanoke,—all, however, devoid of any weapon worn in sight. The wind was gentle, yet fresh; the hour was still early,—the Reverend Mr. Morton’s shadow was even longer and lanker than his tall, bony anatomy might seem to warrant. His attendants, or guards, had taken off his shovel hat and clerical wig, and his head was bare, save for its wandering wisps of gray hair, blowing about his face and neck,—and whenever Captain Howard glanced toward him he turned as red as his scarlet coat, his eyes fell, he cleared his throat uneasily. He had long been habituated by the exigencies of his military service to the exercise of self-control, and he had need now of all the restraints of his training.

The preacher opened the session, so to speak, by demanding in a very loud voice, with every assurance of manner and in fluent Cherokee, why he was arraigned thus amongst his friends.

Rolloweh, a man of a fierce, hatchet-shaped face, rendered sinister of expression by the loss of one eye, rose and imperatively bade him be silent.

“I will not hold my peace,” declared the venerable missionary. “I will know why I am brought here, and why these,”—he waved his hand—“have assembled.”

“Because,” said Rolloweh, the Raven, craftily, “you have too many words. You weary our ears waking, and in our dreams you still talk on. We have loved you—have we not listened to you? You are our friend, and you have dwelt in our hearts. We have seen you shed tears for our sorrows. You have lent ears to our plaints and you have eaten our salt. You have given of your goods to the needy and have even wrought with your hands in building again the burned houses. You have paid with English money for your keep and have been a charge to no man.”

He looked with a steady, observant eye to the right and the left of the rows of eager listening faces. They could but note that he had religiously given the old man his due, for the good missionary was much beloved of the people.

“But your talk is not a straight talk. You have the crooked tongue. You tell lies to mislead the Cherokee people—who are a free people—and to make them slaves to the British. You tell them that these lies are religion—that they are the religion of the British people.”

There was absolute silence as his impassioned tones, voicing the musical, liquid Cherokee words, rolled out on the still morning air.

“You say that the tongue is a fire—it kindles about you, for these lies that you have spoken. You are our friend, but you stretch our hearts to bursting. We have besought you to leave the country and mislead our youth no more. You have been stubborn. You say—‘Woe!’ and you will preach! We have summoned this Capteny Howard, a beloved man of the English king, to question between you and show these men from the towns that what you teach our youth is not the English religion, but a charm to bind the Cherokee.”

Through the interpreter these words were perfectly intelligible to Captain Howard, and for one moment it seemed as if this officer—a stalwart specimen of middle-aged vigor—might faint; then, with a sudden revulsion of color, as if he might go off in an apoplexy. To be so entrapped! To be caught in the toils of a public religious controversy dismayed him more than an ambush of warriors. But the old missionary’s life might depend upon his answers. They must confirm the “straightness” of Mr. Morton’s talk. He must prove that the teaching of the parson to the Cherokee nation was not a snare for Cherokee liberties, but the familiar religion of the British people, known and practised by all.