The day of blood arrives at last,
When vengeance shall be hurl’d
On every pale-face in the land,
And sweep him from the world.
Through the silent night, in the upland groves,
And down by the murky fen,
And deep in the solitary wood,
There’s a mustering of men—
Old Chesapeake sends forth the tribes
That live along the shore;
Potomac’s warriors, arm’d for death,
Are on the march once more;
Fierce Kecoughtans and Nansamonds
Creep noiselessly along;
Pamunky’s valiant tribe sends out
A band five hundred strong;
And a hundred silent winding streams,
By the twinkling stars’ dim light,
Beheld dark warriors whispering
Along their banks that night.
Each band knew well its pathless route
In darkness or in day:
Each had its several task assign’d,
And panted for its prey.
They came where the outer settlements
Were skirted by the wood,
And waiting for the appointed hour,
In breathless silence stood.
The gray tops of the cottages
Gleam’d in the misty air;
They look’d and listen’d eagerly—
No light, no sound was there.
No watchful guards with loaded arms
In field or fort appear;
There lay the slumbering colony
Without defence or fear.
X.
The morning-star is in the sky—
The signal word is given,
And a hundred blazing torches flash
In the starry vault of heaven;
And from a hundred blazing homes
Rings out a piercing cry,
As the sleeper wakes, and the flames of death
Glare on his waking eye.
But a wilder scream, a fiendish yell,
Comes back to his ear again,
As he rushes out, and a savage blow
Has crush’d him to the plain.
When morning came, the sun look’d down
Where many a cottage stood;
But he only saw black smouldering heaps,
And fields that smoked with blood.{[28]}
In all the outer settlements
The work of death was o’er,
And full three hundred colonists
Lay weltering in their gore.
XI.
But Jamestown show’d another sight
To that bright morning sun—
Three hundred hostile men stood there,
All arm’d with sword and gun,
And breathing out a stern resolve
To hunt the savage race,
With fire and sword and ceaseless war,
Till not a single trace
Of all the tribes of Powhatan
Should in the land be seen,
To cry for blood, or tell the world
That such a race had been.
How these were saved from blood and death
On that red night of wo,
The Indian never knew, and now
It matters not to know.
Enough, that timely warning came
For them to up and arm;
That when the gleam of the Indian torch
Flash’d out its first alarm,
A dozen muskets blazed at once,
And torch and bearer fell,
And the foe fled swift when he heard the roar
Through the echoing forest swell.
XII.
Henceforth the course of war is changed—
In one devoted band
The desperate colonists march forth
In arms to scour the land;
And the flying savage, looking back
From the hill-top, often sees
The flames of his burning lodge dart up
Above the forest trees.
The blood of old and young alike
Is pour’d upon the plains,
And through the realm of Powhatan
Wide desolation reigns.
Like hunted deer through grove and glen
The bleeding victims die,
And villages by the river banks
In smoking ruins lie.
At last the broken, flying tribes
In many a rallying band,
Meet round the home of Powhatan
For one more desperate stand.
And here an oath each warrior swears,
To fall—if he must fall—
With face to the foe, and hand to his bow,
And his back to the council-hall.
XIII.
The fearful battle soon grows warm
Between the opposing foes—
Three hundred muskets in the field
Against three thousand bows.
And thickly flew with deadly aim
The Indian arrows then;
But where one man by an arrow fell,
The musket slaughter’d ten.
Pamunky, wounded, leaves the field,
Stout Nantaquas is slain,
And many a brave and valiant chief
Lies stretch’d upon the plain;
But still the battle fiercer grows
Till near the close of day,
And neither side the victory gains,
And neither side gives way.
And now with sword and bayonet,
Their ammunition gone,
With firmness toward the faltering foe
The colonists press on,
And hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Their deadly weapons ply—
The white man takes the ground at last,
The Indians fall or fly.