At an early day in the history of our Nation, there had emigrated to the Southeastern shore of the Old Dominion, an English gentleman, whose manners and carriage bespoke aristocratic lineage, and whose free use of money made it evident to those in the same locality, that he must have been a man of parts in the country whence he had come.
He had bought up acres and acres of the land lying contiguous to the Dismal Swamp, but occupied a hewn log house some miles distant from that place of ill repute. The report gained credence that he had left the Old Country “for the good of his health,” in other words, his knowledge of and participation in the plots and counter-plots against the government, made it safer for both himself and some, whose fingers had ever held the pulse of the Nation, that he should live elsewhere; and we find him making himself a home across the waters, with stint of nothing, for a vessel never made harbor, that it did not bring a large consignment to Theodore Stanton.
In the course of time he erected for himself and family a commodious house, many of the necessary materials coming from abroad, and he was ever ready to welcome to his board any wayfarer with whom he came in contact.
It was during the time that his house was building, and he had been scouring the country for help for the work, when one day, a young Indian boy presented himself at his door asking, “Work for me do?” He spoke very indifferent English, but Mr. Stanton understood he had come in response to his inquiries for hands, and he asked, “What can you do?”
“Ride horse, shoot gun, hunt deer.”
His appearance appealed to Mr. Stanton, and he nodded his head saying, “You can hunt deer and bear for me, eat.”
That seemed satisfactory and from that time on, he called Mr. Stanton’s, home, and sure enough supplied the family with all the game they could use.
But his especial attention seemed to be paid to Mr. Stanton’s little girl, Alice, to whom he was devoted, and who never seemed so happy or contented, as when perched on Powhatan’s shoulders and scouring the country for flowers, nuts or berries. He had been at his chosen home now, for a long time, and had learned to speak and understand our tongue very well. He said he was descended from old Chief Powhatan and that little Pocahontas was his kin, but that his father had been badly treated and set aside and would not go with his tribe of Indians; but if any questions were asked, as to where his father was, a stolid look would settle over his countenance, and he would make no reply; occasionally he would disappear, and be gone for a day or two, but always came back, ready for his appointed duty, to hunt the meat for Mr. Stanton. He was as straight as an arrow, and it required little imagination to believe he might be descended from a line of kings, his bearing was so dignified and regal. To no one was he communicative or unbending, save little Alice, over whom he watched with jealous care.
Mrs. Stanton, Alice’s mother, had never liked him, and often expressed uneasiness at the feeling that seemed to exist between her ewe lamb, and this dusky son of the forest, and she begged her husband to consign her to her sister’s care, in England, in that way breaking up the association, and giving Alice, at the same time, opportunities for education that she would lack in the States.
“No, wife, don’t ask me that; I have made sacrifices enough, God knows. I cannot stand to be parted from my little one; send for tutors, governesses or any other sort of SSS, that you want, I will bear all expense, but let me see my dear daughter every day, that’s a dear.” Mrs. Stanton said no more, but she watched with ever growing sorrow; the glow of pride that came to Powhatan’s dark countenance, when gazing at “Laughing Water,” as he called Alice.