{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_6610/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_6610","id":"gutenberg_6610","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6610","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Folklore -- United States"],"text":"Produced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\n                           MYTHS AND LEGENDS\n                                   OF\n                              OUR OWN LAND\n\n                                   By\n                           Charles M. Skinner\n\n                                Vol. 5.\n\n\n                    LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS:\n\nThe Swim at Indian Head\nThe Moaning Sisters\nA Ride for a Bride\nSpooks of the Hiawassee\nLake of the Dismal Swamp\nThe Barge of Defeat\nNatural Bridge\nThe Silence Broken\nSiren of the French Broad\nThe Hunter of Calawassee\nRevenge of the Accabee\nToccoa Falls\nTwo Lives for One\nA Ghostly Avenger\nThe Wraith Ringer of Atlanta\nThe Swallowing Earthquake\nThe Last Stand of the Biloxi\nThe Sacred Fire of Natchez\nPass Christian\nThe Under Land\n\n\n\n\n\nLIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH\n\n\n\nTHE SWIM AT INDIAN HEAD\n\nAt Indian Head, Maryland, are the government proving-grounds, where the\nracket of great guns and splintering of targets are a deterrent to the\nmiscellaneous visitations of picnics. Trouble has been frequently\nassociated with this neighborhood, as it is now suggested in the noisy\nsymbolry of war. In prehistoric days it was the site of an aboriginal\ntown, whose denizens were like other Indians in their love for fight and\ntheir willingness to shed blood. Great was the joy of all these citizens\nwhen a scouting party came in, one day, bringing with them the daughter\nof one of their toughest old hunters and a young buck, from another\nfaction, who had come a-courting; her in the neighboring shades.\n\nCapture meant death, usually, and he knew it, but he held himself proudly\nand refused to ask for mercy. It was resolved that he should die. The\nfather's scorn for his daughter, that she should thus consort with an\nenemy, was so great that he was on the point of offering her as a joint\nsacrifice with her lover, when she fell on her knees before him and began\na fervent appeal, not for herself, but for the prisoner. She would do\nanything to prove her strength, her duty, her obedience, if they would\nset him free. He had done injury to none. What justice lay in putting him\nto the torture?\n\nHalf in earnest, half in humor, the chief answered, \"Suppose we were to\nset him on the farther shore of the Potomac, do you love him well enough\nto swim to him?\"\n\n\"I do.\"\n\n\"The river is wide and deep.\"\n\n\"I would drown in it rather than that harm should come to him.\"\n\nThe old chief ordered the captive, still bound, to be taken to a point on\nthe Virginia shore, full two miles away, in one of their canoes, and when\nthe boat was on the water he gave the word to the girl, who instantly\nplunged in and followed it. The chief and the father embarked in another\nbirch--ostensibly to see that the task was honestly fulfilled; really,\nperhaps, to see that the damsel did not drown. It was a long course, but\nthe maid was not as many of our city misses are, and she reached the\nbank, tired, but happy, for she had saved her lover and gained him for a\nhusband.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOANING SISTERS\n\nAbove Georgetown, on the Potomac River, are three rocks, known as the\nThree Sisters, not merely because of their resemblance to each other--for\nthey are parts of a submerged reef--but because of a tradition that, more\nthan a hundred years ago, a boat in which three sisters had gone out for\na row was swung against one of these rocks. The day was gusty and the\nboat was upset. All three of the girls were drowned. Either the sisters\nremain about this perilous spot or the rocks have prescience; at least,\nthose who live near them on the shore hold one view or the other, for\nthey declare that before every death on the river the sisters moan, the\nsound being heard above the lapping of the waves. It is different from\nany other sound in nature. Besides, it is an unquestioned fact that more\naccidents happen here than at any other point on the river.\n\nMany are the upsets that have occurred and many are the swimmers who have\ngone down, the dark forms of the sisters being the last shapes that their\nwater-blurred eyes have seen. It is only before a human life is to be\nyielded that this low wailing comes from the rocks, and when, on a night\nin May, 1889, the sound floated shoreward, just as the clock in\nGeorgetown struck twelve, good people who were awake sighed and uttered a\nprayer for the one whose doom was so near at hand. Twelve hours later, at\nnoon, a shell came speeding down the Potomac, with a young athlete\njauntily pulling at the oars. As he neared the Three Sisters his boat\nappeared to be caught in an eddy; it swerved suddenly, as if struck; then\nit upset and the rower sank to his death.\n\n\n\n\nA RIDE FOR A BRIDE\n\nWhen the story of bloodshed at Bunker Hill reached Bohemia Hall, in Cecil\nCounty, Maryland, Albert De Courcy left his brother Ernest to support the\ndignity of the house and make patriotic speeches, while he went to the\nfront, conscious that Helen Carmichael, his affianced wife, was watching,\nin pride and sadness, the departure of his company. Letters came and\nwent, as they always do, until rumor came of a sore defeat to the\ncolonials at Long Island; then the letters ceased.\n\nIt was a year later when a ragged soldier, who had stopped at the hall\nfor supper, told of Albert's heroism in covering the retreat of\nWashington. The gallant young officer had been shot, he said, as he\nattempted to swim the morasses of Gowanus. But this soldier was in error.\nAlbert had been vexatiously bogged on the edge of the creek. While\nfloundering in the mud a half dozen sturdy red-coats had lugged him out\nand he was packed off to the prison-ships anchored in the Wallabout. In\nthese dread hulks, amid darkness and miasma, living on scant, unwholesome\nfood, compelled to see his comrades die by dozens every day and their\nbodies flung ashore where the tide lapped away the sand thrown over them,\nDe Courcy wished that death instead of capture had been his lot, for next\nto his love he prized his liberty.\n\nOne day he was told off, with a handful of others, for transfer to a\nstockade on the Delaware, and how his heart beat when he learned that the\nnew prison was within twenty miles of home! His flow of spirits returned,\nand his new jailers liked him for his frankness and laughed at his honest\nexpletives against the king. He had the liberty of the enclosure, and was\nnot long in finding where the wall was low, the ditch narrow, and the\nabatis decayed--knowledge that came useful to him sooner than he\nexpected, for one day a captured horse was led in that made straight for\nhim with a whinny and rubbed his nose against his breast.\n\n\"Why!\" he cried,--\"it's Cecil! My horse, gentlemen--or, was. Not a better\nhunter in Maryland!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered one of the officers. \"We've just taken him from your\nbrother. He's been stirring trouble with his speeches and has got to be\nquieted. But we'll have him to-day, for he's to be married, and a\nscouting party is on the road to nab him at the altar.\"\n\n\"Married! My brother! What! Ernest, the lawyer, the orator? Ho, ho! Ah,\nbut it's rather hard to break off a match in that style!\"\n\n\"Hard for him, maybe; but they say the lady feels no great love for him.\nHe made it seem like a duty to her, after her lover died.\"\n\n\"How's that? Her own--what's her name?\"\n\n\"Helen--Helen Carmichael, or something like that.\"\n\nField and sky swam before De Courcy's eyes for a moment; then he resumed,\nin a calm voice, and with a pale, set face, \"Well, you're making an\nunhappy wedding-day for him. If he had Cecil here he would outride you\nall. Ah, when I was in practice I could ride this horse and snatch a\npebble from the ground without losing pace!\"\n\n\"Could you do it now?\"\n\n\"I'm afraid long lodging in your prison-ships has stiffened my joints,\nbut I'd venture at a handkerchief.\"\n\n\"Then try,\" said the commandant.\n\nDe Courcy mounted into the saddle heavily, crossed the grounds at a\ncanter, and dropped a handkerchief on the grass. Then, taking a few turns\nfor practice, he started at a gallop and swept around like the wind. His\nseat was so firm, his air so noble, his mastery of the steed so complete,\nthat a cheer of admiration went up. He seemed to fall headlong from the\nsaddle, but was up again in a moment, waving the handkerchief gayly in\nfarewell--for he kept straight on toward the weak place in the wall. A\ncouple of musket-balls hummed by his ears: it was neck or nothing now! A\ntremendous leap! Then a ringing cry told the astonished soldiers that he\nhad reached the road in safety. Through wood and thicket and field he\ndashed as if the fiend were after him, and never once did he cease to\nurge his steed till he reached the turnpike, and saw ahead the scouting\nparty on its way to arrest his brother.\n\nTurning into a path that led to the rear of the little church they were\nso dangerously near, he plied hands and heels afresh, and in a few\nmoments a wedding party was startled by the apparition of a black horse,\nall in a foam, ridden by a gaunt man, in torn garments, that burst in at\nthe open chancel-door. The bridegroom cowered, for he knew his brother.\nThe bride gazed in amazement. \"'Tis the dead come to life!\" cried one. De\nCourcy had little time for words. He rode forward to the altar, swung\nHelen up behind him, and exclaimed, \"Save yourselves! The British are\ncoming! To horse, every one, and make for the manor!\" There were shrieks\nand fainting--and perhaps a little cursing, even if it was in\nchurch,--and when the squadron rode up most of the company were in full\nflight. Ernest was taken, and next morning held his brother's place on\nthe prison-list, while, as arrangements had been made for a wedding,\nthere was one, and a happy one, but Albert was the bridegroom.\n\n\n\n\nSPOOKS OF THE HIAWASSEE\n\nThe hills about the head of the Hiawassee are filled with \"harnts,\" among\nthem many animal ghosts, that ravage about the country from sheer\nviciousness. The people of the region, illiterate and superstitious, have\nunquestioning faith in them. They tell you about the headless bull and\nblack dog of the valley of the Chatata, the white stag of the\nSequahatchie, and the bleeding horse of the Great Smoky Mountains--the\nlast three being portents of illness, death, or misfortune to those who\nsee them.\n\nOther ghosts are those of men. Near the upper Hiawassee is a cave where a\npile of human skulls was found by a man who had put up his cabin near the\nentrance. For some reason, which he says he never understood, this farmer\ngathered up the old, bleached bones and dumped them into his shed. Quite\npossibly he did not dare to confess that he wanted them for fertilizers\nor to burn them for his poultry.\n\nNight fell dark and still, with a waning moon rising over the\nmountains--as calm a night as ever one slept through. Along toward the\nmiddle of it a sound like the coming of a cyclone brought the farmer out\nof his bed. He ran to the window to see if the house were to be uprooted,\nbut the forest was still, with a strange, oppressive stillness--not a\ntwig moving, not a cloud veiling the stars, not an insect chirping.\nFilled with a vague fear, he tried to waken his wife, but she was like\none in a state of catalepsy.\n\nAgain the sound was heard, and now he saw, without, a shadowy band\ncircling about his house like leaves whirled on the wind. It seemed to be\nmade of human shapes, with tossing arms--this circling band--and the\nsound was that of many voices, each faint and hollow, by itself, but loud\nin aggregate. He who was watching realized then that the wraiths of the\ndead whose skulls he had purloined from their place of sepulture were out\nin lament and protest. He went on his knees at once and prayed with vigor\nuntil morning. As soon as it was light enough to see his way he replaced\nthe skulls, and was not troubled by the \"haunts\" again. All the gold in\nAmerica, said he, would not tempt him to remove any more bones from the\ncave-tombs of the unknown dead.\n\n\n\n\nLAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP\n\nDrummond's Pond, or the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, is a dark and lonely\ntarn that lies in the centre of this noted Virginia morass. It is, in a\ncentury-old tradition, the Styx of two unhappy ghosts that await the end\nof time to pass its confines and enjoy the sunshine of serener worlds. A\nyoung woman of a family that had settled near this marsh died of a fever\ncaused by its malarial exhalations, and was buried near the swamp. The\nyoung man to whom she was betrothed felt her loss so keenly that for days\nhe neither ate nor slept, and at last broke down in mind and body. He\nrecovered a measure of physical health, after a time, but his reason was\nhopelessly lost.\n\nIt was his hallucination that the girl was not dead, but had been exiled\nto the lonely reaches of this watery wilderness. He was heard to mutter,\n\"I'll find her, and when Death comes I'll hide her in the hollow of a\ncypress until he passes on.\" Evading restraint, he plunged into the fen,\nand for some days he wandered there, eating berries, sleeping on tussocks\nof grass, with water-snakes crawling over him and poisonous plants\nshedding their baneful dew on his flesh. He came to the lake at last. A\nwill-o'the-wisp played along the surface. \"'Tis she!\" he cried. \"I see\nher, standing in the light.\" Hastily fashioning a raft of cypress boughs\nhe floated it and pushed toward the centre of the pond, but the eagerness\nof his efforts and the rising of a wind dismembered the frail platform,\nand he fell into the black water to rise no more. But often, in the\nnight, is seen the wraith of a canoe, with a fire-fly lamp burning on its\nprow, restlessly urged to and fro by two figures that seem to be vainly\nsearching for an exit from the place, and that are believed to be those\nof the maiden and her lover.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BARGE OF DEFEAT\n\nRappannock River, in Virginia, used to be vexed with shadowy craft that\nsome of the populace affirmed to be no boats, but spirits in disguise.\nOne of these apparitions was held in fear by the Democracy of Essex\nCounty, as it was believed to be a forerunner of Republican victory. The\nfirst recorded appearance of the vessel was shortly after the Civil War,\non the night of a Democratic mass-meeting at Tappahannock. There were\nmusic, refreshments, and jollity, and it was in the middle of a rousing\nspeech that a man in the crowd cried, \"Look, fellows! What is that queer\nconcern going down the river?\"\n\nThe people moved to the shore, and by the light of their torches a hulk\nwas seen drifting with the stream--a hulk of fantastic form unlike\nanything that sails there in the daytime. As it came opposite the throng,\nthe torchlight showed gigantic negroes who danced on deck, showing\nhorrible faces to the multitude. Not a sound came from the barge, the\nhalloos of the spectators bringing no response, and some boatmen ventured\ninto the stream, only to pull back in a hurry, for the craft had become\nso strangely enveloped in shadow that it seemed to melt into air.\n\nNext day the Democracy was defeated at the polls, chiefly by the negro\nvote. In 1880 it reappeared, and, as before, the Republicans gained the\nday. Just before the election of 1886, Mr. Croxton, Democratic nominee\nfor Congress, was haranguing the people, when the cry of \"The Black\nBarge!\" arose. Argument and derision were alike ineffectual with the\npopulace. The meeting broke up in silence and gloom, and Mr. Croxton was\ndefeated by a majority of two thousand.\n\n\n\n\nNATURAL BRIDGE\n\nThough several natural bridges are known in this country, there is but\none that is famous the world over, and that is the one which spans Clear\nCreek, Virginia--the remnant of a cave-roof, all the rest of the cavern\nhaving collapsed. It is two hundred and fifteen feet above the water, and\nis a solid mass of rock forty feet thick, one hundred feet wide, and\nninety feet in span. Thomas Jefferson owned it; George Washington scaled\nits side and carved his name on the rock a foot higher than any one else.\nHere, too, came the youth who wanted to cut his name above Washington's,\nand who found, to his horror, when half-way up, that he must keep on, for\nhe had left no resting-places for his feet at safe and reachable\ndistances--who, therefore, climbed on and on, cutting handhold and\nfoothold in the limestone until he reached the top, in a fainting state,\nhis knife-blade worn to a stump. Here, too, in another tunnel of the\ncavern, flows Lost River, that all must return to, at some time, if they\ndrink of it. Here, beneath the arch, is the dark stain, so like a flying\neagle that the French officer who saw it during the Revolution augured\nfrom it a success for the united arms of the nations that used the eagle\nas their symbol.\n\nThe Mohegans knew this wonder of natural masonry, for to this point they\nwere pursued by a hostile tribe, and on reaching the gulf found\nthemselves on the edge of a precipice that was too steep at that point to\ndescend. Behind them was the foe; before them, the chasm. At the\nsuggestion of one of their medicine-men they joined in a prayer to the\nGreat Spirit for deliverance, and when again they looked about them,\nthere stood the bridge. Their women were hurried over; then, like so many\nHoratii, they formed across this dizzy highway and gave battle.\nEncouraged by the knowledge that they had a safe retreat in case of being\novermastered, they fought with such heart that the enemy was defeated,\nand the grateful Mohegans named the place the Bridge of God.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SILENCE BROKEN\n\nIt was in 1734 that Joist Hite moved from Pennsylvania to Virginia, with\nhis wife and boys, and helped to make a settlement on the Shenandoah\ntwelve miles south of Woodstock. When picking berries at a distance from\nthe village, one morning, the boys were surprised by Indians, who hurried\nwith them into the wilderness before their friends could be apprised.\nAaron, the elder, was strong, and big of frame, with coarse, black hair,\nand face tanned brown; but his brother was small and fair, with blue eyes\nand yellow locks, and it was doubtless because he was a type of the hated\nwhite race that the Indians spent their blows and kicks on him and spared\nthe sturdy one. Aaron was wild with rage at the injuries put upon his\ngentle brother, but he was bound and helpless, and all that he could do\nwas to encourage him to bear a stout heart and not to fall behind.\n\nBut Peter was too delicate to keep up, and there came a day when he could\ngo no farther. The red men consulted for a few moments, then all of them\nstood apart but one, who fitted an arrow to his bow. The child's eyes\ngrew big with fear, and Aaron tore at his bonds, but uselessly, and\nshouted that he would take the victim's place, but no one understood his\nspeech, and in another moment Peter lay dead on the earth, with an arrow\nin his heart. Aaron gave one cry of hate and despair, and he, too, sank\nunconscious. On coming to himself he found that he was in a hut of\nboughs, attended by an old Indian, who told him in rude English that he\nwas recovering from an illness of several weeks' duration, and that it\nwas the purpose of his tribe to adopt him. When the lad tried to protest\nhe found to his amazement that he could not utter a sound, and he learned\nfrom the Indian that the fever had taken away his tongue. In the dulness\nand weakness of his state he submitted to be clothed in Indian dress,\nsmeared with a juice that browned his skin, and greeted by his brother's\nslayers as one of themselves. When he looked into a pool he found that he\nhad, to all intents, become an Indian. In time he became partly\nreconciled to this change, for he did not know and could not ask where\nthe white settlements lay; his appearance and his inability to speak\nwould prevent his recognition by his friends, the red men were not unkind\nto him, and every boy likes a free and out-door life. They taught him to\nshoot with bow and arrow, but they kept him back if a white settlement\nwas to be plundered.\n\nThree years had elapsed, and Aaron, grown tall and strong, was a good\nhunter who stood in favor with the tribe. They had roamed back to the\nneighborhood of Woodstock, when, at a council, Aaron overheard a plot to\nfall on the village where his parents lived. He begged, by signs, to be\nallowed to go with them, and, believing that he could now be trusted,\nthey offered no objection. Stoic as he had grown to be, he could not\nrepress a tear as he saw his old home and thought of the peril that it\nstood in. If only he could give an alarm! The Indians retired into the\nforest to cook their food where the smoke could not be seen, while Aaron\nlingered at the edge of the wood and prayed for opportunity. He was not\ndisappointed. Two girls came up through the perfumed dusk, driving cows\nfrom the pasture, and as they drew near, Aaron, pretending not to see\nthem, crawled out of the bush with his weapons, and made a show of\nstealthily examining the town. The girls came almost upon him and\nscreamed, while he dashed into the wood in affected surprise and regained\nthe camp. The Indians had heard and seen nothing. The girls would surely\ngive the alarm in town.\n\nOne by one the lights of the village went out, and when it seemed locked\nin sleep the red marauders crept toward the nearest house--that of Joist\nHite. They arose together and rushed upon it, but at that moment a gun\nwas fired, an Indian fell, and in a few seconds more the settlers, whom\nthe girls had not failed to put on their guard, were hurrying from their\nhiding-places, firing into the astonished crowd of savages, who dashed\nfor the woods again, leaving a dozen of their number on the ground. Aaron\nremained quietly standing near his father's house, and he was captured,\nas he hoped to be. When he saw how his parents had aged with time and\ngrief he could not repress a tear, but to his grief was added terror when\nhis father, after looking him steadily in the eye without recognition,\nbegan to load a pistol. \"They killed my boys,\" said he, \"and I am going\nto kill him. Bind him to that tree.\"\n\nIn vain the mother pleaded for mercy; in vain the dumb boy's eyes\nappealed to his father's. He was not afraid to die, and would do so\ngladly to have saved the settlement; but to die by his father's band! He\ncould not endure it. He was bound to a tree, with the light of a fire\nshining into his face.\n\nThe old man, with hard determination, raised the weapon and aimed it\nslowly at the boy's heart. A surge of feeling shook the frame of the\ncaptive--he threw his whole life into the effort--then the silence of\nthree years was broken, and he cried, \"Father!\" A moment later his\nparents were sobbing joyfully, and he could speak to them once more.\n\n\n\n\nSIREN OF THE FRENCH BROAD\n\nAmong the rocks east of Asheville, North Carolina, lives the Lorelei of\nthe French Broad River. This stream--the Tselica of the Indians--contains\nin its upper reaches many pools where the rapid water whirls and deepens,\nand where the traveller likes to pause in the heats of afternoon and\ndrink and bathe. Here, from the time when the Cherokees occupied the\ncountry, has lived the siren, and if one who is weary and downcast sits\nbeside the stream or utters a wish to rest in it, he becomes conscious of\na soft and exquisite music blending with the plash of the wave.\n\nLooking down in surprise he sees--at first faintly, then with\ndistinctness--the form of a beautiful woman, with hair streaming like\nmoss and dark eyes looking into his, luring him with a power he cannot\nresist. His breath grows short, his gaze is fixed, mechanically he rises,\nsteps to the brink, and lurches forward into the river. The arms that\ncatch him are slimy and cold as serpents; the face that stares into his\nis a grinning skull. A loud, chattering laugh rings through the\nwilderness, and all is still again.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HUNTER OF CALAWASSEE\n\nThrough brisk November days young Kedar and his trusty slave, Lauto,\nhunted along the Calawassee, with hope to get a shot at a buck--a buck\nthat wore a single horn and that eluded them with easy, baffling gait\nwhenever they met it in the fens. Kedar was piqued at this. He drained a\ndeep draught and buttoned his coat with an air of resolution. \"Now, by my\nsoul,\" quoth he, \"I'll have that buck to-day or die myself!\" Then he\nlaughed at the old slave, who begged him to unsay the oath, for there was\nsomething unusual about that animal--as it ran it left no tracks, and it\npassed through the densest wood without halting at trees or undergrowth.\n\"Bah!\" retorted the huntsman. \"Have up the dogs. If that buck is the\nfiend himself, I'll have him before the day is out!\" The twain were\nquickly in their saddles, and they had not been long in the wood before\nthe one-horned buck was seen ahead, trotting with easy pace, yet with\nmarvellous swiftness.\n\nKedar, who was in advance, whipped up his horse and followed the deer\ninto a cypress grove near the Chechesee. As the game halted at a pool he\nfired. The report sounded dead in the dense wood, and the deer turned\ncalmly, watched his pursuer until he was close at hand, then trotted away\nagain. All day long he held the chase. The dogs were nowhere within\nsound, and he galloped through the forest, shouting and swearing like a\nvery devil, beating and spurring the horse until the poor creature's head\nand flanks were reddened with blood. It was just at sunset that Kedar\nfound himself again on the bank of the Calawassee, near the point he had\nleft in the morning, and heard once more the baying of his hounds. At\nlast his prey seemed exhausted, and, swimming the river, it ran into a\nthicket on the opposite side and stood still. \"Now I have him!\" cried the\nhunter. \"Hillio, Lauto! He's mine!\" The old negro heard the call and\nhastened forward. He heard his master's horse floundering in the swamp\nthat edged the river--then came a plash, a curse, and as the slave\narrived at the margin a few bubbles floated on the sluggish current. The\ndeer stood in the thicket, staring with eyes that blazed through the\nfalling darkness, and, with a wail of fear and sorrow, old Lauto fled the\nspot.\n\n\n\n\nREVENGE OF THE ACCABEE\n\nThe settlement made by Lord Cardross, near Beaufort, South Carolina, was\nbeset by Spaniards and Indians, who laid it in ashes and slew every\nperson in it but one. She, a child of thirteen, had supposed the young\nchief of the Accabees to be her father, as he passed in the smoke, and\nhad thrown herself into his arms. The savage raised his axe to strike,\nbut, catching her blue eye raised to his, more in grief and wonder than\nalarm, the menacing hand fell to his side, and, tossing the girl lightly\nto a seat on his shoulder, he strode off into the forest. Mile after mile\nhe bore her, and if she slept he held her to his breast as a father holds\na babe. When she awoke it was in his lodge on the Ashley, and he was\nsmiling in her face. The chief became her protector; but those who\nmarked, with the flight of time, how his fierceness had softened, knew\nthat she was more to him than a daughter. Years passed, the girl had\ngrown to womanhood, and her captor declared himself her lover. She seemed\nnot ill pleased at this, for she consented to be his wife. After the\nbetrothal the chief joined a hunting party and was absent for a time. On\nhis return the girl was gone. A trader who had been bartering merchandise\nfor furs had seen her, had been inspired by passion, and, favored by\nsuave manners and a white skin, he had won in a day a stronger affection\nthan the Indian could claim after years of loving watchfulness.\n\nWhen this discovery was made the chief, without a word, set off on the\ntrail, and by broken twig, by bended grass and footprints at the\nbrook-edge, he followed their course until he found them resting beneath\na tree. The girl sprang from her new lover's arms with a cry of fear as\nthe savage, with knife and tomahawk girt upon him, stepped into view, and\nshe would have clasped his knees, but he motioned her away; then,\nordering them to continue their march, he went behind them until they had\nreached a fertile spot on the Ashley, near the present site of\nCharleston, where he halted. \"Though guilty, you shall not die,\" said he\nto the woman; then, to his rival, \"You shall marry her, and a white\npriest shall join your hands. Here is your future home. I give you many\nacres of my land, but look that you care for her. As I have been merciful\nto you, do good to her. If you treat her ill, I shall not be far away.\"\n\nThe twain were married and went to live on the acres that had been so\ngenerously ceded to them, and for a time all went well; but the true\ndisposition of the husband, which was sullen and selfish, soon began to\ndisclose itself; disagreements arose, then quarrels; at last the man\nstruck his wife, and, seizing the deed of the Accabee land and a paper\nthat he had forced her to sign without knowing its contents, he started\nfor the settlements, intending to sell the property and sail for England.\nOn the edge of the village his flight was stayed by a tall form that\narose in his path-that of the Indian. \"I gave you all,\" said the chief,\n\"the woman who should have been my wife, and then my land. This is your\nthanks. You shall go no farther.\"\n\nWith a quick stroke of the axe he cleft the skull of the shrinking\nwretch, and then, cutting off his scalp, the Indian ran to the cottage\nwhere sat the abandoned wife, weeping before the embers of her fire. He\nroused her by tossing on fresh fuel, but she shrank back in grief and\nshame when she saw who had come to her. \"Do not fear,\" he said. \"The man\nwho struck you meant to sell your home to strangers\"--and he laid the\ndeed of sale before her, \"but he will never play you false or lay hands on\nyou again. Look!\" He tossed the dripping scalp upon the paper. \"Now I\nleave you forever. I cannot take you back among my people, who do not\nknow deceit like yours, nor could I ever love you as I did at first.\"\nTurning, without other farewell he went out at the door. When this gift\nof Accabee land was sold--for the woman could no longer bear to live on\nit, but went to a northern city--a handsome house was built by the new\nowner, who added game preserves and pleasure grounds to the estate, but\nit was \"haunted by a grief.\" Illness and ill luck followed the purchase,\nand the house fell into ruin.\n\n\n\n\nTOCCOA FALLS\n\nEarly in the days of the white occupation of Georgia a cabin stood not\nfar from the Falls of Toccoa (the Beautiful). Its only occupant was a\nfeeble woman, who found it ill work to get food enough from the wild\nfruits and scanty clearing near the house, and she had nigh forgotten the\ntaste of meat; for her two sons, who were her pride no less than her\nsupport, had been killed by savages. She often said that she would gladly\ndie if she could harm the red men back, in return for her\nsuffering--which was not Christian doctrine, but was natural. She was\nbrooding at her fire, one winter evening, in wonder as to how one so weak\nand old as she could be revenged, when her door was flung open and a\nnumber of red men filled her cabin. She hardly changed countenance. She\ndid not rise. \"You may take my life,\" she said, \"for it is useless, now\nthat you have robbed it of all that made it worth living.\"\n\n\"Hush!\" said the chief. \"What does the warrior want with the scalps of\nwomen? We war on your men because they kill our game and steal our land.\"\n\n\"Is it possible that you come to our homes except to kill?\"\n\n\"We are strangers and have lost our way. You must guide us to the foot of\nToccoa and lead us to our friends.\"\n\n\"I lead you? Never!\"\n\nThe chief raised his axe, but the woman did not flinch. There was a\npause, in which the iron still hung menacing. Suddenly the dame looked up\nand said, \"If you promise to protect me, I will lead you.\"\n\nThe promise was given and the band set forth, the aged guide in advance,\nbending against the storm and clasping her poor rags about her. In the\ndarkest part of the wood, where the roaring of wind and groaning of\nbranches seemed the louder for the booming of waters, she cautioned the\nband to keep in single file, but to make haste, for the way was far and\nthe gloom was thickening. Bending their heads against the wind they\npressed forward, she in advance. Suddenly, yet stealthily, she sprang\naside and crouched beneath a tree that grew at the very brink of the\nfall. The Indians came on, following blindly, and in an instant she\ndescried the leader as he went whirling over the edge, and one after\nanother the party followed. When the last had gone to his death she arose\nto her feet with a laugh of triumph. \"Now I, too, can die!\" she cried. So\nsaying, she fell forward into the grayness of space.\n\n\n\n\nTWO LIVES FOR ONE\n\nThe place of Macon, Georgia, in the early part of this century was marked\nonly by an inn. One of its guests was a man who had stopped there on the\nway to Alabama, where he had bought land. The girl who was, to be his\nwife was to follow in a few days. In the morning when he paid his\nreckoning he produced a well-filled pocket-book, and he did not see the\nsignificant look that passed between two rough black-bearded fellows who\nhad also spent the night there, and who, when he set forth, mounted their\nhorses and offered to keep him company. As they rode through the deserted\nvillage of Chilicte one of the twain engaged the traveller in talk while\nthe other, falling a little behind, dealt him a blow with a loaded whip\nthat unseated him. Divining their purpose, and lacking weapons for his\nown defence, he begged for mercy, and asked to be allowed to return to\nhis bride to be, but the robbers had already made themselves liable to\npenalty, and two knife-thrusts in the breast silenced his appeals. The\nmoney was secured, the body was dropped into a hollow where the wolves\nwould be likely to find and mangle it, and the outlaws went on their way.\n\nMen of their class do not keep money long, and when the proceeds of the\nrobbery had been wasted at cards and in drink they separated. As in\nfulfilment of the axiom that a murderer is sure to revisit the scene of\nhis crime, one of the men found himself at the Ocmulgee, a long time\nafterward, in sight of the new town--Macon. In response to his halloo a\nskiff shot forth from the opposite shore, and as it approached the bank\nhe felt a stir in his hair and a touch of ice at his heart, for the\nferryman was his victim of years ago. Neither spoke a word, but the\ncriminal felt himself forced to enter the boat when the dead man waved\nhis hand, and he was rowed across, his horse swimming beside the skiff.\nAs the jar of the keel was felt on the gravel he leaped out, urged his\nhorse to the road, sprang to the saddle, and rushed away in an agony of\nfear, that was heightened when a hollow voice called, \"Stay!\"\n\nAfter a little he slackened pace, and a farmer, who was standing at the\nroadside, asked, in astonishment, \"How did you get across? There is a\nfreshet, and the ferryman was drowned last night.\" With a new thrill he\nspurred his horse forward, and made no other halt until he reached the\ntavern, where he fell in a faint on the steps, for the strain was no\nlonger to be endured. A crowd gathered, but he did not see it when he\nawoke--he saw only one pair of eyes, that seemed to be looking into his\ninmost soul--the eyes of the man he had slain. With a yell of terror and\nof insane fury he rushed upon the ghost and thrust a knife into its\nbreast. The frenzy passed. It was no ghost that lay on the earth before\nhim, staring up with sightless eyes. It was his fellow-murderer--his own\nbrother. That night the assassin's body hung from a tree at the\ncross-roads.\n\n\n\n\nA GHOSTLY AVENGER\n\nIn Cuthbert, Georgia, is a gravestone thus inscribed: \"Sacred to the\nmemory of Jim Brown.\" No date, no epitaph--for Jim Brown was hanged. And\nthis is the story: At the close of the Civil War a company of Federal\nsoldiers was stationed in Cuthbert, to enforce order pending the return\nof its people to peaceful occupations. Charles Murphy was a lieutenant in\nthis company. His brother, an officer quartered in a neighboring town,\nwas sent to Cuthbert one day to receive funds for the payment of some\nmen, and left camp toward evening to return to his troop. That night\nCharles Murphy was awakened by a violent flapping of his tent. It sounded\nas though a gale was coming, but when he arose to make sure that the pegs\nand poles of his canvas house were secure, the noise ceased, and he was\nsurprised to find that the air was clear and still. On returning to bed\nthe flapping began again, and this time he dressed himself and went out\nto make a more careful examination. In the shadow of a tree a man stood\nbeckoning. It was his brother, who, in a low, grave voice, told him that\nhe was in trouble, and asked him to follow where he should lead him. The\nlieutenant walked swiftly through fields and woods for some miles with\nhis relative--he had at once applied for and received a leave of absence\nfor a few hours--and they descended together a slope to the edge of a\nswamp, where he stumbled against something. Looking down at the object on\nwhich he had tripped, he saw that it was his brother's corpse--not newly\ndead, but cold and rigid--the pockets rifled, the clothing soaked with\nmire and blood.\n\nDazed and terrified, he returned to camp, roused some of his men, and at\ndaybreak secured the body. An effort to gain a clue to the murderer was\nat once set on foot. It was not long before evidence was secured that led\nto the arrest of Jim Brown, and there was a hint that his responsibility\nfor the crime was revealed through the same supernatural agency that had\napprised Lieutenant Murphy of his bereavement. Brown was an ignorant farm\nlaborer, who had conceived that it was right to kill Yankees, and whose\ncupidity had been excited by learning that the officer had money\nconcealed about him. He had offered, for a trifling sum, to take his\nvictim by a short cut to his camp, but led him to the swamp instead,\nwhere he had shot him through the heart. On the culprit's arrival in\nCuthbert he was lynched by the soldiers, but was cut down by their\ncommander before life was extinct, and was formally and conclusively\nhanged in the next week, after trial and conviction.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WRAITH RINGER OF ATLANTA\n\nA man was killed in Elliott Street, Atlanta, Georgia, by a cowardly\nstroke from a stiletto. The assassin escaped. Strange what a humming\nthere was in the belfry of St. Michael's Church that night! Had the\nmurderer taken refuge there? Was it a knell for his lost soul, chasing\nhim through the empty streets and beginning already an eternal punishment\nof terror? Perhaps the guilty one did not dare to leave Atlanta, for the\nchimes sang in minor chords on several nights after. The old policeman\nwho kept ward in an antiquated guardhouse that stood opposite the\nchurch--it was afterward shaken down by earthquake--said that he saw a\nhuman form, which he would avouch to be that of the murdered man, though\nit was wrapped in a cloak, stalk to the doors, enter without opening\nthem, glide up the winding stair, albeit he bent neither arm nor knee,\npass the ropes by which the chimes were rung, and mount to the belfry. He\ncould see the shrouded figure standing beneath the gloomy mouths of\nmetal. It extended its bony hands to the tongues of the bells and swung\nthem from side to side, but while they appeared to strike vigorously they\nseemed as if muffled, and sent out only a low, musical roar, as if they\nwere rung by the wind. Was the murderer abroad on those nights? Did he,\ntoo, see that black shadow of his victim in the belfry sounding an alarm\nto the sleeping town and appealing to be avenged? It may be. At all\nevents, the apparition boded ill to others, for, whenever the chimes were\nrung by spectral hands, mourners gathered at some bedside within hearing\nof them and lamented that the friend they had loved would never know them\nmore on earth.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SWALLOWING EARTHQUAKE\n\nThe Indian village that in 1765 stood just below the site of Oxford,\nAlabama, was upset when the news was given out that two of the squaws had\ngiven simultaneous birth to a number of children that were spotted like\nleopards. Such an incident betokened the existence of some baneful spirit\namong them that had no doubt leagued itself with the women, who were at\nonce tried on the charge of witchcraft, convicted, and sentenced to death\nat the stake, while a watch was to be set on the infants, so early\norphaned, lest they, too, should show signs of malevolent possession. The\nwhole tribe, seventeen hundred in number, assembled to see the execution,\nbut hardly were the fires alight when a sound like thunder rolled beneath\ntheir feet, and with a hideous crack and groan the earth opened and\nnearly every soul was engulfed in a fathomless and smoking pit-all,\nindeed, save two, for a couple of young braves who were on the edge of\nthe crowd flung themselves flat on the heaving ground and remained there\nuntil the earthquake wave had passed. The hollow afterward filled with\nwater and was called Blue Pond. It is popularly supposed to be\nfathomless, but it was shown that a forest once spread across the bottom,\nwhen, but a few years ago, a great tree arose from the water, lifting\nfirst its branches, then turning so as to show its roots above the\nsurface, and afterward disappeared.\n\n\n\n\nLAST STAND OF THE BILOXI\n\nThe southern part of this country was once occupied by a people called\nthe Biloxi, who had kept pace with the Aztecs in civilization and who\ncultivated especially the art of music. In lives of gentleness and peace\nthey so soon forgot the use of arms that when the Choctaws descended on\ntheir fields they were powerless to prevent the onset. Town after town\nthey evacuated before the savages, and at last the Biloxi, reduced to a\nfew thousands, were driven to the mouth of the Pascagoula River,\nMississippi, where they intrenched themselves, and for a few months\nwithstood the invaders. But the time came when their supplies were\nexhausted, and every form was pinched with hunger. Flight was impossible.\nSurrender commonly meant slaughter and outrage. They resolved to die\ntogether.\n\nOn a fair spring morning the river-ward gates of their fort were opened\nand the survivors of that hapless tribe marched forth, their chief in\nadvance, with resolution on his wasted face, then the soldiers and\ncounsellors, the young men, the women and children, and the babes asleep\non the empty breasts of their mothers. As they emerged from the walls\nwith slow but steady step they broke into song, and their assailants, who\nhad retired to their tents for their meal, listened with surprise to the\nchorus of defiance and rejoicing set up by the starving people. Without\npause or swerving they entered the bay and kept their march. Now the\nwaters closed over the chief, then the soldiers--at last only a few\nvoices of women were heard in the chant, and in a few moments all was\nstill. Not one shrank from the sacrifice. And for years after the echo of\nthat death-song floated over he waves.\n\nAnother version of the legend sets forth that the Biloxi believed\nthemselves the children of the sea, and that they worshipped the image of\na lovely mermaid with wondrous music. After the Spaniards had come among\nthis gay and gentle people, they compelled them, by tyranny and murder,\nto accept the religion of the white man, but of course it was only\nlip-service that they rendered at the altar. The Biloxi were awakened one\nnight by the sound of wings and the rising of the river. Going forth they\nsaw the waters of Pascagoula heaped in a quivering mound, and bright on\nits moonlit crest stood a mermaid that sang to them, \"Come to me,\nchildren of the sea. Neither bell, book, nor cross shall win you from\nyour queen.\" Entranced by her song and the potency of her glances, they\nmoved forward until they encircled the hill of waters. Then, with hiss\nand roar, the river fell back to its level, submerging the whole tribe.\nThe music that haunts the bay, rising through the water when the moon is\nout, is the sound of their revels in the caves below--dusky Tannhausers\nof a southern Venusberg. An old priest, who was among them at the time of\nthis prodigy, feared that the want of result to his teachings was due to\nhis not being in a perfect state of grace. On his death-bed he declared\nthat if a priest would row to the spot where the music sounded, at\nmidnight on Christmas, and drop a crucifix into the water, he would\ninstantly be swallowed by the waves, but that every soul at the bottom\nwould be redeemed. The souls have never been ransomed.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SACRED FIRE OF NACHEZ\n\nThe Indians of the South, being in contact with the civilized races of\nCentral America, were among the most progressive and honorable of the red\nmen. They were ruled by intelligence rather than force, and something of\nthe respect that Europeans feel for their kingly families made them\nsubmit to woman's rule. The valley of Nacooche, Georgia, indeed,\nperpetuates in its name one of these princesses of a royal house, for\nthough she ruled a large tribe with wisdom she was not impervious to the\npassions of common mortals. The \"Evening Star\" died by her own hand,\nbeing disappointed in love affair. Her story is that of Juliet, and she\nand her lover--united in death, as they could not be in life--are buried\nbeneath a mound in the centre of he valley.\n\nThe Indians of that region had towns built for permanency, and possessed\nsome knowledge of the arts, while in religion their belief and rites were\ncuriously like those of the Persian fire-worshippers. It was on the site\nof the present city in Mississippi which bears their name that the\nNatchez Indians built their Temple of the Sun. When it was finished a\nmeteor fell from heaven and kindled the fire on their altar, and from\nthat hour the priests guarded he flame continually, until one night when\nit was extinguished by mischance. This event was believed to be an omen,\nand the people so took it to heart that when the white men came, directly\nafter, they had little courage to prosecute a war, and fell back before\nthe conqueror, never to hold their ancient home again.\n\n\n\n\nPASS CHRISTIAN\n\nSenhor Vineiro, a Portuguese, having wedded Julia Regalea, a Spaniard, in\nSouth America, found it needful to his fortunes to leave Montevideo, for\na revolution was breeding, and no less needful to his happiness to take\nhis wife with him from that city, for he was old and she was young. But\nhe chose the wrong ship to sail on, for Captain Dane, of the Nightingale,\nwas also young, presentable, and well schooled, but heartless. On the\nvoyage to New Orleans he not only won the affection of the wife, but slew\nthe husband and flung his body overboard. Vainly the wife tried to\nrepress the risings of remorse, and vainly, too, she urged Dane to seek\nabsolution from her church. She had never loved her husband, and she had\nloved Dane from the first, but she was not at heart a bad woman and her\npeace was gone. The captain was disturbed and suspicious. His sailors\nglanced at him out of the corners of their eyes in a way that he did not\nlike. Had the woman in some unintentional remark betrayed him? Could he\nconceal his crime, save with a larger one?\n\nPass Christian was a village then. On a winter night its people saw a\nglare in the sky, and hurrying to their doors found a ship burning in the\ngulf. Smacks and row-boats put off to the rescue, but hardly were they\nunder way ere the ship disappeared as suddenly as if the sea had\nswallowed it. As the night was thick the boats returned, but next morning\nfive men were encountered on the shore-all that were left of the crew of\nthe Nightingale. Captain Dane was so hospitably received by the people of\nthe district, and seemed to take so great a liking for the place, that he\nresolved to live there. He bought a plantation with a roomy old house\nupon it and took his fellow-survivors there to live, as he hoped, an easy\nlife. That was not to be. Yellow fever struck down all the men but Dane,\nand one of them, in dying, raved to his negro nurse that Dane had taken\nall the treasure from the ship and put it into a boat, after serving grog\nenough to intoxicate all save the trusted ones of the crew; that he and\nhis four associates fired the ship and rowed away, leaving an unhappy\nwoman to a horrible fate. Senhora Vineiro was pale but composed when she\nsaw the manner of death she was to die. She brought from her cabin a harp\nwhich had been a solace of her husband and herself and began to play and\nsing an air that some of the listeners remembered. It was an \"Ave Maria,\"\nand the sound of it was so plaintive that even Dane stopped rowing; but\nhe set his teeth when his shoe touched the box of gold at his feet and\nordered the men to row on. There was an explosion and the vessel\ndisappeared. On reaching shore the treasure was buried at the foot of a\nlarge oak.\n\nThis story was repeated by the nurse, but she was ignorant, she had no\nproofs, so it was not generally believed; yet there was a perceptible\ndifference in the treatment of Dane by his neighbors, and among the\nsuperstitious negroes it was declared that he had sold himself to the\ndevil. If he had, was it an air from hell that sounded in his ears when\nhe was alone?--the \"Ave Maria\" of a sinning but repentant woman. The\ncoldness and suspicion were more than he could stand. Besides, who could\ntell? Evidence might be found against him. He would dig up his treasure\nand fly the country. It was a year from the night when he had fired his\nship. Going out after dark, that none might see him, he stole to the tree\nand began to dig. Presently a red light grew through the air, and looking\nup he saw a flaming vessel advancing over the sea. It stopped, and he\ncould see men clambering into a boat at its side. They rowed toward him\nwith such miraculous speed that the ocean seemed to steam with a blue\nlight as they advanced. He stood like a stone, for now he could see the\nfaces of the rowers, and every one was the face of a corpse--a corpse\nthat had been left on board of that vessel and had been in the bottom of\nthe sea for the last twelvemonth. They sprang on shore and rushed upon\nhim. Next morning Dane's body was found beneath the oak with his hands\nfilled with gems and gold.\n\n\n\n\nTHE UNDER LAND\n\nWhen the Chatas looked into the still depths of Bayou Lacombe, Louisiana,\nthey said that the reflection of the sky was the empyrean of the Under\nLand, whither all good souls were sure to go after death. Their chief,\nOpaleeta, having fallen into this bayou, was so long beneath the water\nthat he was dead when his fellows found him, but by working over him for\nhours, and through resort to prayers and incantations of medicine men,\nhis life returned and he stood on his feet once more. Then he grieved\nthat his friends had brought him back, for he had been at the gates of\nthe Under Land, where the air is blithe and balmy, and so nourishing that\npeople live on it; where it is never winter; where the sun shines\nbrightly, but never withers and parches; and where stars dance to the\nswing of the breezes. There no white man comes to rob the Indian and\nteach him to do wrong. Gorgeous birds fly through changing skies that\nborrow the tints of flowers, the fields are spangled with blossoms of red\nand blue and gold that load each wind with perfume, the grass is as fine\nas the hair of deer, and the streams are thick with honey.\n\nAt sunset those who loved each other in life are gathered to their\nlodges, and raise songs of joy and thankfulness. Their voices are soft\nand musical, their faces are young again and beam with smiles, and there\nis no death. It was only the chiefs who heard his story, for, had all the\ntribe known it, many who were old and ill and weary would have gone to\nthe bayou, and leaped in, to find that restful, happy Under Land. Those\nwho had gone before they sometimes tried to see, when the lake was still\nand dappled with pictures of sunset clouds, but the dead never came\nback--they kept away from the margin of the water lest they should be\ncalled again to a life of toil and sorrow. And Opaleeta lived for many\nyears and ruled his tribe with wisdom, yet he shared in few of the\nmerry-makings of his people, and when, at last, his lodge was ready in\nthe Under Land, he gave up his life without a sigh.","title":"Myths and Legends of Our Own Land \u2014 Volume 05 : Lights and shadows of the South","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":9563}