CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Isaac Bull stood at Yamassee landing and watched Thomas Nairne’s periago cross the broad expanse of the Coosaw River from Port Royal Island. The houses and outbuildings of the nearest plantation on the great island were barely visible in the distance, the flat land stretching away in the warm April sun. An osprey dove down to the water’s surface near the periago and rose again with a fish in its talons. Isaac felt more at ease than he had in months. Governor Craven had finally been brought to his senses, Sam Warner’s warning having been confirmed by yet another warning from another trader whose wife had been told of impending danger by a Yamasee man who was friendly to her family. Thomas Nairne was coming now to make arrangements for a meeting in Savana Town between Governor Craven and all the Indian kings and headmen of all the towns from the Yamasee country to the Ocmulgee River. Last evening Isaac had been across the river at Jack Barnwell’s plantation when Nairne came in from Charles Town, relieving the minds of all with news of the governor’s decisive action, the complacency of the Trading Board overridden at last. After hearing all that Nairne had to tell, Isaac had come back across to the Yamasee towns, and as he had walked from the landing to John Grissom’s trading house where he would spend the night, he had spoken to Indians that he met along the way, putting out word of the governor’s visit, letting it be known that Nairne would be coming over today to convey the news formally in council.

The periago was almost across now, and Isaac waved a greeting to Nairne, then stood with his hands on his hips, watching him glide in. Finally he stepped forward to catch the rope that was thrown ashore. “A fine day,” he said as Thomas Nairne stepped out of the boat.

“Indeed it is,” said Nairne. “And more than the weather is good—it’s coming here at last with something of substance to offer. My God, what a relief.”

“I let out intimations of the news last night,” said Isaac. “Already I sense a growing ease among the Indians. Though perhaps I read too much in things, like a woman looking into her tea leaves.”

Nairne smiled. “My wife just this very morning read danger in hers. It alarmed her so, she took a stand against my going away. Never mind the governor’s business—the tea leaves were speaking. I couldn’t leave her till I had soothed her down. It’s why I’m late.”

“No matter,” said Isaac, leading the way to the two horses that were being held for him by an Indian servant. “The Yamasee kings and headmen began gathering in Pocotaligo this morning. We’ve got Sam Warner and a few other men there to catch the drift of their talk, but all seems peaceful enough.”

They mounted their horses, the Yamasee servant trotting out ahead as they started along the trail on the long ride to Pocotaligo Town, eight miles inland. They rode at a leisurely pace, enjoying the day, and it was well into the afternoon when they arrived at the council house. They dismounted and walked together through the plaza, past Indian men who stood talking in groups, some leaning on their muskets, lifting their eyes to watch the white men pass. Isaac nodded to the ones he knew, taking a reading of their faces, hoping to see the easing tensions he thought he had felt earlier in the day. But now he was not so certain of it. At the door of the council house he paused, letting Nairne go first, and then followed in behind him.

The chamber was dark, smoky, and crowded, every seat filled, though some of the men took up room enough for two, leaning back on their elbows on the wide cane benches, smoking their long tobacco pipes, talking quietly, waiting for the bowl of cassina to come around again. Isaac followed Nairne past the central fire to the far side, where the kings of the Yamasee towns were settled in the east-facing seats, the place of highest honor. The kings made room for the two Englishmen, shifting to one side or another, but seeming at the same time to pay little attention to them. As Isaac sat down, he noticed a man he had not expected to see, one of Brims’ men, the leader of an Apalachee town in the Creek country.

“Now there’s someone I’d as soon do without,” he said quietly to Nairne.

“Who is that?” asked Nairne, turning slightly to look without being obvious about it.

“King Carlos,” said Isaac.

“I’m not acquainted with him,” said Nairne. “Which one is he?”

“The big one,” said Isaac without turning to look again. “Tall. Red blanket. He’s in tight with Brims, as tight as any man among the Creeks. Brims’ wife is an Apalachee, and she and Carlos are closely allied. Six months ago I’d never heard his name, but now there’s scarce a week goes by I don’t hear it spoken, most often in the same breath with Brims himself.”

“Then it’s good he’s here,” said Nairne. “He can take word of my talk where it most needs to go. If Brims doesn’t come to the governor’s council in Savana Town, the governor might as well stay home. There can’t be any settling of differences without Brims being there to settle his part.”

“True enough,” said Isaac, settling back in his seat.

More time went by, at least an hour, as a few more Yamasee headmen came in from the more distant towns. Nairne spoke and joked with those about him, but Isaac kept quietly to himself, watching the assembled men, trying to decide which ones had been stirring up the talk of war. There were mostly younger men gathering about King Carlos. No surprise in that. The young men were always the ones most eager to fight.

At last the king of Pocotaligo signaled that the council would begin. Pipes were put away, and freshly brewed cassina was brought out and drunk in the ritual way, with strict attention to each man’s rank. Then a pipe was passed with tobacco which Nairne supplied, and this, too, went from the highest man to the lowest. Isaac noticed that King Carlos received his before all but the oldest of the Yamasee kings.

The Pocotaligo king opened the talk with set phrases of welcome, rehearsing the history of the years of peace between the Yamasees and the English and politely leaving off all mention of the current tensions. But then it was given to Nairne to speak, and he addressed the complaints of the Yamasee people forthrightly, admitting the tensions, taking blame for the English, assuring the Yamasees that they were now being heard, that the governor himself would come to meet with them and the Creeks in Savana Town and that all their grievances would be heard with newly opened ears. Redress would be made and changes put in place. The talk went on and on, with all the elaboration Nairne had learned from his years of dealing with Indian councils. He knew how to speak the words and phrases they liked to hear, how to say things as they would say them. Isaac watched the headmen and kings, trying to assess the impact of the talk. But they guarded their faces, watching Nairne with passionless eyes, skeptical, perhaps—and why should they not be?

Nairne finished his speech and sat down. The Pocotaligo king rose to make the first response, but it was only a general talk, keeping clear of substance, for he would wait to hear first what the others had to say and then would speak more pointedly at the end. Asking his fellow kings to tell what was in their hearts, he sat down and waited. There was silence in the council house, all the men sitting perfectly still, their faces solemn as they watched the low-burning fire in the central hearth. Then Yamasee Yahola, one of the older kings, stood up and spoke with angry words, scolding Nairne for the transgressions of the traders. Isaac began to lose heart. If the older men were not with them, the younger ones surely would not be. But as Yamasee Yahola went on, his tone softened, and he let it be known that though he was not happy with the English, he still was not in favor of war. He knew the misery that war would bring, the painful loss of so many young men, the suffering of women and children. If the English governor would come among them and listen to them and see with his own eyes and hear with his own ears the problems they endured because of the arrogance and tyranny of so many of the traders, then surely the governor’s heart would be moved and he would see to it that these things would not happen anymore. And he would remove the worst of the traders from the Yamasee country and not allow them to return.

Nairne nodded as Yamasee Yahola spoke, and the old man warmed to the cause of peace. The Yamasees and the English were one, he said. And because they were brothers, their differences would always be settled without bloodshed. For this his heart was ever thankful.

The old king sat down, and the room was no longer so still. Men shifted in their seats. There was a question of who would speak next. Isaac hoped it would be another of the older men, to keep the cause of peace rolling forward. But it was King Carlos who rose to his feet, leaving his blanket in a heap on his seat, his tall, muscular frame intimidating in the firelight as his intense eyes swept the room and came to rest on Thomas Nairne. The kings and headmen turned their attention to the Apalachee king, and all was still again, so quiet that the crackling of the fire could be heard.

“You appear to be very pleased to hear yourself called a brother of the Yamasees,” King Carlos said to Nairne. He spoke in a loud, oratorical voice, using the Muskogee language of the Creeks, which most of the men in the room, including the Englishmen, could understand. “But this must be a joke you are making. When I myself say that the Yamasees are my brothers, I do not joke. The Apalachees and the Yamasees have walked together on a long and sorrowful path. Together our two peoples have known the tyranny of Spaniards, and when we thought our misery with them could be no greater, you sent your slave-catchers among us to steal our wives and children until we no longer could stand against you. All we could do to save ourselves was to leave our lands and come here to this country to be your hunters and your slave-catchers. And for this you expect us to call you our brother? You come to this council house from your settlement, where our wives and children are your slaves, and you expect us to call you our brother? You say your governor will come and give us a talk. But what difference will your governor make with this talk of his? What power does he have over the traders in our towns? What power does he have over the English planters who already defy him by coming across the Combahee River onto Yamasee lands? I will not have your governor stand before me and give me his lies. If you want us to call you our brother and walk with you in peace, then send home to us those of our people you are holding as your slaves. Move your planters off our lands. Take your traders from our towns and let us come into your settlement to trade. These are the actions we want from you. Do these things and we will begin to believe you. Do these things and we might call you our brother. But give us no more of your fine but empty words. We will listen to no more of your talk.”

He sat down abruptly and pulled his red blanket tightly about his shoulders, closing himself to any further discussion.

Isaac glanced at Nairne, who gave away nothing in his impassive face. One of the older headmen was rising to speak, and as Nairne turned his attention to him, Isaac looked back at King Carlos, whose face was closed and set, the men around him as stony as he, deaf, all of them, to the mollifying words of the old headman who was now telling the council that they must not cut off talk with the English. Without talk, the old man said, there must be war. The English governor’s offer to come in person and sit in council with them was evidence in itself of good faith, and it should be accepted with the expectation that the real changes of which King Carlos had spoken would follow. The old man sat down and another rose and spoke in the same vein, and that speaker was followed by another, the council dragging on into the evening with the peace faction dominating, until at last the Pocotaligo king made his own talk of reconciliation. The council closed with a consensus for peace. But there were a number of men who had chosen not to speak, and when King Carlos left the council house, all of those men went with him.

“You’ve not won Brims’ people yet,” said Isaac as he and Nairne walked outside into the cool April night.

“There’s time,” said Nairne. “It went well with the Yamasee kings, at least. When Brims hears of that, he’ll have to reconsider. He cannot rise against us without the Yamasees.”

“There were Yamasees with King Carlos,” said Isaac. “They said not a word.”

Nairne shrugged. “A few. But the venerable old fellows are with us. We’ll have to wait for Brims himself to bring the others around.”

“You seem to have little doubt that he will,” said Isaac.

Nairne smiled. “It went well today. Better than I had hoped. Yamasee Yahola, the Pocotaligo king, the old beloved men, they all spoke out for peace. This trouble has been long in the making. We cannot expect to clear it up in a single day. But we’ve made a good beginning, and if I seemed cheered, it’s because I can see an end to the thing.”

“Then I’ll let myself be cheered as well,” said Isaac. “God knows, you’ve been at this business longer than I have.”

“And I’ve seen everything,” said Nairne. “There are no surprises left for me. The danger was real, there’s no denying it, but that’s past us now. The governor is turning his own hand to this, and the Indians know it. We can all sleep easy tonight.”

“They’ll be glad to hear that at Billy Bray’s,” said Isaac. “That’s where I’m taking my lodging. Some of the traders have been gathering there, waiting for things to settle out. Come along and join us. It breaks in half the journey back.”

“I think not,” said Nairne. “I’m going to stay here tonight.”

“It’s hard to sleep in a council house,” said Isaac. “It seems there are always a few fellows who talk all the night.”

“I’ve slept through storms at sea,” said Nairne. “I like the feel of a council house. It’s like sleeping in a church.”

“However you want it then,” said Isaac. “But if you get lonely for your own kind, come down to Billy Bray’s.”

“Sam Warner will be here with me,” said Nairne. “I’ll do well enough. Give my regards to Billy.”

“I will.” Isaac paused for a moment, looking around the plaza. Most of the people had drifted away except for those whose homes were at a distance and would be staying on to sleep in the council house. “I wonder where our friend King Carlos has gone?”

“Back to Emperor Brims, I hope, to tell him that he’s losing the Yamasees.”

“Why do you suppose he was here today? It was not to come to this council. We only put out word of it last night.”

Nairne shook his head. “Brims has his men everywhere these last few months. I’ve heard reports of them among the Cherokees, up north with the Catawbas, out west as far as the Chickasaws. But we’re beginning now to undo all that work of his. I’m not going to worry about King Carlos. Whatever plans he had, this council has changed them, you can be sure.”

Isaac nodded. Then he yawned and reached around to scratch his back. “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“I’ll stay here and solidify the peace faction,” said Nairne. “Try to bring the young men over.” He paused and then added, “Tomorrow is Good Friday, you know.”

“No, I didn’t realize that,” said Isaac. “I lose track of such things when I’m up in this country. I’m glad you told me, though. It’s a season no Christian should pass through unaware.” He fell silent, and they stood for a few moments looking up at the stars. “Well,” he said at last, “I’ll be on my way.”

“Sleep well,” said Nairne.

“And you the same,” said Isaac. He turned away and walked across the plaza toward the place where his horse was tied.

The men at Billy Bray’s stayed up far into the night, talking at first of the council at Pocotaligo and then of general matters of the trade, and then hardly talking at all as they sat playing at cards. Isaac lost the value of an entire pack of deerskins before he pulled out of the game and unrolled his blanket on the floor. He was asleep as soon as he lay down, but then in a short time he awoke again, the other four men still at it, talking and laughing. He rolled over, but could not go back to sleep. The candlelight seemed too bright, his friends’ voices too loud. At last he rose to his feet and picked up his blanket and gun and started toward the door.

“We’re not disturbing you, are we, Isaac?” said Billy Bray.

“Not a bit,” said Isaac. “Only keeping me from sleeping, that’s all.”

“Then that’s a relief. I feared we were disturbing you.”

The men laughed and Isaac smiled and shook his head as he went out into the night. He walked out behind the trading house until he could no longer hear their voices and then trampled out a place among the palmettos and spread his blanket. Crawling in between its folds, he stretched out and lay for a time looking up at the stars, his thoughts going back to the council house, to the silence of King Carlos and his men. He turned onto his side, drowsiness settling over him again. For a moment he thought of Charity, soft and warm beside him in the parlor bed. Then he drifted into sleep.

Isaac awoke to the sound of footsteps in the palmetto, not twenty feet away. He thought at first it must be one of the traders come out to urinate, but then as he awoke more fully he realized that no one would walk out so far for that. He thought then of an animal, a dog or an opossum, but the sound was too stealthy, more like that of a man walking carefully. His hand moved to his gun and he turned himself by slow degrees, looking around. All was hidden by the night. Then the darkness lifted a bit, as if a lantern had been lit, and he saw the man who had made the sound, an Indian painted for war. Isaac ducked back beneath the palmetto, trying to gather his wits and understand what it was he was seeing. The light, growing brighter, was a fire somewhere—he could hear the crackle. He raised his head to take another look and saw flames on the roof of the trading house, and in the surrounding yard painted warriors, twenty men at least, most of them clustered near the door. His heart was pounding now, almost shutting out the other sounds. He cocked his gun and looked back over his shoulder to make sure there was no one behind him. Then he cupped one hand to his mouth.

“Billy Bray!” he called out as loudly as he could. “God help you, Billy! They’ve got you surrounded!”

The warriors whirled toward his voice, several raising their guns. Isaac kept down, taking aim at the man who had passed so close to him. He fired, then sprang to his feet and ran, plunging into the darkness, the sound of gunfire at his back, bullets breaking through the brush around him. He felt something hit his left side, as if he had been struck by a club, and he staggered almost to one knee, dropping his gun, but he regained himself and kept running. Behind him there was more gunfire, the men in the trading house fighting for their lives. Isaac guided himself by the sound of it, keeping it always to his back as he set his course for John Grissom’s trading house almost three miles to the south. Only once did he reach down to feel the wound in his side, wet with blood, but his legs weakened when he felt it and so he left it alone, setting his mind on Grissom’s place. There would be help for him there and help for Billy Bray. Let his legs keep running and his strength hold until he reached that place.

When he was yet half a mile from Grissom’s he saw the light of a fire, a bright glow against the wider, paler light of the dawn. He stopped and stood panting, staring at the sight. Billy Bray’s and John Grissom’s. Had every trading house in the country been torched? Every trader murdered? Thomas Nairne and Sam Warner in the council house? It was Sam Warner who had first heard the warning that they would cut down the traders and then go on to the plantations.

Isaac walked over to a tree and leaned against it, feeling his wound again, knowing he must care for it now or risk bleeding to death. He probed it with his fingers. In the open flesh he felt a splinter of bone, and his stomach turned. The pain of it was throbbing and insistent. But maybe it would not kill him. Surely he could never have run this far if it were going to kill him. His rib was broken, but as yet no splinter had pierced his lung. Better not to think of that possibility. He could do nothing for it, only for the blood. He pulled off his linen shirt and began tearing it in pieces, fumbling in the gray darkness, his hands trembling. He pressed a wad of cloth against the wound, holding it awkwardly with one arm while he wrapped the rest of the shirt about himself to hold it, tying it firmly but not too tightly, because of the splintered rib. That was all he could do. Either it would be enough or it would not—he would know soon enough. He had to try now to reach the river and cross over to Port Royal to raise the alarm.

He started out again, altering his course to avoid Grissom’s place, making himself run, relieved that he could still do it, feeling his life in his legs. How far past Grissom’s to the river? Another mile? It was nothing. A mile was a stroll to a neighbor’s house. His legs could run that far. They had run further than that from Billy Bray’s. A mile was nothing. The pain was nothing. The bandage was stopping the blood. Surely it was. But he did not feel it to make sure.

The mile seemed twenty, and the closer he came to the river, the harder the way became, the land swampy from the spring rains, so that finally he could no longer run but only plunge and heave. But then at last he came to the river’s edge and sat down heavily on the bank. Ahead, on the other side of the water, the sunrise was spreading above the flat plantation land. At a distance downstream there was a house, almost hidden in a grove of oaks. If he started here and swam as best he could, the current might carry him to it. He leaned back for a moment and closed his eyes, resting, then opened them again and looked out at the wide water. It would be impossible to swim even halfway across it. He got to his feet and searched the bank until he found a light driftwood log of a size he could manage. This might work. He dragged it into the water, feeling the cold shock as he waded out, shuddering when the water touched his wound, but going on deeper and then shoving off, holding the log, pushing it before him as he kicked along, keeping a slow but steady pace, his mind closed to all danger, to everything but the land on the other side.

When Isaac pulled himself from the river, his legs were failing and he could not stand. He lay on the bank, and for a few moments he let himself rest. Then he tried again. This time he made it up and stood there swaying, looking around for the house he had seen from the other side. The current had carried him past it and he was standing now at the edge of a field of young corn. On the other side of the field he saw the rough cabins of the plantation’s slave quarters, and he staggered toward them.

The first person to see him was a young black boy who came wandering around the corner of one of the cabins. The boy stood and stared for a moment and then turned and ran back. After a moment the boy reappeared with a woman—perhaps his mother. She stopped near the corner of her cabin and looked out toward Isaac, watching him come.

“Hello,” he called weakly, waving her to him.

She came out a few steps and then stopped uncertainly.

“Please,” he said, aware of the spectacle he made, shirtless and wet, wrapped in a bloody bandage, bent and staggering like a drunkard who had been in a fight, or a murderer on the run. “Come closer, please,” he said, motioning to her. “I’m a friend.”

The woman advanced cautiously, the boy a few steps behind her. “You’re hurt,” she said as she neared him.

“Yes,” he said, putting his hand to his wound. “The Yamasees are up in arms.” The woman looked at him. Instead of the horror he expected to see, there was a light in her eyes. “They are killing everyone,” he said, though it was difficult to speak. “Blacks and whites—everyone. Run tell your master. We must flee. All of us. Your life is in danger. Your son’s life. Hurry now.”

For a moment longer she stood looking at him, still uncertain, but then she turned and pulled up her skirt and started running across the field toward the big house.

“Go get someone to help me,” Isaac said to the boy. “I can’t walk much further.”

The boy ran ahead but then forgot Isaac as he cried out the news that Indians were coming, that black people were being killed. The place was suddenly in confusion, people coming out of the cabins, talking loudly, mothers gathering up their children, everyone uncertain what to do. No one came to Isaac’s aid until he had almost reached the first of the cabins. Then a man saw him and came to him, and Isaac clutched his arm, leaning on him. “I can scarcely walk,” he murmured. “Help me to the house.”

The man called another to help him, and together they supported him, the rest of the slaves following after them, until halfway to the house the master of the place came running out to meet them.

“What is this?” the man cried to Isaac. “Is it true? Have the Yamasees risen?”

“It’s true,” Isaac said weakly. He could hardly stand now. The black men were holding him up. “We must flee. Have you a boat large enough for all your people?”

“A sloop at my wharf,” the man said breathlessly. His eyes were sweeping his plantation, looking at all he was about to lose.

“Send to your neighbors,” Isaac murmured. “Raise the alarm.” He closed his eyes, the last of his strength draining away. He felt himself collapsing, the black men gathering him up, one of them taking his legs. He was aware of being carried, of hurried voices all around him, and he wondered again about his lung. He was aware of being lowered into the boat. He felt its rocking and heard the soft lapping of the water against the vessel and the wharf. He lay there without opening his eyes, waiting for the rest of the people, remembering the fire in Billy Bray’s roof, the Yamasee men in their war paint, changed and terrible. He tried to stop the images, not wanting to think of what must have happened to his friends at Billy Bray’s. And to Thomas Nairne and Sam Warner. And to John Grissom. And to twenty other men he could name. And of what might be happening now to the planters up and down the river. Even to Sam Clutterbuck and Henry Hawkins. But not to Charity. Thank God in heaven for that. She was safe in Charles Town. No need to worry about her. Only about his lung. And this damned boat. Would they sit here all day until the Indians came?

He opened his eyes. There were black people all around him, tightly packed. He could barely glimpse the sky. He raised his hand and tapped at a man’s leg, but so weakly that he failed to get his attention.

“We should be shoving off,” he murmured, too quietly to be heard. He closed his eyes again, all sound receding, darkness flowing over him like water.