The Indian Massacre In Virginia
Friday, the 22d of March, of the year 1622, dawned brightly over a
peaceful domain in Virginia. In the fifteen years that had passed since
the first settlers landed and built themselves homes at Jamestown the
dominion of the whites had spread, until there were nearly eighty
settlements, while scattered plantations rose over a space of several
hundred square miles. Powhatan, the Indian emperor, as he was called,
had lon
grew up between the new-comers and the old owners of the soil that
continued unbroken for years.
Everywhere peace and tranquillity now prevailed. The English had settled
on the fertile lands along the bay and up the many rivers, the musket
had largely given place to the plough and the sword to the sickle and
the hoe, and trustful industry had succeeded the old martial vigilance.
The friendliest intercourse existed between the settlers and the
natives. These were admitted freely to their houses, often supplied with
fire-arms, employed in hunting and fishing, and looked upon as faithful
allies, many of whom had accepted the Christian faith.
But in 1618 the mild-tempered Powhatan had died, and Opechancanough, a
warrior of very different character, had taken his place as chief of the
confederacy of tribes. We have met with this savage before, in the
adventurous career of Captain John Smith. He was a true Indian leader,
shrewd, cunning, cruel in disposition, patient in suffering, skilled in
deceit, and possessed of that ready eloquence which always had so strong
an influence over the savage mind. Jealous of the progress of the
whites, he nourished treacherous designs against them, but these were
hidden deep in his savage soul, and he vowed that the heavens should
fall before he would lift a hand in war against his white friends. Such
was the tranquil and peaceful state of affairs which existed in Virginia
in the morning of March 22, 1622. There was not a cloud in the social
sky, nothing to show that the Indians were other than the devoted allies
and servants of the whites.
On that morning, as often before, many of the savages came to take their
breakfast with their white friends, some of them bringing deer, turkeys,
fish, or fruit, which, as usual, they offered for sale. Others of them
borrowed the boats of the settlers to cross the rivers and visit the
outlying plantations. By many a hearth the pipe of peace was smoked, the
hand of friendship extended, the voice of harmony raised.
Such was the aspect of affairs when the hour of noontide struck on that
fatal day. In an instant, as if this were the signal of death, the scene
changed from peace to terror. Knives and tomahawks were drawn and many
of those with whom the savages had been quietly conversing a moment
before were stretched in death at their feet. Neither sex nor age was
spared. Wives were felled, weltering in blood, before the eyes of their
horrified husbands. The tender infant was snatched from its mother's
arms to be ruthlessly slain. The old, the sick, the helpless were struck
down as mercilessly as the young and strong. As if by magic, the savages
appeared at every point, yelling like demons of death, and slaughtering
all they met. The men in the fields were killed with their own hoes and
hatchets. Those in the houses were murdered on their own hearth-stones.
So unlooked-for and terrible was the assault that in that day of blood
three hundred and forty-seven men, women, and children fell victims to
their merciless foes. Not content with their work of death, the savage
murderers mutilated the bodies of their victims in the most revolting
manner and revelled shamelessly in their crimes.
Yet with all their treacherous rage, they showed themselves cowardly.
Wherever they were opposed they fled. One old soldier, who had served
under Captain John Smith, was severely wounded by his savage assailants.
He clove the skull of one of them with an axe, and the others at once
took to flight. In the same way a Mr. Baldwin, whose wife lay bleeding
from many wounds before his eyes, drove away a throng of murderers by
one well-aimed discharge from his musket. A number of fugitive settlers
obtained a few muskets from a ship that was lying in a stream near
their homes, and with these they routed and dispersed the Indians for a
long distance around.
The principal settlement, that of Jamestown, was a main point for the
proposed Indian assault. Here the confidence and sense of security was
as great as in any of the plantations, and only a fortunate warning
saved the settlers from a far more terrible loss. One of the young
converts among the Indians, moved by the true spirit of his new faith,
warned a white friend of the deadly conspiracy, and the latter hastened
to Jamestown with the ominous news. As a result, the Indian murderers on
reaching there found the gates closed and the inhabitants on the alert.
They made a demonstration, but did not venture on an assault, and
quickly withdrew.
Such was the first great Indian massacre in America, and one of the most
unexpected and malignant of them all.
It was the work of Opechancanough, who had laid his plot and organized
the work of death in the most secret and skilful manner. Passing from
tribe to tribe, he eloquently depicted their wrongs, roused them to
revenge, pointed out the defenceless state of the whites, and worked on
their passions by promises of blood and rapine. A complete organization
was formed, the day and hour were fixed, and the savages of Virginia
waited in silence and impatience for the time in which they hoped to rid
the land of every white settler on its soil and win back their old
domain.
While they did not succeed in this, they filled the whole colony with
terror and dismay. The planters who had survived the attack were hastily
called in to Jamestown, and their homes and fields abandoned, so that of
the eighty recent settlements only six remained. Some of the people were
bold enough to refuse to obey the order, arming their servants, mounting
cannon, and preparing to defend their own homes. One of these bold
spirits was a woman. But the authorities at Jamestown would not permit
this, and they were all compelled to abandon their strongholds and unite
for the general defence.
The reign of peace was at an end. A reign of war had begun. The savages
were everywhere in arms, with Opechancanough at their head. The
settlers, as soon as the first period of dread had passed, marched
against them, burning for revenge, and relentless slaughter became the
rule. It was the first Indian war in the British settlements, but was of
the type of them all. Wherever any Indian showed himself he was
instantly shot down. Wherever a white man ventured within reach of the
red foe he was slain on the spot or dragged off for the more dreadful
death by torture. There was no truce, no relaxation; it was war to the
knife.
Only when seed-time was at hand did necessity demand a temporary pause
in hostilities. The English now showed that they could be as treacherous
and lacking in honor as their savage enemy. They offered peace to the
savages, and in this way induced them to leave their hiding-places and
plant their fields. While thus engaged the English rushed suddenly upon
them and cut down a large number, including some of the most valiant
warriors and leading chiefs.
From that time on there was no talk or thought of peace. Alike the
plantation buildings of the whites and the villages of the Indians were
burned. The swords and muskets of the whites, the knives and tomahawks
of the red men, were ever ready for the work of death. For ten years the
bloody work continued, and by the end of that time great numbers of the
Indians had been killed, while of the four thousand whites in Virginia
only two thousand five hundred remained.
Exhaustion at length brought peace, and for ten years more the reign of
blood ceased. Yet the irritation of the Indians continued. They saw the
whites spreading ever more widely through the land and taking possession
of the hunting-grounds without regard for the rights of the native
owners, and their hatred for the whites grew steadily more virulent.
Opechancanough was now a very aged man. In the year 1643 he reached the
hundreth year of his age. A gaunt and withered veteran, with shrunken
limbs and a tottering and wasted form, his spirit of hostility to the
whites burned still unquenched. Age had not robbed him of his influence
over the tribes. His wise counsel, the veneration they felt for him, the
tradition of his valorous deeds in the past, gave him unquestioned
control, and in 1643 he repeated his work of twenty-one years before,
organizing another secret conspiracy against the whites.
It was a reproduction of the former plot. The Indians were charged to
the utmost secrecy. They were bidden to ambush the whites in their
plantations and settlements and at a fixed time to fall upon them and to
spare none that they could kill. The conspiracy was managed as skilfully
as the former one. No warning of it was received, and at the appointed
hour the work of death began. Before it ended five hundred of the
settlers were ruthlessly slain. They were principally those of the
outlying plantations. Wherever the settlers were in a position for
effective resistance, the savages were routed and driven back to their
forest lurking-places.
Their work of death done, the red-skinned murderers at once dispersed,
knowing well that they could not withstand their foes in open fight. Sir
William Berkeley, the governor of Virginia, hastily called out a strong
force of armed men and marched to the main seat of the slaughter. No
foes were to be found. The Indians had vanished in the woodland
wilderness. It was useless to pursue them farther on foot, and the
governor continued the pursuit with a troop of cavalry, sweeping onward
through the tribal confines.
The chief result of the expedition was the capture of the organizer of
the conspiracy, the hoary leader of the tribal confederacy, who was
found near his place of residence on the Pamunky. Too feeble for hasty
flight, his aged limbs refusing to bear him and his weakened sight to
aid him, he was easily overtaken by the pursuers, and was carried back
in triumph to Jamestown, as the very central figure of Indian hostility.
It was the clement purpose of the governor to send the old chief to
England as a royal captive, there to be held in honorable custody until
death should close his career. But this purpose was not to be achieved.
A death of violence awaited the old Indian chieftain. A wretched fellow
of the neighborhood, one of the kind who would not have dared to face an
Indian in arms, slipped secretly behind the famous veteran and shot him
with his musket through the back, inflicting a deadly wound.
Aged and infirm as Opechancanough was, the wound was not instantly
mortal. He lingered for a few days in agonizing pain. Yet to the last
moment of his life his dignity of demeanor was preserved. It was
especially shown when a crowd of idlers gathered in the room to sate
their unfeeling curiosity on the actions of the dying chief.
His muscles had grown so weak that he could not raise his eyelids
without aid, and, on hearing the noise around him, he motioned to his
attendants to lift his lids that he might see what it meant. When he saw
the idle and curious crowd, a flash of wounded pride and just resentment
stirred his vanished powers. Sending for the governor, he said, with a
keen reproach that has grown historic, "Had I taken Sir William Berkeley
prisoner, I would not have exposed him as a show to my people." Closing
his eyes again, in a short time afterward the Indian hero was dead.
With the death of Opechancanough, the confederacy over which Powhatan
and he had ruled so long came to an end. It was now without a head, and
the associated tribes fell apart. How long it had been in existence
before the whites came to Virginia we cannot say, but the tread of the
white man's foot was fatal to the Indian power, and as that foot
advanced in triumph over the land the strength of the red men everywhere
waned and disappeared.
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