



Produced by David Widger





                           MYTHS AND LEGENDS
                                   OF
                              OUR OWN LAND

                                   By
                           Charles M. Skinner

                                Vol. 5.


                    LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH




CONTENTS:

The Swim at Indian Head
The Moaning Sisters
A Ride for a Bride
Spooks of the Hiawassee
Lake of the Dismal Swamp
The Barge of Defeat
Natural Bridge
The Silence Broken
Siren of the French Broad
The Hunter of Calawassee
Revenge of the Accabee
Toccoa Falls
Two Lives for One
A Ghostly Avenger
The Wraith Ringer of Atlanta
The Swallowing Earthquake
The Last Stand of the Biloxi
The Sacred Fire of Natchez
Pass Christian
The Under Land





LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF THE SOUTH



THE SWIM AT INDIAN HEAD

At Indian Head, Maryland, are the government proving-grounds, where the
racket of great guns and splintering of targets are a deterrent to the
miscellaneous visitations of picnics. Trouble has been frequently
associated with this neighborhood, as it is now suggested in the noisy
symbolry of war. In prehistoric days it was the site of an aboriginal
town, whose denizens were like other Indians in their love for fight and
their willingness to shed blood. Great was the joy of all these citizens
when a scouting party came in, one day, bringing with them the daughter
of one of their toughest old hunters and a young buck, from another
faction, who had come a-courting; her in the neighboring shades.

Capture meant death, usually, and he knew it, but he held himself proudly
and refused to ask for mercy. It was resolved that he should die. The
father's scorn for his daughter, that she should thus consort with an
enemy, was so great that he was on the point of offering her as a joint
sacrifice with her lover, when she fell on her knees before him and began
a fervent appeal, not for herself, but for the prisoner. She would do
anything to prove her strength, her duty, her obedience, if they would
set him free. He had done injury to none. What justice lay in putting him
to the torture?

Half in earnest, half in humor, the chief answered, "Suppose we were to
set him on the farther shore of the Potomac, do you love him well enough
to swim to him?"

"I do."

"The river is wide and deep."

"I would drown in it rather than that harm should come to him."

The old chief ordered the captive, still bound, to be taken to a point on
the Virginia shore, full two miles away, in one of their canoes, and when
the boat was on the water he gave the word to the girl, who instantly
plunged in and followed it. The chief and the father embarked in another
birch--ostensibly to see that the task was honestly fulfilled; really,
perhaps, to see that the damsel did not drown. It was a long course, but
the maid was not as many of our city misses are, and she reached the
bank, tired, but happy, for she had saved her lover and gained him for a
husband.




THE MOANING SISTERS

Above Georgetown, on the Potomac River, are three rocks, known as the
Three Sisters, not merely because of their resemblance to each other--for
they are parts of a submerged reef--but because of a tradition that, more
than a hundred years ago, a boat in which three sisters had gone out for
a row was swung against one of these rocks. The day was gusty and the
boat was upset. All three of the girls were drowned. Either the sisters
remain about this perilous spot or the rocks have prescience; at least,
those who live near them on the shore hold one view or the other, for
they declare that before every death on the river the sisters moan, the
sound being heard above the lapping of the waves. It is different from
any other sound in nature. Besides, it is an unquestioned fact that more
accidents happen here than at any other point on the river.

Many are the upsets that have occurred and many are the swimmers who have
gone down, the dark forms of the sisters being the last shapes that their
water-blurred eyes have seen. It is only before a human life is to be
yielded that this low wailing comes from the rocks, and when, on a night
in May, 1889, the sound floated shoreward, just as the clock in
Georgetown struck twelve, good people who were awake sighed and uttered a
prayer for the one whose doom was so near at hand. Twelve hours later, at
noon, a shell came speeding down the Potomac, with a young athlete
jauntily pulling at the oars. As he neared the Three Sisters his boat
appeared to be caught in an eddy; it swerved suddenly, as if struck; then
it upset and the rower sank to his death.




A RIDE FOR A BRIDE

When the story of bloodshed at Bunker Hill reached Bohemia Hall, in Cecil
County, Maryland, Albert De Courcy left his brother Ernest to support the
dignity of the house and make patriotic speeches, while he went to the
front, conscious that Helen Carmichael, his affianced wife, was watching,
in pride and sadness, the departure of his company. Letters came and
went, as they always do, until rumor came of a sore defeat to the
colonials at Long Island; then the letters ceased.

It was a year later when a ragged soldier, who had stopped at the hall
for supper, told of Albert's heroism in covering the retreat of
Washington. The gallant young officer had been shot, he said, as he
attempted to swim the morasses of Gowanus. But this soldier was in error.
Albert had been vexatiously bogged on the edge of the creek. While
floundering in the mud a half dozen sturdy red-coats had lugged him out
and he was packed off to the prison-ships anchored in the Wallabout. In
these dread hulks, amid darkness and miasma, living on scant, unwholesome
food, compelled to see his comrades die by dozens every day and their
bodies flung ashore where the tide lapped away the sand thrown over them,
De Courcy wished that death instead of capture had been his lot, for next
to his love he prized his liberty.

One day he was told off, with a handful of others, for transfer to a
stockade on the Delaware, and how his heart beat when he learned that the
new prison was within twenty miles of home! His flow of spirits returned,
and his new jailers liked him for his frankness and laughed at his honest
expletives against the king. He had the liberty of the enclosure, and was
not long in finding where the wall was low, the ditch narrow, and the
abatis decayed--knowledge that came useful to him sooner than he
expected, for one day a captured horse was led in that made straight for
him with a whinny and rubbed his nose against his breast.

"Why!" he cried,--"it's Cecil! My horse, gentlemen--or, was. Not a better
hunter in Maryland!"

"Yes," answered one of the officers. "We've just taken him from your
brother. He's been stirring trouble with his speeches and has got to be
quieted. But we'll have him to-day, for he's to be married, and a
scouting party is on the road to nab him at the altar."

"Married! My brother! What! Ernest, the lawyer, the orator? Ho, ho! Ah,
but it's rather hard to break off a match in that style!"

"Hard for him, maybe; but they say the lady feels no great love for him.
He made it seem like a duty to her, after her lover died."

"How's that? Her own--what's her name?"

"Helen--Helen Carmichael, or something like that."

Field and sky swam before De Courcy's eyes for a moment; then he resumed,
in a calm voice, and with a pale, set face, "Well, you're making an
unhappy wedding-day for him. If he had Cecil here he would outride you
all. Ah, when I was in practice I could ride this horse and snatch a
pebble from the ground without losing pace!"

"Could you do it now?"

"I'm afraid long lodging in your prison-ships has stiffened my joints,
but I'd venture at a handkerchief."

"Then try," said the commandant.

De Courcy mounted into the saddle heavily, crossed the grounds at a
canter, and dropped a handkerchief on the grass. Then, taking a few turns
for practice, he started at a gallop and swept around like the wind. His
seat was so firm, his air so noble, his mastery of the steed so complete,
that a cheer of admiration went up. He seemed to fall headlong from the
saddle, but was up again in a moment, waving the handkerchief gayly in
farewell--for he kept straight on toward the weak place in the wall. A
couple of musket-balls hummed by his ears: it was neck or nothing now! A
tremendous leap! Then a ringing cry told the astonished soldiers that he
had reached the road in safety. Through wood and thicket and field he
dashed as if the fiend were after him, and never once did he cease to
urge his steed till he reached the turnpike, and saw ahead the scouting
party on its way to arrest his brother.

Turning into a path that led to the rear of the little church they were
so dangerously near, he plied hands and heels afresh, and in a few
moments a wedding party was startled by the apparition of a black horse,
all in a foam, ridden by a gaunt man, in torn garments, that burst in at
the open chancel-door. The bridegroom cowered, for he knew his brother.
The bride gazed in amazement. "'Tis the dead come to life!" cried one. De
Courcy had little time for words. He rode forward to the altar, swung
Helen up behind him, and exclaimed, "Save yourselves! The British are
coming! To horse, every one, and make for the manor!" There were shrieks
and fainting--and perhaps a little cursing, even if it was in
church,--and when the squadron rode up most of the company were in full
flight. Ernest was taken, and next morning held his brother's place on
the prison-list, while, as arrangements had been made for a wedding,
there was one, and a happy one, but Albert was the bridegroom.




SPOOKS OF THE HIAWASSEE

The hills about the head of the Hiawassee are filled with "harnts," among
them many animal ghosts, that ravage about the country from sheer
viciousness. The people of the region, illiterate and superstitious, have
unquestioning faith in them. They tell you about the headless bull and
black dog of the valley of the Chatata, the white stag of the
Sequahatchie, and the bleeding horse of the Great Smoky Mountains--the
last three being portents of illness, death, or misfortune to those who
see them.

Other ghosts are those of men. Near the upper Hiawassee is a cave where a
pile of human skulls was found by a man who had put up his cabin near the
entrance. For some reason, which he says he never understood, this farmer
gathered up the old, bleached bones and dumped them into his shed. Quite
possibly he did not dare to confess that he wanted them for fertilizers
or to burn them for his poultry.

Night fell dark and still, with a waning moon rising over the
mountains--as calm a night as ever one slept through. Along toward the
middle of it a sound like the coming of a cyclone brought the farmer out
of his bed. He ran to the window to see if the house were to be uprooted,
but the forest was still, with a strange, oppressive stillness--not a
twig moving, not a cloud veiling the stars, not an insect chirping.
Filled with a vague fear, he tried to waken his wife, but she was like
one in a state of catalepsy.

Again the sound was heard, and now he saw, without, a shadowy band
circling about his house like leaves whirled on the wind. It seemed to be
made of human shapes, with tossing arms--this circling band--and the
sound was that of many voices, each faint and hollow, by itself, but loud
in aggregate. He who was watching realized then that the wraiths of the
dead whose skulls he had purloined from their place of sepulture were out
in lament and protest. He went on his knees at once and prayed with vigor
until morning. As soon as it was light enough to see his way he replaced
the skulls, and was not troubled by the "haunts" again. All the gold in
America, said he, would not tempt him to remove any more bones from the
cave-tombs of the unknown dead.




LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP

Drummond's Pond, or the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, is a dark and lonely
tarn that lies in the centre of this noted Virginia morass. It is, in a
century-old tradition, the Styx of two unhappy ghosts that await the end
of time to pass its confines and enjoy the sunshine of serener worlds. A
young woman of a family that had settled near this marsh died of a fever
caused by its malarial exhalations, and was buried near the swamp. The
young man to whom she was betrothed felt her loss so keenly that for days
he neither ate nor slept, and at last broke down in mind and body. He
recovered a measure of physical health, after a time, but his reason was
hopelessly lost.

It was his hallucination that the girl was not dead, but had been exiled
to the lonely reaches of this watery wilderness. He was heard to mutter,
"I'll find her, and when Death comes I'll hide her in the hollow of a
cypress until he passes on." Evading restraint, he plunged into the fen,
and for some days he wandered there, eating berries, sleeping on tussocks
of grass, with water-snakes crawling over him and poisonous plants
shedding their baneful dew on his flesh. He came to the lake at last. A
will-o'the-wisp played along the surface. "'Tis she!" he cried. "I see
her, standing in the light." Hastily fashioning a raft of cypress boughs
he floated it and pushed toward the centre of the pond, but the eagerness
of his efforts and the rising of a wind dismembered the frail platform,
and he fell into the black water to rise no more. But often, in the
night, is seen the wraith of a canoe, with a fire-fly lamp burning on its
prow, restlessly urged to and fro by two figures that seem to be vainly
searching for an exit from the place, and that are believed to be those
of the maiden and her lover.




THE BARGE OF DEFEAT

Rappannock River, in Virginia, used to be vexed with shadowy craft that
some of the populace affirmed to be no boats, but spirits in disguise.
One of these apparitions was held in fear by the Democracy of Essex
County, as it was believed to be a forerunner of Republican victory. The
first recorded appearance of the vessel was shortly after the Civil War,
on the night of a Democratic mass-meeting at Tappahannock. There were
music, refreshments, and jollity, and it was in the middle of a rousing
speech that a man in the crowd cried, "Look, fellows! What is that queer
concern going down the river?"

The people moved to the shore, and by the light of their torches a hulk
was seen drifting with the stream--a hulk of fantastic form unlike
anything that sails there in the daytime. As it came opposite the throng,
the torchlight showed gigantic <DW64>s who danced on deck, showing
horrible faces to the multitude. Not a sound came from the barge, the
halloos of the spectators bringing no response, and some boatmen ventured
into the stream, only to pull back in a hurry, for the craft had become
so strangely enveloped in shadow that it seemed to melt into air.

Next day the Democracy was defeated at the polls, chiefly by the <DW64>
vote. In 1880 it reappeared, and, as before, the Republicans gained the
day. Just before the election of 1886, Mr. Croxton, Democratic nominee
for Congress, was haranguing the people, when the cry of "The Black
Barge!" arose. Argument and derision were alike ineffectual with the
populace. The meeting broke up in silence and gloom, and Mr. Croxton was
defeated by a majority of two thousand.




NATURAL BRIDGE

Though several natural bridges are known in this country, there is but
one that is famous the world over, and that is the one which spans Clear
Creek, Virginia--the remnant of a cave-roof, all the rest of the cavern
having collapsed. It is two hundred and fifteen feet above the water, and
is a solid mass of rock forty feet thick, one hundred feet wide, and
ninety feet in span. Thomas Jefferson owned it; George Washington scaled
its side and carved his name on the rock a foot higher than any one else.
Here, too, came the youth who wanted to cut his name above Washington's,
and who found, to his horror, when half-way up, that he must keep on, for
he had left no resting-places for his feet at safe and reachable
distances--who, therefore, climbed on and on, cutting handhold and
foothold in the limestone until he reached the top, in a fainting state,
his knife-blade worn to a stump. Here, too, in another tunnel of the
cavern, flows Lost River, that all must return to, at some time, if they
drink of it. Here, beneath the arch, is the dark stain, so like a flying
eagle that the French officer who saw it during the Revolution augured
from it a success for the united arms of the nations that used the eagle
as their symbol.

The Mohegans knew this wonder of natural masonry, for to this point they
were pursued by a hostile tribe, and on reaching the gulf found
themselves on the edge of a precipice that was too steep at that point to
descend. Behind them was the foe; before them, the chasm. At the
suggestion of one of their medicine-men they joined in a prayer to the
Great Spirit for deliverance, and when again they looked about them,
there stood the bridge. Their women were hurried over; then, like so many
Horatii, they formed across this dizzy highway and gave battle.
Encouraged by the knowledge that they had a safe retreat in case of being
overmastered, they fought with such heart that the enemy was defeated,
and the grateful Mohegans named the place the Bridge of God.




THE SILENCE BROKEN

It was in 1734 that Joist Hite moved from Pennsylvania to Virginia, with
his wife and boys, and helped to make a settlement on the Shenandoah
twelve miles south of Woodstock. When picking berries at a distance from
the village, one morning, the boys were surprised by Indians, who hurried
with them into the wilderness before their friends could be apprised.
Aaron, the elder, was strong, and big of frame, with coarse, black hair,
and face tanned brown; but his brother was small and fair, with blue eyes
and yellow locks, and it was doubtless because he was a type of the hated
white race that the Indians spent their blows and kicks on him and spared
the sturdy one. Aaron was wild with rage at the injuries put upon his
gentle brother, but he was bound and helpless, and all that he could do
was to encourage him to bear a stout heart and not to fall behind.

But Peter was too delicate to keep up, and there came a day when he could
go no farther. The red men consulted for a few moments, then all of them
stood apart but one, who fitted an arrow to his bow. The child's eyes
grew big with fear, and Aaron tore at his bonds, but uselessly, and
shouted that he would take the victim's place, but no one understood his
speech, and in another moment Peter lay dead on the earth, with an arrow
in his heart. Aaron gave one cry of hate and despair, and he, too, sank
unconscious. On coming to himself he found that he was in a hut of
boughs, attended by an old Indian, who told him in rude English that he
was recovering from an illness of several weeks' duration, and that it
was the purpose of his tribe to adopt him. When the lad tried to protest
he found to his amazement that he could not utter a sound, and he learned
from the Indian that the fever had taken away his tongue. In the dulness
and weakness of his state he submitted to be clothed in Indian dress,
smeared with a juice that browned his skin, and greeted by his brother's
slayers as one of themselves. When he looked into a pool he found that he
had, to all intents, become an Indian. In time he became partly
reconciled to this change, for he did not know and could not ask where
the white settlements lay; his appearance and his inability to speak
would prevent his recognition by his friends, the red men were not unkind
to him, and every boy likes a free and out-door life. They taught him to
shoot with bow and arrow, but they kept him back if a white settlement
was to be plundered.

Three years had elapsed, and Aaron, grown tall and strong, was a good
hunter who stood in favor with the tribe. They had roamed back to the
neighborhood of Woodstock, when, at a council, Aaron overheard a plot to
fall on the village where his parents lived. He begged, by signs, to be
allowed to go with them, and, believing that he could now be trusted,
they offered no objection. Stoic as he had grown to be, he could not
repress a tear as he saw his old home and thought of the peril that it
stood in. If only he could give an alarm! The Indians retired into the
forest to cook their food where the smoke could not be seen, while Aaron
lingered at the edge of the wood and prayed for opportunity. He was not
disappointed. Two girls came up through the perfumed dusk, driving cows
from the pasture, and as they drew near, Aaron, pretending not to see
them, crawled out of the bush with his weapons, and made a show of
stealthily examining the town. The girls came almost upon him and
screamed, while he dashed into the wood in affected surprise and regained
the camp. The Indians had heard and seen nothing. The girls would surely
give the alarm in town.

One by one the lights of the village went out, and when it seemed locked
in sleep the red marauders crept toward the nearest house--that of Joist
Hite. They arose together and rushed upon it, but at that moment a gun
was fired, an Indian fell, and in a few seconds more the settlers, whom
the girls had not failed to put on their guard, were hurrying from their
hiding-places, firing into the astonished crowd of savages, who dashed
for the woods again, leaving a dozen of their number on the ground. Aaron
remained quietly standing near his father's house, and he was captured,
as he hoped to be. When he saw how his parents had aged with time and
grief he could not repress a tear, but to his grief was added terror when
his father, after looking him steadily in the eye without recognition,
began to load a pistol. "They killed my boys," said he, "and I am going
to kill him. Bind him to that tree."

In vain the mother pleaded for mercy; in vain the dumb boy's eyes
appealed to his father's. He was not afraid to die, and would do so
gladly to have saved the settlement; but to die by his father's band! He
could not endure it. He was bound to a tree, with the light of a fire
shining into his face.

The old man, with hard determination, raised the weapon and aimed it
slowly at the boy's heart. A surge of feeling shook the frame of the
captive--he threw his whole life into the effort--then the silence of
three years was broken, and he cried, "Father!" A moment later his
parents were sobbing joyfully, and he could speak to them once more.




SIREN OF THE FRENCH BROAD

Among the rocks east of Asheville, North Carolina, lives the Lorelei of
the French Broad River. This stream--the Tselica of the Indians--contains
in its upper reaches many pools where the rapid water whirls and deepens,
and where the traveller likes to pause in the heats of afternoon and
drink and bathe. Here, from the time when the Cherokees occupied the
country, has lived the siren, and if one who is weary and downcast sits
beside the stream or utters a wish to rest in it, he becomes conscious of
a soft and exquisite music blending with the plash of the wave.

Looking down in surprise he sees--at first faintly, then with
distinctness--the form of a beautiful woman, with hair streaming like
moss and dark eyes looking into his, luring him with a power he cannot
resist. His breath grows short, his gaze is fixed, mechanically he rises,
steps to the brink, and lurches forward into the river. The arms that
catch him are slimy and cold as serpents; the face that stares into his
is a grinning skull. A loud, chattering laugh rings through the
wilderness, and all is still again.




THE HUNTER OF CALAWASSEE

Through brisk November days young Kedar and his trusty slave, Lauto,
hunted along the Calawassee, with hope to get a shot at a buck--a buck
that wore a single horn and that eluded them with easy, baffling gait
whenever they met it in the fens. Kedar was piqued at this. He drained a
deep draught and buttoned his coat with an air of resolution. "Now, by my
soul," quoth he, "I'll have that buck to-day or die myself!" Then he
laughed at the old slave, who begged him to unsay the oath, for there was
something unusual about that animal--as it ran it left no tracks, and it
passed through the densest wood without halting at trees or undergrowth.
"Bah!" retorted the huntsman. "Have up the dogs. If that buck is the
fiend himself, I'll have him before the day is out!" The twain were
quickly in their saddles, and they had not been long in the wood before
the one-horned buck was seen ahead, trotting with easy pace, yet with
marvellous swiftness.

Kedar, who was in advance, whipped up his horse and followed the deer
into a cypress grove near the Chechesee. As the game halted at a pool he
fired. The report sounded dead in the dense wood, and the deer turned
calmly, watched his pursuer until he was close at hand, then trotted away
again. All day long he held the chase. The dogs were nowhere within
sound, and he galloped through the forest, shouting and swearing like a
very devil, beating and spurring the horse until the poor creature's head
and flanks were reddened with blood. It was just at sunset that Kedar
found himself again on the bank of the Calawassee, near the point he had
left in the morning, and heard once more the baying of his hounds. At
last his prey seemed exhausted, and, swimming the river, it ran into a
thicket on the opposite side and stood still. "Now I have him!" cried the
hunter. "Hillio, Lauto! He's mine!" The old <DW64> heard the call and
hastened forward. He heard his master's horse floundering in the swamp
that edged the river--then came a plash, a curse, and as the slave
arrived at the margin a few bubbles floated on the sluggish current. The
deer stood in the thicket, staring with eyes that blazed through the
falling darkness, and, with a wail of fear and sorrow, old Lauto fled the
spot.




REVENGE OF THE ACCABEE

The settlement made by Lord Cardross, near Beaufort, South Carolina, was
beset by Spaniards and Indians, who laid it in ashes and slew every
person in it but one. She, a child of thirteen, had supposed the young
chief of the Accabees to be her father, as he passed in the smoke, and
had thrown herself into his arms. The savage raised his axe to strike,
but, catching her blue eye raised to his, more in grief and wonder than
alarm, the menacing hand fell to his side, and, tossing the girl lightly
to a seat on his shoulder, he strode off into the forest. Mile after mile
he bore her, and if she slept he held her to his breast as a father holds
a babe. When she awoke it was in his lodge on the Ashley, and he was
smiling in her face. The chief became her protector; but those who
marked, with the flight of time, how his fierceness had softened, knew
that she was more to him than a daughter. Years passed, the girl had
grown to womanhood, and her captor declared himself her lover. She seemed
not ill pleased at this, for she consented to be his wife. After the
betrothal the chief joined a hunting party and was absent for a time. On
his return the girl was gone. A trader who had been bartering merchandise
for furs had seen her, had been inspired by passion, and, favored by
suave manners and a white skin, he had won in a day a stronger affection
than the Indian could claim after years of loving watchfulness.

When this discovery was made the chief, without a word, set off on the
trail, and by broken twig, by bended grass and footprints at the
brook-edge, he followed their course until he found them resting beneath
a tree. The girl sprang from her new lover's arms with a cry of fear as
the savage, with knife and tomahawk girt upon him, stepped into view, and
she would have clasped his knees, but he motioned her away; then,
ordering them to continue their march, he went behind them until they had
reached a fertile spot on the Ashley, near the present site of
Charleston, where he halted. "Though guilty, you shall not die," said he
to the woman; then, to his rival, "You shall marry her, and a white
priest shall join your hands. Here is your future home. I give you many
acres of my land, but look that you care for her. As I have been merciful
to you, do good to her. If you treat her ill, I shall not be far away."

The twain were married and went to live on the acres that had been so
generously ceded to them, and for a time all went well; but the true
disposition of the husband, which was sullen and selfish, soon began to
disclose itself; disagreements arose, then quarrels; at last the man
struck his wife, and, seizing the deed of the Accabee land and a paper
that he had forced her to sign without knowing its contents, he started
for the settlements, intending to sell the property and sail for England.
On the edge of the village his flight was stayed by a tall form that
arose in his path-that of the Indian. "I gave you all," said the chief,
"the woman who should have been my wife, and then my land. This is your
thanks. You shall go no farther."

With a quick stroke of the axe he cleft the skull of the shrinking
wretch, and then, cutting off his scalp, the Indian ran to the cottage
where sat the abandoned wife, weeping before the embers of her fire. He
roused her by tossing on fresh fuel, but she shrank back in grief and
shame when she saw who had come to her. "Do not fear," he said. "The man
who struck you meant to sell your home to strangers"--and he laid the
deed of sale before her, "but he will never play you false or lay hands on
you again. Look!" He tossed the dripping scalp upon the paper. "Now I
leave you forever. I cannot take you back among my people, who do not
know deceit like yours, nor could I ever love you as I did at first."
Turning, without other farewell he went out at the door. When this gift
of Accabee land was sold--for the woman could no longer bear to live on
it, but went to a northern city--a handsome house was built by the new
owner, who added game preserves and pleasure grounds to the estate, but
it was "haunted by a grief." Illness and ill luck followed the purchase,
and the house fell into ruin.




TOCCOA FALLS

Early in the days of the white occupation of Georgia a cabin stood not
far from the Falls of Toccoa (the Beautiful). Its only occupant was a
feeble woman, who found it ill work to get food enough from the wild
fruits and scanty clearing near the house, and she had nigh forgotten the
taste of meat; for her two sons, who were her pride no less than her
support, had been killed by savages. She often said that she would gladly
die if she could harm the red men back, in return for her
suffering--which was not Christian doctrine, but was natural. She was
brooding at her fire, one winter evening, in wonder as to how one so weak
and old as she could be revenged, when her door was flung open and a
number of red men filled her cabin. She hardly changed countenance. She
did not rise. "You may take my life," she said, "for it is useless, now
that you have robbed it of all that made it worth living."

"Hush!" said the chief. "What does the warrior want with the scalps of
women? We war on your men because they kill our game and steal our land."

"Is it possible that you come to our homes except to kill?"

"We are strangers and have lost our way. You must guide us to the foot of
Toccoa and lead us to our friends."

"I lead you? Never!"

The chief raised his axe, but the woman did not flinch. There was a
pause, in which the iron still hung menacing. Suddenly the dame looked up
and said, "If you promise to protect me, I will lead you."

The promise was given and the band set forth, the aged guide in advance,
bending against the storm and clasping her poor rags about her. In the
darkest part of the wood, where the roaring of wind and groaning of
branches seemed the louder for the booming of waters, she cautioned the
band to keep in single file, but to make haste, for the way was far and
the gloom was thickening. Bending their heads against the wind they
pressed forward, she in advance. Suddenly, yet stealthily, she sprang
aside and crouched beneath a tree that grew at the very brink of the
fall. The Indians came on, following blindly, and in an instant she
descried the leader as he went whirling over the edge, and one after
another the party followed. When the last had gone to his death she arose
to her feet with a laugh of triumph. "Now I, too, can die!" she cried. So
saying, she fell forward into the grayness of space.




TWO LIVES FOR ONE

The place of Macon, Georgia, in the early part of this century was marked
only by an inn. One of its guests was a man who had stopped there on the
way to Alabama, where he had bought land. The girl who was, to be his
wife was to follow in a few days. In the morning when he paid his
reckoning he produced a well-filled pocket-book, and he did not see the
significant look that passed between two rough black-bearded fellows who
had also spent the night there, and who, when he set forth, mounted their
horses and offered to keep him company. As they rode through the deserted
village of Chilicte one of the twain engaged the traveller in talk while
the other, falling a little behind, dealt him a blow with a loaded whip
that unseated him. Divining their purpose, and lacking weapons for his
own defence, he begged for mercy, and asked to be allowed to return to
his bride to be, but the robbers had already made themselves liable to
penalty, and two knife-thrusts in the breast silenced his appeals. The
money was secured, the body was dropped into a hollow where the wolves
would be likely to find and mangle it, and the outlaws went on their way.

Men of their class do not keep money long, and when the proceeds of the
robbery had been wasted at cards and in drink they separated. As in
fulfilment of the axiom that a murderer is sure to revisit the scene of
his crime, one of the men found himself at the Ocmulgee, a long time
afterward, in sight of the new town--Macon. In response to his halloo a
skiff shot forth from the opposite shore, and as it approached the bank
he felt a stir in his hair and a touch of ice at his heart, for the
ferryman was his victim of years ago. Neither spoke a word, but the
criminal felt himself forced to enter the boat when the dead man waved
his hand, and he was rowed across, his horse swimming beside the skiff.
As the jar of the keel was felt on the gravel he leaped out, urged his
horse to the road, sprang to the saddle, and rushed away in an agony of
fear, that was heightened when a hollow voice called, "Stay!"

After a little he slackened pace, and a farmer, who was standing at the
roadside, asked, in astonishment, "How did you get across? There is a
freshet, and the ferryman was drowned last night." With a new thrill he
spurred his horse forward, and made no other halt until he reached the
tavern, where he fell in a faint on the steps, for the strain was no
longer to be endured. A crowd gathered, but he did not see it when he
awoke--he saw only one pair of eyes, that seemed to be looking into his
inmost soul--the eyes of the man he had slain. With a yell of terror and
of insane fury he rushed upon the ghost and thrust a knife into its
breast. The frenzy passed. It was no ghost that lay on the earth before
him, staring up with sightless eyes. It was his fellow-murderer--his own
brother. That night the assassin's body hung from a tree at the
cross-roads.




A GHOSTLY AVENGER

In Cuthbert, Georgia, is a gravestone thus inscribed: "Sacred to the
memory of Jim Brown." No date, no epitaph--for Jim Brown was hanged. And
this is the story: At the close of the Civil War a company of Federal
soldiers was stationed in Cuthbert, to enforce order pending the return
of its people to peaceful occupations. Charles Murphy was a lieutenant in
this company. His brother, an officer quartered in a neighboring town,
was sent to Cuthbert one day to receive funds for the payment of some
men, and left camp toward evening to return to his troop. That night
Charles Murphy was awakened by a violent flapping of his tent. It sounded
as though a gale was coming, but when he arose to make sure that the pegs
and poles of his canvas house were secure, the noise ceased, and he was
surprised to find that the air was clear and still. On returning to bed
the flapping began again, and this time he dressed himself and went out
to make a more careful examination. In the shadow of a tree a man stood
beckoning. It was his brother, who, in a low, grave voice, told him that
he was in trouble, and asked him to follow where he should lead him. The
lieutenant walked swiftly through fields and woods for some miles with
his relative--he had at once applied for and received a leave of absence
for a few hours--and they descended together a <DW72> to the edge of a
swamp, where he stumbled against something. Looking down at the object on
which he had tripped, he saw that it was his brother's corpse--not newly
dead, but cold and rigid--the pockets rifled, the clothing soaked with
mire and blood.

Dazed and terrified, he returned to camp, roused some of his men, and at
daybreak secured the body. An effort to gain a clue to the murderer was
at once set on foot. It was not long before evidence was secured that led
to the arrest of Jim Brown, and there was a hint that his responsibility
for the crime was revealed through the same supernatural agency that had
apprised Lieutenant Murphy of his bereavement. Brown was an ignorant farm
laborer, who had conceived that it was right to kill Yankees, and whose
cupidity had been excited by learning that the officer had money
concealed about him. He had offered, for a trifling sum, to take his
victim by a short cut to his camp, but led him to the swamp instead,
where he had shot him through the heart. On the culprit's arrival in
Cuthbert he was lynched by the soldiers, but was cut down by their
commander before life was extinct, and was formally and conclusively
hanged in the next week, after trial and conviction.




THE WRAITH RINGER OF ATLANTA

A man was killed in Elliott Street, Atlanta, Georgia, by a cowardly
stroke from a stiletto. The assassin escaped. Strange what a humming
there was in the belfry of St. Michael's Church that night! Had the
murderer taken refuge there? Was it a knell for his lost soul, chasing
him through the empty streets and beginning already an eternal punishment
of terror? Perhaps the guilty one did not dare to leave Atlanta, for the
chimes sang in minor chords on several nights after. The old policeman
who kept ward in an antiquated guardhouse that stood opposite the
church--it was afterward shaken down by earthquake--said that he saw a
human form, which he would avouch to be that of the murdered man, though
it was wrapped in a cloak, stalk to the doors, enter without opening
them, glide up the winding stair, albeit he bent neither arm nor knee,
pass the ropes by which the chimes were rung, and mount to the belfry. He
could see the shrouded figure standing beneath the gloomy mouths of
metal. It extended its bony hands to the tongues of the bells and swung
them from side to side, but while they appeared to strike vigorously they
seemed as if muffled, and sent out only a low, musical roar, as if they
were rung by the wind. Was the murderer abroad on those nights? Did he,
too, see that black shadow of his victim in the belfry sounding an alarm
to the sleeping town and appealing to be avenged? It may be. At all
events, the apparition boded ill to others, for, whenever the chimes were
rung by spectral hands, mourners gathered at some bedside within hearing
of them and lamented that the friend they had loved would never know them
more on earth.




THE SWALLOWING EARTHQUAKE

The Indian village that in 1765 stood just below the site of Oxford,
Alabama, was upset when the news was given out that two of the squaws had
given simultaneous birth to a number of children that were spotted like
leopards. Such an incident betokened the existence of some baneful spirit
among them that had no doubt leagued itself with the women, who were at
once tried on the charge of witchcraft, convicted, and sentenced to death
at the stake, while a watch was to be set on the infants, so early
orphaned, lest they, too, should show signs of malevolent possession. The
whole tribe, seventeen hundred in number, assembled to see the execution,
but hardly were the fires alight when a sound like thunder rolled beneath
their feet, and with a hideous crack and groan the earth opened and
nearly every soul was engulfed in a fathomless and smoking pit-all,
indeed, save two, for a couple of young braves who were on the edge of
the crowd flung themselves flat on the heaving ground and remained there
until the earthquake wave had passed. The hollow afterward filled with
water and was called Blue Pond. It is popularly supposed to be
fathomless, but it was shown that a forest once spread across the bottom,
when, but a few years ago, a great tree arose from the water, lifting
first its branches, then turning so as to show its roots above the
surface, and afterward disappeared.




LAST STAND OF THE BILOXI

The southern part of this country was once occupied by a people called
the Biloxi, who had kept pace with the Aztecs in civilization and who
cultivated especially the art of music. In lives of gentleness and peace
they so soon forgot the use of arms that when the Choctaws descended on
their fields they were powerless to prevent the onset. Town after town
they evacuated before the savages, and at last the Biloxi, reduced to a
few thousands, were driven to the mouth of the Pascagoula River,
Mississippi, where they intrenched themselves, and for a few months
withstood the invaders. But the time came when their supplies were
exhausted, and every form was pinched with hunger. Flight was impossible.
Surrender commonly meant slaughter and outrage. They resolved to die
together.

On a fair spring morning the river-ward gates of their fort were opened
and the survivors of that hapless tribe marched forth, their chief in
advance, with resolution on his wasted face, then the soldiers and
counsellors, the young men, the women and children, and the babes asleep
on the empty breasts of their mothers. As they emerged from the walls
with slow but steady step they broke into song, and their assailants, who
had retired to their tents for their meal, listened with surprise to the
chorus of defiance and rejoicing set up by the starving people. Without
pause or swerving they entered the bay and kept their march. Now the
waters closed over the chief, then the soldiers--at last only a few
voices of women were heard in the chant, and in a few moments all was
still. Not one shrank from the sacrifice. And for years after the echo of
that death-song floated over he waves.

Another version of the legend sets forth that the Biloxi believed
themselves the children of the sea, and that they worshipped the image of
a lovely mermaid with wondrous music. After the Spaniards had come among
this gay and gentle people, they compelled them, by tyranny and murder,
to accept the religion of the white man, but of course it was only
lip-service that they rendered at the altar. The Biloxi were awakened one
night by the sound of wings and the rising of the river. Going forth they
saw the waters of Pascagoula heaped in a quivering mound, and bright on
its moonlit crest stood a mermaid that sang to them, "Come to me,
children of the sea. Neither bell, book, nor cross shall win you from
your queen." Entranced by her song and the potency of her glances, they
moved forward until they encircled the hill of waters. Then, with hiss
and roar, the river fell back to its level, submerging the whole tribe.
The music that haunts the bay, rising through the water when the moon is
out, is the sound of their revels in the caves below--dusky Tannhausers
of a southern Venusberg. An old priest, who was among them at the time of
this prodigy, feared that the want of result to his teachings was due to
his not being in a perfect state of grace. On his death-bed he declared
that if a priest would row to the spot where the music sounded, at
midnight on Christmas, and drop a crucifix into the water, he would
instantly be swallowed by the waves, but that every soul at the bottom
would be redeemed. The souls have never been ransomed.




THE SACRED FIRE OF NACHEZ

The Indians of the South, being in contact with the civilized races of
Central America, were among the most progressive and honorable of the red
men. They were ruled by intelligence rather than force, and something of
the respect that Europeans feel for their kingly families made them
submit to woman's rule. The valley of Nacooche, Georgia, indeed,
perpetuates in its name one of these princesses of a royal house, for
though she ruled a large tribe with wisdom she was not impervious to the
passions of common mortals. The "Evening Star" died by her own hand,
being disappointed in love affair. Her story is that of Juliet, and she
and her lover--united in death, as they could not be in life--are buried
beneath a mound in the centre of he valley.

The Indians of that region had towns built for permanency, and possessed
some knowledge of the arts, while in religion their belief and rites were
curiously like those of the Persian fire-worshippers. It was on the site
of the present city in Mississippi which bears their name that the
Natchez Indians built their Temple of the Sun. When it was finished a
meteor fell from heaven and kindled the fire on their altar, and from
that hour the priests guarded he flame continually, until one night when
it was extinguished by mischance. This event was believed to be an omen,
and the people so took it to heart that when the white men came, directly
after, they had little courage to prosecute a war, and fell back before
the conqueror, never to hold their ancient home again.




PASS CHRISTIAN

Senhor Vineiro, a Portuguese, having wedded Julia Regalea, a Spaniard, in
South America, found it needful to his fortunes to leave Montevideo, for
a revolution was breeding, and no less needful to his happiness to take
his wife with him from that city, for he was old and she was young. But
he chose the wrong ship to sail on, for Captain Dane, of the Nightingale,
was also young, presentable, and well schooled, but heartless. On the
voyage to New Orleans he not only won the affection of the wife, but slew
the husband and flung his body overboard. Vainly the wife tried to
repress the risings of remorse, and vainly, too, she urged Dane to seek
absolution from her church. She had never loved her husband, and she had
loved Dane from the first, but she was not at heart a bad woman and her
peace was gone. The captain was disturbed and suspicious. His sailors
glanced at him out of the corners of their eyes in a way that he did not
like. Had the woman in some unintentional remark betrayed him? Could he
conceal his crime, save with a larger one?

Pass Christian was a village then. On a winter night its people saw a
glare in the sky, and hurrying to their doors found a ship burning in the
gulf. Smacks and row-boats put off to the rescue, but hardly were they
under way ere the ship disappeared as suddenly as if the sea had
swallowed it. As the night was thick the boats returned, but next morning
five men were encountered on the shore-all that were left of the crew of
the Nightingale. Captain Dane was so hospitably received by the people of
the district, and seemed to take so great a liking for the place, that he
resolved to live there. He bought a plantation with a roomy old house
upon it and took his fellow-survivors there to live, as he hoped, an easy
life. That was not to be. Yellow fever struck down all the men but Dane,
and one of them, in dying, raved to his <DW64> nurse that Dane had taken
all the treasure from the ship and put it into a boat, after serving grog
enough to intoxicate all save the trusted ones of the crew; that he and
his four associates fired the ship and rowed away, leaving an unhappy
woman to a horrible fate. Senhora Vineiro was pale but composed when she
saw the manner of death she was to die. She brought from her cabin a harp
which had been a solace of her husband and herself and began to play and
sing an air that some of the listeners remembered. It was an "Ave Maria,"
and the sound of it was so plaintive that even Dane stopped rowing; but
he set his teeth when his shoe touched the box of gold at his feet and
ordered the men to row on. There was an explosion and the vessel
disappeared. On reaching shore the treasure was buried at the foot of a
large oak.

This story was repeated by the nurse, but she was ignorant, she had no
proofs, so it was not generally believed; yet there was a perceptible
difference in the treatment of Dane by his neighbors, and among the
superstitious <DW64>s it was declared that he had sold himself to the
devil. If he had, was it an air from hell that sounded in his ears when
he was alone?--the "Ave Maria" of a sinning but repentant woman. The
coldness and suspicion were more than he could stand. Besides, who could
tell? Evidence might be found against him. He would dig up his treasure
and fly the country. It was a year from the night when he had fired his
ship. Going out after dark, that none might see him, he stole to the tree
and began to dig. Presently a red light grew through the air, and looking
up he saw a flaming vessel advancing over the sea. It stopped, and he
could see men clambering into a boat at its side. They rowed toward him
with such miraculous speed that the ocean seemed to steam with a blue
light as they advanced. He stood like a stone, for now he could see the
faces of the rowers, and every one was the face of a corpse--a corpse
that had been left on board of that vessel and had been in the bottom of
the sea for the last twelvemonth. They sprang on shore and rushed upon
him. Next morning Dane's body was found beneath the oak with his hands
filled with gems and gold.




THE UNDER LAND

When the Chatas looked into the still depths of Bayou Lacombe, Louisiana,
they said that the reflection of the sky was the empyrean of the Under
Land, whither all good souls were sure to go after death. Their chief,
Opaleeta, having fallen into this bayou, was so long beneath the water
that he was dead when his fellows found him, but by working over him for
hours, and through resort to prayers and incantations of medicine men,
his life returned and he stood on his feet once more. Then he grieved
that his friends had brought him back, for he had been at the gates of
the Under Land, where the air is blithe and balmy, and so nourishing that
people live on it; where it is never winter; where the sun shines
brightly, but never withers and parches; and where stars dance to the
swing of the breezes. There no white man comes to rob the Indian and
teach him to do wrong. Gorgeous birds fly through changing skies that
borrow the tints of flowers, the fields are spangled with blossoms of red
and blue and gold that load each wind with perfume, the grass is as fine
as the hair of deer, and the streams are thick with honey.

At sunset those who loved each other in life are gathered to their
lodges, and raise songs of joy and thankfulness. Their voices are soft
and musical, their faces are young again and beam with smiles, and there
is no death. It was only the chiefs who heard his story, for, had all the
tribe known it, many who were old and ill and weary would have gone to
the bayou, and leaped in, to find that restful, happy Under Land. Those
who had gone before they sometimes tried to see, when the lake was still
and dappled with pictures of sunset clouds, but the dead never came
back--they kept away from the margin of the water lest they should be
called again to a life of toil and sorrow. And Opaleeta lived for many
years and ruled his tribe with wisdom, yet he shared in few of the
merry-makings of his people, and when, at last, his lodge was ready in
the Under Land, he gave up his life without a sigh.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Lights And Shadows Of The South
by Charles M. Skinner

*** 