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The Silver Arrow

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Title: The Silver Arrow

Author: Elbert Hubbard

Release date: July 6, 2019 [eBook #59864]

Most recently updated: April 12, 2020

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SILVER ARROW ***

THE

SILVER ARROW

BY ELBERT HUBBARD

PRINTED

BY THE ROYCROFTERS AT

EAST AURORA, N.Y.

Copyrighted 1923

By The Roycrofters

THE SILVER ARROW

And so it happened that Sir Walter Raleigh, the graceful, the gracious, the generous, had spread his cloak in the pathway of Queen Elizabeth and had been taken into her especial favor.

The Queen was nineteen years older than Sir Walter; that is to say, she was in her fifties, and he was in his thirties.

But Queen Bess hated old age, and swore a halibi for the swift passing years, and always delighted in the title of the "Virgin Queen."

Sir Walter did one great thing for England, and one for Ireland. He taught the English the use of tobacco, and he discovered the "Irish potato"—which is native to America.

They do say that Sir Walter and Queen Elizabeth enjoyed many a quiet smoke with their feet on the table—so as to equalize circulation. Both of them were big folk, with plans and ambitions plus. Sir Walter was contemporary with Shakespeare, and in fact looked like him, acted like him and had a good deal of the same agile, joyous, bubbling fertility of mind. That is, Sir Walter and William were lovers by nature; and love rightly exercised, and alternately encouraged and thwarted, gives the alternating current, and lo! we have that which the world calls genius. And I am told by those who know, that you can never get genius in any other way.

Good Queen Bess—who was not so very good—fanned the ambitions of Sir Walter and flattered his abilities. And of course any man born in a lowly station, or high, would have been immensely complimented by the gentle love-taps, and sighs, vain or otherwise, not to mention the glimmering glances of the alleged Virgin Queen.

But a good way to throttle love is to spy on it, question it, analyze it, vivisect it. And so Sir Walter's bubbling heart had chills of fear when he discovered that he was being followed wherever he went by the secret emissaries of Elizabeth.

Had he been free to act he would have disposed of these spies, and quickly too; but he was in thrall to a Queen, and was paying for his political power by being deprived of his personality. Oho, and Oho! The law of compensation acted then as now, and nothing is ever given away; everything is bought with a price—even the favors of royalty.

And behold! In the palace of the Queen, as janitor, gardener, scullion and all-around handy man was one John White, obscure, and yet elevated on account of his lack of wit.

He was so stupid that he was amusing. Sayings bright and clever that courtiers flung off when the wine went around were imputed to John White. Thus he came to have a renown which was not his own; and Sir Walter Raleigh, with his cheery, generous ways, attributed many a quiet quip and quillet to John White which John White had never thought nor said.

Now John White had a daughter, Eleanor by name, tall and fair and gracious, bearing in her veins the blood of Vikings bold; and her yellow hair blew in the breeze as did the yellow hair of those conquerors who discovered America and built the blockhouses along the coast of Rhode Island.

Doubtless in his youth John White had a deal of sturdy worth, but a bump on the sconce at some Donnybrook Fair early in his young manhood had sent his wits a woolgathering.

But the girl was not thus handicapped; her mind was alert and eager.

The mother of Eleanor had passed away, and the girl had grown strong and able in spirit through carrying burdens and facing responsibilities. She knew the limitations of her father and she knew his worth; and she also knew that he was a sort of unofficial fool for the court, being duly installed through the clever and heedless tongue of Sir Walter Raleigh.

Who would ever have thought that Sir Walter, the diplomat, the strong, the able, was to be brought low by this fair-haired daughter of John White, the court fool!

"You are Sir Walter Raleigh," said this girl of nineteen one day to Sir Walter when they met squarely face to face in a hallway. It was a bold thing to do to stop this statesman, and she only a daughter to a court fool, and herself a worker below stairs!

Sir Walter smiled, removed his hat in mock gallantry, and said, "I have the honor to be your obedient servant. And who are you?"

The girl, bouyed up by a combination of pride and fear, replied, "I am Eleanor White, the daughter of the man whom your wit has rendered famous." And their eyes met in level, steady look. Fair femininity aroused caught the eye and the ear of Sir Walter.

"Yes," said he, "I think I have seen you. And what can I do for you?"

"Only this," said Eleanor, "that from this day forth you will not attribute any more of your ribaldry to my father."

"Otherwise, what?" asked Sir Walter.

"Otherwise you will have me to deal with," said the proud Eleanor, and walked past him.

He tried to call her back; he felt humiliated that she did not turn and look, much less listen. He had been snubbed.

The banderilla went home, and the next day Sir Walter felt that he must hunt out this girl with the yellow locks and make peace with her, for surely he of all men did not want to hurt the feeling of any living being, neither did he want his own feelings hurt.

So he sought her out, and that which began in a quarrel soon evolved into something else. There were meetings by moonlight, notes passed, glances given, hand-clasps in the dark, and all of those absurd, foolish, irrelevant and unnecessary things that lovers do.

The girl was not of noble birth. But neither was Sir Walter, for that matter. Love knows nothing of titles and position. But how could these two ever imagine that they could elude the gimlet eyes of Good Queen Bess, who wasn't so very good! Queen Elizabeth had ways of punishing that were exquisite, deep, delicate and far-reaching, which touched the very marrow of the soul.

Sir Walter had been presented by the Queen with a title to all the land in America, from Nova Scotia to Florida; and he, in pretty compliment, had officially named this tract of land Virginia.

The French had taken possession of the New World at the North, and the Spaniards at the South, and along the coast of what is now North Carolina the English had planted a colony.

It was the intention of Sir Walter to send expeditions over and take the whole land captive, so that Virginia would in fact be the land of the Virgin Queen.

At the center of this tract along the coast was to be the city of Raleigh. The Queen and Sir Walter had worked this out at length, and she had given him a special charter for the great city to be.

And now behold! She, with the mind of a man, had perfected her plans for the building of the city of Raleigh. She planned an expedition, and fitted out the ships with sixty men and women from a receiving-ship that lay in the Thames.

These people were being sent out of England for England's good. And these were the people who were to found the city of Raleigh; and the Governor of this colony was to be—John White! he was to be the first mayor, Lord Mayor, of the city of Raleigh.

Queen Elizabeth had selected a husband for Eleanor White, an unknown youth—a defective, in fact, and one without moral or mental responsibility. She had forced a marriage, or in any event had recorded it as such. The youth was known as Ananias Dare. Even in the naming of this individual, who had never dared anything, the name "Ananias" carried with it a subtle sting.

John White and his daughter Eleanor, and Ananias Dare, were taken forcibly and put on the ship, which was duly provisioned, and the order given to found the city of Raleigh on the Island of Roanoke in the country called Virginia. A suitable sailor was selected as navigator, and orders were given him to land the colonists, and come back.

And so the expedition sailed away for the New World; and Sir Walter Raleigh in the secret of his room beat his head in anguish 'gainst the wall and called aloud for death to come and relieve him of his pain. And thus did Queen Elizabeth dispose of her rival, and punish with fantastic hate and jealousy the man she loved.

John White, Eleanor and Ananias Dare, with the motley group of unskilled men and women, were duly landed in the forest on Roanoke Island. Battle with the elements requires judgment, skill, experience, and these were things that our poor colonists did not possess.

Two weeks after landing on Roanoke Island a daughter was born to Eleanor. The captain of the ship had given orders that if the babe was a boy it was to be named Walter Raleigh Dare; if a girl the name was to be Virginia.

And they called the child Virginia Dare, and her name was so recorded in the history of the colony. She was duly baptized a week later, and the record of her birth and baptism still exists in the Colonial Archives in London.

This was the first white child born in America.

Very shortly after the baptism of the babe, the captain of the ship sailed away for England, leaving the colonists in their ignorance and helplessness to battle with the elements, wild beasts, and Indians as best they could.

We can imagine with what cruel delight Queen Elizabeth called Sir Walter Raleigh into her presence and had him read aloud to her and the assembled court the record of the birth of Virginia Dare.

As for the colonists, their days were few and evil. Dissensions and feuds arose, as they naturally would. John White was deposed as Governor, and when he resisted he was killed.

The idea of going to work, tilling the soil, and building a permanent settlement was not in the hearts of those people. They expected to find gold and silver and fountains of youth. They felt they were marooned, robbed and stranded. The Indians, at first fearful, were now jealous of these white intruders. The quarrel came and the Indians fell upon the colonists and killed every one. Every one, did I say? There was one saved; it was the little white baby, Virginia Dare.

She was rescued by a squaw, who but a short time before had lost her own babe, and her hungry mother heart went out to that helpless little white waif. She seized upon the child and carried it away into the forest for safety.

PART TWO

On Thursday, October Twenty-ninth, Sixteen Hundred Eighteen, at the Tower of London, the curtain fell on the fifth act of the life of Sir Walter Raleigh. It was a public holiday for all London.

The morning was cold and foggy.

Sir Walter was kept standing on the scaffold while the headsman ground his axe, the delay being for the amusement and edification of the people assembled. The High Sheriff approached the man who was so soon to die, and asked if there was not some last message he wished to send to some one. Sir Walter took from his neck a gold chain and locket. He handed them to the Sheriff and said, "Send these by a trusty messenger to Virginia Dare by the first ship that sails for the New World."

Sir Walter's frame shook in the cold, dank fog, and the Sheriff offered to bring a brazier of coals, but the great man proudly drew his cloak about him and said: "It is the ague I contracted in America. I will soon be cured of it!" And he laid his proud head, gray in the service of his country, calmly on the block, as if to say, "There now, take that, it is all I have left to give!"

Among the crowd that pushed, jostled, leered and looked was one Oliver Cromwell, short, swart and strong, a country youth who had come up to London to make his fortune. And Oliver Cromwell there and then made a vow that he would dedicate his life to the death of tyranny. So died Sir Walter Raleigh.

And Oliver Cromwell went forth to meet Fate as Destiny had willed.

PART THREE

The Indian woman who rescued Virginia Dare was Wahceta, wife of Manteno, the Croatoan chief.

This Indian woman had other children of her own, some almost grown up, and when she brought this little white waif into their midst they gazed in awe and wonderment, and exclaimed, "White Doe!" And this was the name given by common consent to the little intruder.

Wahceta cared for the babe as if it were her very own.

The helplessness of the little guest made an appeal to Wahceta, and she guarded her charge with jealous eyes, and a love that she had never manifested for her own children. Manteno looked on and shrugged his shoulders in half token of fear, for a white doe was a thing to be feared, since the superstition was that it was sent by the Great Spirit as a warning.

Hunters to this day are familiar with the occasional appearance of a white deer—an albino—one of Nature's sports, like the proverbial black sheep, to be found in every flock of white ones.

The Indians regarded a white doe as invincible to all weapons save a silver arrow alone. A white doe bore a charmed life, and was looked after with especial care by protecting spirits.

And so in wonder, when Wahceta would walk past, bearing on her back the white babe, the Indians silently made way, feeling somehow that they were close to the Great Spirit.

The child grew and learned to speak the Croatoan language with a glibness that made Wahceta laugh aloud in glee.

White Doe had flaxen hair, that glistened with the sheen of the sunshine. Very proud was Wahceta of those yellow locks, and she used to braid them in long strands, while the Indians stood around, looking on, having nothing else to do.

One day, when White Doe was about ten years old, she went away into the forest as she often did; but when night came on she had not returned. Wahceta went out to look for her, and called aloud in shrill soprano, but no reply came.

Manteno was appealed to, to arouse the braves and go search for the lost little girl. But Manteno was tired and sleepy, and he had faith in Providence. He knew that the child would be cared for by the Great Spirit. Wahceta started a bonfire on the hill above the village, and waited away the long hours of the night for her lost baby.

In the morning, just as the sun peeped over the tree-tops, White Doe appeared, her hair all wet with the dew of the night, and her feet cut and bleeding.

She was leading and half-dragging something—was it a dog or a wolf? Wahceta sprang forward to take the child in her arms. "Get behind, mother, and push," said little White Doe. "It's a white doe and I've held it all night for fear it would get away! Push hard, mother, dear, and we will get it in the teepee and tie it with green withes, and it will become gentle, and bring us all good luck."

The child had discovered this white fawn with its mother, feeding near a salt-lick. White Doe lay on a rock above the spring, waiting for the deer to come up close. There the girl waited for hours. She knew that at dusk the deer would come to the spring.

Sure enough, her patience was suddenly rewarded. She leaped from her rock and pinned the white fawn fast. The old deer disappeared into the forest. The girl held on to her prize. It struck her with its forefeet, but she held it close. By and by, tired out, the fawn lay still and rested entwined in the girl's arms. Now came the test—to get it home! She succeeded.

In the teepee of Wahceta, the animal was fed, caressed and cared for.

It grew docile, and in a few days followed its little mistress about wherever she went. The Indians looked on in half-dread, with superstitious awe.

"All the wild animals would be as tame as this if you were not so cruel to them," she said. "You fear the wolves and bears and so you kill them!"

To prove her point she began to hunt the forests for young bears and cub wolves. She found several, and brought them home, making household friends of them. And still more did the Indians marvel. So the days went by then, as the days go by now, and White Doe grew into gorgeous, glowing girlhood.

Her ability to run, climb, shoot with bow and arrow, to see, to hear, to revel in Nature, gave her a lithe, strong, tall and beautiful form and an alert mind. Of her birth she knew nothing, save that she was descended from another race—a race of half-gods, the Indians said. White Doe believed it, and her pride of pedigree was supreme.

The other children, dark as smoked copper, stood around clothed in their black hair—and little else—hair as black as the raven's wing.

Wahceta watched her charge with fear for the future. White Doe had temper, intelligence, wit, ability. She would roam the forests alone, unafraid. She knew where the bee-trees were, for even as a child she saw that the bees would gather at the basswood, and then loaded with honey would fly straight away for their homes. To follow them in their flight required a practised eye, but this White Doe had, and always the white doe followed her. She wove the inner bark of the slippery-elm into baskets, and would supply the teepee of Wahceta and Manteno with more berries, potatoes and goobers than any other teepee enjoyed.

Then she laid out gardens and tilled the soil with a wonderful wooden hoe, carved out of solid hickory with her own hands. Wahceta was growing old, and as her sight was becoming dim White Doe would lead her about through the forest and care for her as Wahceta once cared for White Doe.

The work of looking after Manteno's tent drifted by degrees into the hands of White Doe. Her industry, her thrift, her intelligence set her apart.

The Indian is like a white man in this: he allows work and responsibility to drift into the hands of those who can manage them. White Doe set about to build stone houses to replace the bark teepees. Where did she get the idea? Prenatal tendencies you say? Possibly. She drew pictures with a burnt stick on the flat surface of the cliff, and then ornamented these pictures with red and blue chalk which she dug from the ground. She took the juice of the grape, the elder and the whortleberry, and brewed them together to make wondrous colors for the pictures: and in some of the caves of North Carolina may be seen the pictures, even unto this day, drawn by White Doe. Wahceta passed away and her form was wrapped in its winding-sheet of deerskins and bark and placed high in the forks of a tree-top, awaiting the pleasure of the Great Spirit.

Manteno also died. And the people did not choose another chief—they looked to White Doe for counsel and guidance. She was their "medicine-man," in case of sickness or accident, and in health their counselor and Queen. Indians from other towns and distant came to her. She cured the sick and healed the lame.

She lived alone in a stone hut, guarded by a wolf and a bear that she had brought up from their babyhood. They followed her footsteps wherever she went, and also, too, came the white doe, fleet of foot, luminous of eye, sensitive, intelligent, seemingly intent on carrying the messages of her mistress.

White Doe, the Indian Queen, with long yellow hair, and the big, mild, yet searching blue eyes, knew her power and exercised it.

Indian braves, young and handsome, came and sat on the grass cross-legged for hours, at a discreet distance from her hut, making love to her in pantomime. They sent her presents rare and precious, of buckskins, tanned soft as velvet, nuggets of silver strung as beads and strings of wampum.

These braves she set to work down in the bottom-lands. It is said that no other person was ever able to set the male Indian to work. But for her the braves built stone houses, planted gardens, and laid stepping-stones across the fords, so that she could walk across dry-shod. The nuggets of silver that they brought her from the mountains she fashioned into an exquisite arrow of silver, sharper at the point than the sharpest flint. For days and weeks and months she worked making the silver arrow.

"What is it for?" the Indians asked.

"It is to help me when all other help is gone," she said.

And the Indians were silent, mystified.

She planted slips of grapes brought from the sunny slopes; these she tended, dug about, trained and trimmed. The wonderful Scuppernong Grape was her own evolution. By care and culture it covered the cabin where she lived, and reached out to an oak a hundred feet beyond.

She showed the Indians how to double their crops of corn, how to grow such melons as the Indian world had never before known.

She taught them that it was much better to work and produce flowers, grain, grapes, and make pictures on the rocks than to roam the woods aimlessly, looking for something to kill.

She told them that the Great Spirit loved people who were kind and useful, and temperate in the use of the juice of the grape and in all other good things. So the Croatoans advanced and grew in intelligence quite beyond any of the other Indian tribes on the Atlantic coast. One day White Doe sat at the door of her cabin, under the great vine where hung the grapes.

She was intently painting a picture on buckskin.

The white doe was nibbling at the bushes only a few feet away.

The gray wolf crouched at her feet suddenly snarled, and the hair on his back arose in wrath.

White Doe looked up, and there at a distance of a hundred feet stood a man—a pale faced man.

He saw the wolf, and stood stock-still. White Doe looked at the man, and suddenly her heart beat fast. She felt the color mounting to her face. She drew her long, yellow hair over her neck and her buckskin dress up at the shoulder. The man motioned for her to come to him. Evidently he saw the wolf and dare not go forward. She arose, pacified the wolf, and slipped forward.

The man had a dark beard, but his complexion told her that they were of the same race.

He spoke to her in English.

She had never before heard a word of the language spoken.

In amazement she listened, and then shook her head.

The man now resorted to the sign language; he made the motions of paddling a canoe, and pointed toward the sea. And then she knew that he had come from far across the sea in a ship.

He took from one of his pockets a chain of gold; and attached to this chain was a little gold locket.

He opened the locket and showed her a picture inside. On the locket was engraved the words, "To Sir Walter Raleigh, from his Queen, Elizabeth."

White Doe saw the inscription, but she could not read it.

The man offered to put the chain and locket about her neck. She stepped back, and the wolf at her heels snarled. She made a motion that the interview was ended and that the man should go to see the Indians whose houses and cabins were but a short distance away.

The man did not go. Instead, he in the universal sign language took off his hat, pressed his hand on his heart, and fell on one knee. He motioned to the East, away—away, away across the sea!

Would she go with him?

Proudly she shook her head, half-smiled and again ordered him to go.

Her manner said plainly that this was her home: She was Queen of the Croatoans—was this not enough?

A shade of anger moved across the man's face. He was used to having his orders obeyed. He moved toward her as if he would seize her. Now it was her turn to stand still. The wolf leaped to her side, and across the intervening space from the cabin lumbered a big black bear.

The man now backed slowly away some ten paces, and then he lifted a gun that lay on the grass where he had left it.

Suddenly a score of white men emerged from the bushes.

There was a flash of fire, a loud explosion, a great volume of white smoke. And the wolf, the bear, and the white doe all fell weltering in their blood.

The wolf was not dead, and with fierce snarls tried desperately to crawl toward the white man. One of the men ran forward and beat its brains out with a club.

The Indians came rushing from their houses.

There was another flash of fire, a cloud of smoke, and the forward Indian fell dead. The rest of the red folks fled in wild alarm. White Doe stood still, her yellow hair blowing in the sunshine. Again the leader of the white men came forward, a smile of triumph on his face. His manner said more plainly than any words could express: "You are in my power. See! I have killed your protectors, your friends. So I can kill you. You must come with me."

He pressed his hand to his heart in sign of love.

The woman backed away from him, her eyes shooting hatred and defiance.

At her girdle hung the silver arrow. Her hand now reached for it.

The man leaped forward and attempted to seize her. His reach fell short, for the woman was quicker and quite as strong as he. She flung him aside. The silver arrow was in her right hand. She held it aloft like a dagger.

The man retreated.

"Coward," she cried in Croatoan. "Coward! It is not for you. It is my last friend—the friend that has been waiting to save me all these years!"

The arrow flashed in the air, and with a terrific lunge went straight to the woman's heart.

She leaped into the air, reeled and fell across the body of the dying doe. And the blood of the two friends intermingled.

SO HERE, THEN, ENDETH THE TALE OF "THE SILVER ARROW," WRITTEN BY ELBERT HUBBARD, AND MADE INTO A BOOK BY THE ROYCROFTERS, AT THEIR SHOPS, WHICH ARE IN EAST AURORA, COUNTY OF ERIE, STATE OF NEW YORK, ANNO DOMINI, NINETEEN HUNDRED THIRTY-ONE, AND SINCE THEIR FOUNDING THE THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR

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Table of Contents

THE SILVER ARROW

THE SILVER ARROW

PART TWO

PART THREE

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