And all that winter, too, The smoke eddied From many a huge canoe, Hollowed by flame from cypress trees That with stone ax and fire The Sewee shaped to the good shape Of his desire. So when next spring The traders came from Charles Town, Bringing a gift of blankets from the king, The Sewees would not trade a pelt-- Saying, "We go to see The Great White Father in his own tepee-- Heap, heap much rum!" And then they passed the pipe of peace, And puffed it, and looked glum. The traders thought the redskins must be daft; They saw the huge canoes, And, wondering at their use, Asked, "What will you do with these?" And the chief pointed east across the seas; And then the pale-face laughed. And yet-- There was a story told By one of Black Beard's men Who had done evil things for gold, That one morning, out at sea, The fog made a sudden lift, And from the high poop, looking through the rift, He saw Twenty canoes, each with six warriors, Paddling straight toward the rising sun, Where the wind made a flaw-- He swore he saw And counted twenty hulls, Circled about by screaming gulls-- Then such a storm came down That some prayed on that hellion ship, But he did not-- He was not born to drown. This was the tale Told with much bluster, Over ale And oaths, At Charles Town. He _swore_ he saw the Indians in the dawn, And _he'd be danged!_ _And by Christ's Mother--_ _Take his rings in pawn!_ But he was hanged With poor Stede Bonnet, later on. H.A. [3] See the note at the back of the book. LA FAYETTE LANDS[4] That evening, gathered on the vessel's poop, They saw the glimmering land, And far lights moved there, As once Columbus saw them, winking, strange; Around the ship two darkies in a small canoe Paddled and grinned, and held up silver fish. Over the high ship's tumble-home A pinnace slid, Slow, lowered from the squealing davit-ropes, And from a port a-square with lantern light, The little, leather trunks were passed, Ironbound and quaint; while down the vessel's side With voluble advice, _bon voyage_ and _au revoir_, The chatting Frenchmen came-- Click-clap of rapiers clipping on hard boots, Cocked hats and merry eyes. The great ship backs its yards, With drooping sails, await, A spider-web of spars and lantern-lights, While like a pilot shark, the slim canoe, A V-shaped ripple wrinkling from its jaws, Slides noiselessly across the swells, Leading the swinging boat's crew to the beach; And all the world slides up-- And then the stars slide down-- As ocean breathes; while evening falls, And destiny is being rowed ashore.