Smith himself, when he came in and out of Jamestown, was busy preventing efforts of both Ratcliffe and Wingfield to abandon the country. He was not yet even the nominal leader of these people but there was a bold streak in him that darted ahead of the herd. Nothing stumped him--not even a huge tree sprawled in the Chickahominy River which halted his boat. Leaving seven of his men in that, he needled his way recklessly ahead in a canoe with two companions and Indian guides, sailing rashly right into a trap. Two hundred warriors were hunting deer with crafty Opechancanough, brother and heir to the chief. They had counted on trapping a dozen of the timid creatures within a rim of fire, where their arrows would settle matters briefly; but when they trapped the cockiest of all palefaces instead, they were exultant. They had not expected this, although they scorned the English efforts to hunt--noisy, boasting men that they were. Indians let only their arrows clip the quiet air, tipping silently, natural Nimrods of these woods, where no white man was at home, nor welcome. They had first captured a hapless Englishman who had strayed from the barge against Smith's orders, and who did not help matters by tattling that Smith was at large. They scraped off his skin with mussel shells, and roasted him alive and when they found Smith and his friends, they did away with all but the leader with similar unscrupulousness. Resting on their laurels, they now took their time with him as much for their own amusement as his torment. They were amazed at the nerve with which he defended himself to the end. First, he thrust his Indian guide in front of him as a shield, attaching him to his right arm with a garter, then he felled several Indians before he sank waist deep in the morass like a fly in glue, flapping his wings hopefully until grounded. "Your men and your canoe have gone. Hand over your arms if you prefer to survive them," taunted the chief. They tied him to a tree, shooting twenty arrows his way, none of which did him much harm. In the nick of time, Smith now pulled a trick from his sleeve. When he held up a compass in an ivory case, the naïve onlookers blinked at the tiny magic arrow under a transparent crust of glass. Wonderful how you could not feel that arrow with your fingers, yet it went on pointing its stubborn way just like its owner! "This is a compass. It points North, and that is the way it told me to go until you stopped me. It shows me the way out of any dilemma anywhere in the world, and I have been to most places." "Not this one, my clever Captain Smith," reminded Opechancanough, who knew he had him now. Except that he was entertaining his captors, he would not be dangling this mysterious toy. This moment was amusing to all around but Smith himself. Still a humorous glint in Smith's eye warned him not to be so sure about that. "And where is North?" wondered the chief, whose hungry mind got the better of his discretion.