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Show Page 247 heart, marvelled that I did not cry out for mercy for the man whose people I professed to care about. Yet I soon realized why I stood mute. While I felt an understanding for the Indians of Virginia as a people, for this man I felt nothing more than hatred, as I would feel for any man who murdered my friend, be he red or white. Deep in my heart, I had been longing for revenge. As Camohan spun slowly in the winter breeze, this thirst was quenched and the black pool of hatred that stood in the pit of my stomach drained away and a feeling of peace took its place. At last I turned and went home, satisfied that that day justice had been served. Anne, Cisly, Francis, Margaret, Walter, Twig. All were avenged. Later, as I went about preparing for the evening meal, I remembered it was I who sent Camohan to his death. Had I not asked after him, Captain Pierce would not have known Camohan played a part in the killings at Martin's Hundred, and my subsequent testimony would not have been heard. I felt a brief prick of pain as guilt smote my conscience. That fled quickly and in its place grew a small sprig of satisfaction. But as I readied myself for bed that night, I prayed God to forgive me for my part in that sorrowful drama. Six days after Chanco was sent back to Opitchapan, he returned, bringing with him not the twenty or so prisoners |
