Powhatan's Chimney

— When one makes an assertion, the reason for it, if not apparent, is demanded ; therefore, when I announce that the ruin of a colossal stone chimney, built for the old Indian chief Powhatan, is heaped to-day upon a little bay in Tidewater, Virginia, the question arises, “ Can you prove it ? ”

John Smith himself states that he built on Werowocomoco a house for Powhatan. Werowocomoco he describes as a little bay twenty miles below the forks of York River, into which three creeks empty. William Stith mentions the same fact. Later, Charles Campbell, after careful search and diligent study of the geography of the country, established the fact that the present Timber Neck Bay is Werowocomoco. Myriads of oyster - shells upon the shore suggested an Indian settlement, and just on the crest of a gentle slope an abnormal ancient stone chimney stood, a solemn witness of stupendous changes which have borne upon this Western World.

“ Here is the exact spot of the Savage King’s house,” says Campbell, “ and beyond the shadow of a doubt this is Powhatan’s Chimney.” York River, the Indian’s Pamunkey, makes a bold, swift run of about thirty miles, then is lost in Chesapeake Bay. On its way to the sea, it takes up the waters of Werowocomoco just above Yorktown. This bay was the environment of the childhood of Pocahontas. Here, most likely, she rescued Smith ; the bamboo vines, as they climb and sway about the shore, whisper of a maiden’s gentleness and her father’s hate.

On the bluff overhanging the bay the royal wigwam stood. The house itself fell long ago. There is no chronicle of it except that it was built. The chimney stood like a frowning sentinel. The ruin speaks of troublous times, when John Smith, white man of flint, met a savage made of kindred stuff, and by enlightened cunning overmastered the Indian’s craftiness and treachery. Powhatan, the sour-faced Wahunsonacock, looms up above coeval savage heroes for wily scheming, for magnificent courage and barbaric state. He and John Smith constantly had questions at issue. Powhatan asked Smith to build him a house ; Smith’s cry was generally, “ Corn ! more corn ! ” for what he carefully husbanded the colonists ruthlessly squandered. “ If you will give me so much corn,” said Smith, “ I will build you a house, a good house such as the white man lives in.” The bargain was sealed. Smith sent from Jamestown to Werowocomoco some Englishmen and four Dutchmen to build the house. What architecture the house displayed we do not know, but the chimney was enormous in breadth, unlike any other one ever saw. Eighteen feet high, it was ten feet and a half wide, and had a double flue. The fireplace was eight feet wide, and could easily hold a dinner-table for a company of eight. We can fancy the brilliant light that shone from it in the even-time, when, filled with dry logs, it threw a glow upon Powhatan’s white fur robes and shining beads and eagle-feather coronet.

The chimney was built of a sort of concrete, composed chiefly of shells, which abounded in the banks of York River, and was almost as lasting as the solid rock. While the Dutchmen were building the chimney in 1608, John Smith had one of his most celebrated conferences with Powhatan. He started from Jamestown in midwinter, urged against the journey by most of the colonists. The corn had not been paid, and he went for it. The little bay was frozen far from shore ; the rude tools of the perfidious Dutchmen rung out across the ice. Smith’s boats had to stop, but he and a few of his men plunged into the icy water and waded to shore.

Then ensued the famous controversy. Smith fought old Powhatan with his own weapons of trickery and cunning and absolute doggedness. He won the battle, and went away with the corn. So the chimney was a witness of crude diplomacy; not of nation against nation, but man against man, savage chief against fearless Englishman, Powhatan against John Smith.

The writer of this sketch lived on an old colonial land grant across the little bay opposite the chimney. The vast plantation barred social intercourse ; there was not much to do, and the curious things of past ages held a wonderful fascination. The old chimney was like a solemn echo from the Nation’s Cradle. It often sounded the names of Smith, of Powhatan and Pocahontas.

Standing on the hill, one could fancy he heard the songs and dances of the Indian maidens and the war-whoop of the braves. Grim as a warrior the old chimney stood, and told a story, year after year, century after century. It had no symmetry or beauty ; it was nothing but a homely, huge chimney seamed with cracks and fissures. It had a rude pathos of its own. It preached a rough sermon. Historians, antiquarians, and curious tourists visited it periodically ; but neither private individuals, nor the national government, nor Virginia raised a finger to preserve one of the most interesting antiquities of this New World, — indeed, the oldest relic of English construction. There was shame in its fall. The relichunter, unnoticed in the quiet neighborhood, hacked away at it unmolested. Children with hammers, year after year, drove great pieces from its foundation. The old farmer, who had built a mean wooden house against the chimney, moved away, and at last in 1892 the chimney fell. Now a pile of mangled rock tells a pitiful story. What shall we do with it ?

As it has fallen, so shall it lie ?