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Osceola the Seminole: or, The Red Fawn of the Flower Land

Chapter Thirty Two
Shadows in the Water

Alone with my thoughts, and these tainted with considerable acerbity. More than one cause contributed to their bitterness. My pleasant purpose thwarted – my heart aching for knowledge – for a renewal of tender ties – distracted with doubts – wearied with protracted suspense.

In addition to these, my mind was harassed by other emotions I experienced disgust at the part I had been playing. I had been made the mouth-piece of chicanery and wrong; aiding conspiracy had been the first act of my warlike career; and although it was not the act of my own will, I felt the disagreeableness of the duty – a sheer disgust in its performance.

Even the loveliness of the night failed to soothe me. Its effect was contrary; a storm would have been more congenial to my spirit.

And it was a lovely night. Both the earth and the air were at peace.

Here and there the sky was fleeced with white cirrhi, but so thinly, that the moon’s disk, passing behind them, appeared to move under a transparent gauze-work of silver, without losing one ray of her effulgence. Her light was resplendent in the extreme; and, glancing from the glabrous leaves of the great laurels, caused the forests to sparkle, as though beset with a million of mirrors. To add to the effect, fire-flies swarmed under the shadows of the trees, their bodies lighting up the dark aisles with a mingled coruscation of red, blue and gold – now flitting in a direct line, now curving, or waving upward and downward, as though moving through the mazes of some intricate cotillon.

In the midst of all this glittering array, lay the little tarn, shining, too, but with the gleam of plated glass – a mirror in its framework of fretted gild.

The atmosphere was redolent of the most agreeable perfumes. The night was cool enough for human comfort, but not chill. Many of the flowers refused to close their corollas – for not all of them were brides of the sun. The moon had its share of the sweets. The sassafras and bay-trees were in blossom, and dispensed their odours around, that, mingling with the aroma of the aniseed and the orange, created a delicious fragrance in the air.

There was a stillness in the atmosphere, but not silence. It is never silent in the southern forests by night. Tree-frogs and cicadas utter their shrillest notes after the sun has gone out of sight, and there is a bird that makes choice melody during the moonlight hours – the famed mimic of the American woods. One, perched upon a tall tree that grew over the edge of the pond, appeared trying to soothe my chafed spirit with his sweet notes.

I heard other sounds – the hum of the soldiery in the fort, mingling with the more distant noises from the Indian camp, now and then some voice louder than the rest, in oath, exclamation, or laughter, broke forth to interrupt the monotonous murmur.

How long should I have to wait the return of the chiefs? It might be an hour, or two hours, or more? I had a partial guide in the moon. They said that Holata would depart before the shining orb went down, or not at all. About two hours, then, would decide the point, and set me free.

I had been standing for half the day. I cared not to keep my feet any longer; and choosing a fragment of rock near the water’s edge, I sat down upon it:

My eyes wandered over the pond. Half of its surface lay in shadow; the other half was silvered by the moonbeams, that, penetrating the pellucid water, rendered visible the white shells and shining pebbles at the bottom. Along the line where the light and darkness met, were outlined several noble palms, whose tall stems and crested crowns appeared stretching towards the nadir of the earth – as though they belonged to another and a brighter firmament beneath my feet. The trees, of which these were but the illusory images, grew upon the summit of a ridge, which, trending along the western side of the pond, intercepted the rays of the moon.

I sat for some time gazing into this counterpart of heaven’s canopy, with my eyes mechanically tracing the great fan-like fronds.

All at once, I was startled at perceiving a new image upon the aqueous reflector. A form, or rather the shadow of one, suddenly appeared among the trunks of the palms. It was upright, and evidently human, though of magnified proportions – beyond a doubt, a human figure, yet not that of a man.

The small head, apparently uncovered, the gentle rounding of the shoulders, the soft undulation of the waist, and the long, loose draping which reached nearly to the ground, convinced me that the shadow was that of a woman.

When I first observed it, it was moving among the stems of the palm-trees; presently it stopped, and for some seconds remained in a fixed attitude. It was then I noted the peculiarities that distinguish the sex.

My first impulse was to turn round, and, if possible, get a sight of the figure that cast this interesting shadow. I was myself on the western edge of the pond, and the ridge was behind me. Facing round I could not see the summit nor yet the palms. Rising to my feet, I still could not see them: a large live-oak, under which I had seated myself, intercepting my view.

I stepped hastily to one side, and then both the outline of the ridge and the palm-trees were before my eyes; but I could see no figure, neither of man nor woman.

I scanned the summit carefully, but no living thing was there; some fronds of the saw-palmetta, standing along the crest, were the only forms I could perceive.

I returned to where I had been seated; and, placing myself as before, again looked upon the water. The palm shadows were there, just as I had left them; but the image was gone.

There was nothing to be astonished at. I did not for a moment believe myself under any delusion. Some one had been upon the ridge – a woman, I supposed – and had passed down under the cover of the trees. This was the natural explanation of what I had seen, and of course contented me.

At the same time, the silent apparition could not fail to arouse my curiosity; and instead of remaining seated, and giving way to dreamy reflections, I rose to my feet, and stood looking and listening with eager expectation.

Who could the woman be? An Indian, of course. It was not probable that a white woman should be in such a place, and at such an hour. Even the peculiar outlines of the shadow were not those that would have been cast by one habited in a garb of civilisation: beyond a doubt, the woman was an Indian.

What was she doing in that solitary place, and alone?

These questions were not so easily answered; and yet there was nothing so remarkable about her presence upon the spot. To the children of the forest, time is not as with us. The hours of the night are as those of the day – often the hours of action or enjoyment. She might have many a purpose in being there. She might be on her way to the pond for water – to take a bath; or it might be some impassioned maiden, who, under the secret shadows of this secluded grove, was keeping assignation with her lover.

A pang, like a poisoned arrow, passed through my heart: “might it be Maümee?”

The unpleasantness which this conjecture caused me is indescribable. I had been all day the victim of dire suspicions, arising from some half-dozen words, casually dropped from the lips of a young officer, and which I had chanced to overhear. They had reference to a beautiful girl among the Indians, apparently well-known at the fort; and I noticed that the tone of the young fellow was that of one either triumphant or boasting. I listened attentively to every word, and watched not only the countenance of the speaker, but those of his auditory – to make out in which of the two categories I should place him. His vanity appeared to have had some sacrifice made to it – at least by his own statement; and his listeners, or most of them, agreed to concede to him the happiness of a bonne fortune. There was no name given – no hint that would enable me to connect the subject of the conversation with that of my own thoughts; but that the girl was an Indian, and a “beauty,” were points, that my jealous heart almost accepted as sufficient for identification.

I might easily have become satisfied. A word, a simple question, would have procured me the knowledge I longed for; and yet I dared not say that word. I preferred passing long hours – a whole day – upon the rack of uncertainty and suspicion.

Thus, then, was I prepared for the painful conjectures that sprang into my thoughts on beholding that mirrored form.

The pain was of short duration; almost instantaneous was the relief. A shadowy figure was seen gliding around the edge of the pond; it emerged into the open moonlight, not six paces from where I stood. I had a full and distinct view of it. It was a woman – an Indian woman. It was not Maümee.

Chapter Thirty Three
Haj-Ewa

I saw before me a woman of middle age – somewhere between thirty and forty – a large woman, who once possessed beauty – beauty that had been abused. She was the wreck of a grand loveliness, whose outlines could not be effaced – like the statue of some Grecian goddess, broken by Vandal hands, but whose very fragments are things of priceless value.

Not that her charms had departed. There are men who affect to admire this ripe maturity; to them, she would have been a thing of peerless splendour. Time had made no inroad upon those large rounded arms, none upon the elliptical outlines of that noble bust. I could judge of this – for it was before my eyes, in the bright moonlight, nude, from neck to waist, as in the hour of infancy. Alone the black hair, hanging in wild dishevelment over the shoulders, formed a partial shrouding. Nor had time laid a finger upon this: amidst all that profusion of rich raven clusters, not a strand of silver could be detected.

Time could not affect, nor had it, that fine facial outline. The moulding of the chin; the oval of those lips; the aquiline nose, with its delicate spirally curved nostril; the high, smooth front; the eye – the eye – what is it? why that unearthly flash? that wild unmeaning glance? Ha! that eye – Merciful heavens! the woman is mad!

Alas! it was true – she was mad. Her glance would have satisfied even a casual observer, that reason was no longer upon its throne. But I needed not to look at her eye; I knew the story of her misfortunes, of her wrongs. It was not the first time I had looked upon that womanly form – more than once I had stood face to face with Haj-Ewa (Note 1), the mad queen of the Micosaucs.

Beautiful as she was, I might have felt fear at her presence – still worse than fear, I might have been terrified or awed – the more so on perceiving that her necklace was a green serpent; that the girdle around her waist, that glittered so conspicuously in the light of the moon, was the body of an enormous rattlesnake, living and writhing!

Yes, both were alive – the smaller serpent wound about her neck, with its head resting upon her bosom; the more dangerous reptile knotted around her waist, its vertebrated tail hanging by her side, while its head, held in her hand, protruding through her fingers, exhibited a pair of eyes that scintillated like diamonds.

On the head of Haj-Ewa was no other covering than that which nature had provided for it; but those thick black clusters afforded ample protection against sun and storm. On her feet she wore moccasins, but those were hidden by the long “hunna,” that reached to the ground. This was the only garment she wore. It was profusely adorned with beads and embroidery – with the bright plumage of the green parroquet – the skin of the summer-duck, and the for of various wild animals. It was fastened round her waist, though not by the girdle already described.

Truly, I might have felt terror, had this singular appearance been new to me. But I had seen all before – the green snake, and the crotalus, the long hanging tresses, the wild flash of that maniac eye – all before, all harmless, all innocuous – at least to me. I knew it, and had no fear.

“Haj-Ewa!” I called out, as she advanced to where I was standing.

“I-e-ela!” (an expression of astonishment, usually lengthened out into a sort of drawl) exclaimed she with a show of surprise.

“Young Randolph! war-chief among the pale-faces! You have not then forgotten poor Haj-Ewa?”

“No, Ewa, I have not. What seek you here?”

“Yourself, little mico.”

“Seek me?”

“No – I have found you.”

“And what want you with me?”

“Only to save your life, your young of life, pretty mico – your fair life – your precious life – ah! precious to her, poor bird of the forest! Ah! there was one precious to me – long, long ago. Ho, ho, ho!

 
“O why did I trust in a pale-faced lover?
Ho, ho, ho! (Literally, Yes, yes, yes!)
Why did I meet him in the wild woods’ cover?
Ho, ho, ho!
Why did I list to his lying tongue,
That poisoned my heart when my life was young?
Ho, ho, ho!
 

“Down, chitta mico!”¹⁴ she cried, interrupting the strain, and addressing herself to the rattlesnake, that at my presence had protruded his head, and was making demonstrations of rage – “down, great king of the serpents! ’tis a friend, though in the garb of an enemy – quiet, or I crush your head!”

“I-e-ela!” she exclaimed again, as if struck by some new thought; “I waste time with my old songs; he is gone, he is gone! they cannot bring him back. Now, young mico, what came I for? what came I for?”

As she uttered these interrogatives, she raised her hand to her head, as if to assist her memory.

“Oh! now I remember. Hulwak (it is bad). I lose time. You may be killed, young mico – you may be killed, and then – Go! begone, begone, begone! back to the topekee (fort). Shut yourself up; keep among your people: do not stray from your blue soldiers; do not wander in the woods! Your life is in danger.”

All this was spoken in a tone of earnestness that astonished me. More than astonished, I began to feel some slight alarm, since I had not forgotten the attempted assassination of yesterday. Moreover, I knew that there were periods when this singular woman was not positively insane. She had her lucid intervals, during which she both talked and acted rationally, and often with extraordinary intelligence. This might be one of those intervals. She might be privy to some scheme against my life, and had come, as she alleged, to defeat it.

But who was my enemy or enemies? and how could she have known of their design?

In order to ascertain this, I said to her:

“I have no enemy, Ewa; why should my life be in danger?”

“I tell you, pretty mico, it is – you have enemies. I-e-ela! you do not know it?”

“I never wronged a red man in my life.”

“Red – did I say red man? Cooree (boy), pretty Randolph, there is not a red man in all the land of the Seminoles that would pluck a hair from your head. Oh! if they did, what would say the Rising Sun? He would consume them like a forest fire. Fear not the red men – your enemies are not of that colour.”

“Ha! not red men? What, then?”

“Some white – some yellow.”

“Nonsense, Ewa! I have never given a white man cause to be my enemy.”

“Chepawnee (fawn) you are but a young fawn, whose mother has not told it of the savage beasts that roam the forest. There are wicked men who are enemies without a cause. There are some who seek your life, though you never did them wrong.”

“But who are they? And for what reason?”

“Do not ask, chepawnee! There is not time. Enough if I tell you, you are owner of a rich plantation, where black men make the blue dye. You have a fair sister – very fair. Is she not like a beam from yonder moon? And I was fair once – so he said. Ah! it is bad to be beautiful Ho, ho, ho!

 
“Why did I trust in a pale-faced lover?
Ho, ho, ho! Why did I meet him —
 

“Hulwak!” she exclaimed, again suddenly breaking off the strain: “I am mad; but I remember. Go! begone! I tell you, go: you are but an echochee (fawn), and the hunters are upon your trail. Back to the topekee – go! go!”

“I cannot, Ewa; I am here for a purpose; I must remain till some one comes.”

“Till some one comes! hulwak! they will come soon.”

“Who?”

“Your enemies – they who would kill you; and then the pretty doe will bleed – her poor heart will bleed: she will go mad – she will be like Haj-Ewa.”

“Whom do you speak of?”

“Of – Hush! hush! hush! It is too late – they come – they come! see their shadows upon the water!”

I looked, as Haj-Ewa pointed. Sure enough there were shadows upon the pond, just where I had seen hers. They were the figures of men – four of them. They were moving among the palm-trees, and along the ridge.

In a few seconds the shadows disappeared. They who had been causing them had descended the slope, and entered among the timber.

“It is too late now,” whispered the maniac, evidently at that moment in full possession of her intellect. “You dare not go out into the open woods. They would see you – you must stay in the thicket. There!” continued she, grasping me by the wrist, and, with a powerful jerk, bringing me close to the trunk of the live-oak: “this is your only chance. Quick – ascend! Conceal yourself among the moss. Be silent – stir not till I return. Hinklas!” (It is good – it is well.)

And so saying, my strange counsellor stepped back under the shadow of the tree; and, gliding into the umbrageous covert of the grove, disappeared from my sight.

I had followed her directions, and was now ensconced upon one of the great limbs of the live-oak – perfectly hidden from the eyes of any one below by festoons of the silvery tillandsia. These, hanging from branches still higher up, draped around me like a set of gauze curtains, and completely enveloped my whole body; while I myself had a view of the pond – at least, that side of it on which the moon was shining – by means of a small opening between the leaves.

At first I fancied I was playing a very ridiculous rôle. The story about enemies, and my life being in danger, might, after all, be nothing more than some crazy fancy of the poor maniac’s brain. The men, whose shadows I had seen, might be the chiefs on their return. They would reach the ground where I had appointed to meet them, and not finding me there, would go back. What kind of report should I carry to head-quarters? The thing was ridiculous enough – and for me, the result might be worse than ridiculous.

Under these reflections, I felt strongly inclined to descend, and meet the men – whoever they might be – face to face.

Other reflections, however, hindered me. The chiefs were only two– there were four shadows. True, the chiefs might be accompanied by some of their followers – for better security to themselves on such a traitorous mission – but I had noticed, as the shadows were passing over the pond – and notwithstanding the rapidity with which they moved – that the figures were not those of Indians. I observed no hanging drapery, nor plumes. On the contrary, I fancied there were hats upon their heads, such as are worn only by white men. It was the observation of this peculiarity that made me so ready to yield obedience to the solicitations of Haj-ewa.

Other circumstances had not failed to impress me: the strange assertions made by the Indian woman – her knowledge of events, and the odd allusions to well-known persons – the affair of yesterday: all these, commingling in my mind, had the effect of determining me to remain upon my perch, at least for some minutes longer. I might be relieved from my unpleasant position sooner than I expected.

Without motion, almost without breathing, I kept my seat, my eyes carefully watching, and ears keenly bent to catch every sound.

My suspense was brief. The acuteness of my eyes was rewarded by a sight, and my ears by a tale, that caused my flesh to creep, and the blood to run cold in my veins. In five minutes’ time, I was inducted into a belief in the wickedness of the human heart, exceeding in enormity all that I had ever read or heard of.

Four demons filed before me – demons, beyond a doubt: their looks, which I noted well – their words, which I heard – their gestures, which I saw – their designs, with which I in that hour became acquainted – fully entitled them to the appellation.

They were passing around the pond. I saw their faces, one after another, as they emerged into the moonlight.

Foremost appeared the pale, thin visage of Arens Ringgold; next, the sinister aquiline features of Spence; and, after him, the broad brutal face of the bully Williams.

There were four– who was the fourth?

“Am I dreaming? – Do my eyes deceive me? Is it real? Is it an illusion? Are my senses gone astray – or is it only a resemblance, a counterpart? No – no – no! It is no counterpart, but the man himself! – that black curling hair, that tawny skin, the form, the gait – all, all are his. O God! it is Yellow Jake!”