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

Chapter Ninety Three
Devils or Angels

Was I enduring the tortures of the future world? Were these its fiends that grinned and jibbered around me? See! they scatter and fall back! Some one approaches who can command them. Pluto himself? No; it is a woman – a woman here? – is it Proserpine? If a woman, surely she will have mercy upon me! Vain hope! There is no mercy in hell. Oh, my brain! Horror! horror!

There are women – these are women – they look not fiends! No, they are angels! Would they were angels of mercy!

But they are. See! one interferes with the fire. With her foot she dashes it back, scattering the fagots in furious haste. Who is she? If I were alive, I would call her Haj-Ewa; but dead, it must be her spirit below.

But there is another. Ha! another, younger and fairer. If they be angels, this must be the loveliest in heaven. It is the spirit of Maümee!

How comes she in this horrid place among fiends? It is not the abode for her. She was guilty of do crime that should send her here.

Where am I? Have I been dreaming? I was on fire just now – only my brain it was that was burning; my body was cold enough – where am I?

Who are you, that stand over me, pouring coolness upon my head? Are you not Haj-Ewa, the mad queen?

Whose soft fingers are those I feel playing upon my temples? Oh – the exquisite pleasure imparted by their touch! Bend down, that I may look upon your face, and thank you – “Maümee! Maümee!”

Then I am not dead. I live. I am saved!

It was Haj-Ewa, and not her spirit. It was Maümee herself – whose beautiful, brilliant eyes were looking into mine. No wonder I had believed it to be an angel.

“Carajo!” sounded a voice, that appeared hoarse with rage. “Remove those women! – pile back the fires. Away, mad queen! – go back to your tribe! these my captives – your chief no claim —Carrambo! – you not interfere; pile back the fires!”

“Yamassees!” cried Haj-Ewa, advancing towards the Indians; “Obey him not! or dread the wrath of Wykomé! His spirit will be angry, and follow you in vengeance. Wherever you go the chitta mico will be on your path, and its rattle in your ears. Hulwak! It will bite your heel as you wander in the woods. Speak I not truth, thou king of the Serpents?”

As she uttered the interrogatory, she raised the rattlesnake in her hands, holding it so that it might be distinctly seen by those whom she addressed. The reptile hissed, accompanying the sibilation with a sharp “skirr” of its tail. Who could doubt that it was an answer in the affirmative?

Not the Yamassees, who stood awe-bound and trembling in the presence of the mighty sorceress.

“And you, black runaways and renegades,” she continued to the negro allies – “you who have no god, and fear not Wykomé – dare to rebuild the fires – dare to lift one fagot – and you shall take the place of your captives. A greater than yon yellow monster, your chief, will soon be on the ground. Hinklas! Ho! yonder the Rising Sun! he comes – he comes!”

As she ceased speaking, the hoof-strokes of a horse echoed through the glade, and a hundred voices simultaneously raised the shout: “Osceola! Osceola!” That cry was grateful to my ears. Though already rescued, I had begun to fear it might prove only a short relief. Our delivery from death was still far from certain – our advocates were but weak women. The mulatto king, in the midst of his fierce satellites, would scarce have yielded to their demands. Alike disregarded would have been their entreaties. The fire would have been re-kindled, and the execution carried out to its end.

In all probability this would have been the event, had not Osceola in good time arrived upon the ground.

His appearance, and the sound of his voice, at once reassured me. Under his protection we had nothing more to fear, and a soft voice whispered in my ear that he came as our deliverer.

His errand was soon made manifest. Drawing bridle, he halted near the middle of the camp, directly in front of us. I saw him dismount from his fine black horse – like himself, splendidly caparisoned – and handing the reins to a bystander, he came walking towards us. His port was superb – his costume brilliantly picturesque; and once more, I beheld those three ostrich-plumes – the real ones; that had played such a part in my suspicious fancy.

When near the spot, he stopped, and gazed inquiringly towards us. He might have smiled at our absurd situation, but his countenance betrayed no signs of levity. On the contrary, it was serious and sympathetic. I fancied it was sad.

For some moments he stood in a fixed attitude, without saying a word. His eyes wandered from one to the other – my fellow-victim and myself; as if endeavouring to distinguish us. No easy task. Smoke, sweat and ashes, must have rendered us extremely alike, and both difficult of identification.

At this moment, Maümee glided up to him, whispered a word in his ear, and returning again, knelt over me, and chafed my temples with her soft hands.

With the exception of the young chief himself, no one heard what his sister had said; but upon him her words appeared to produce an instantaneous effect. A change passed over his countenance. The look of sadness gave place to one of furious wrath; and turning suddenly to the yellow king, he hissed out the word “Fiend!”

For some seconds he spoke no more, but stood gazing upon the mulatto, as though he would annihilate him by his look. The latter quailed under the conquering glance, and trembled like a leaf, but made no answer.

“Fiend and villain!” continued Osceola, without changing either tone or attitude. “Is this the way you have carried out my orders? Are these the captives I commanded you to take? Vile runaway of a slave! who authorised you to inflict the fiery torture? Who taught you? Not the Seminoles, whose name you have adopted and disgraced. By the spirit of Wykomé! but that I have sworn never to torture a foe, I should place you where these now stand, and burn your body to ashes! From my sight – begone! No – stay where you are. On second thoughts, I may need you.” And with this odd ending to his speech, the young chief turned upon his heel, and came walking towards us.

The mulatto did not vouchsafe a reply, though his looks were full of vengeance. Once, during the flagellation, I thought I noticed him turn his eyes towards his ferocious followers, as if to invoke their interference.

But these knew that Osceola was not alone. As he came up, the trampling of a large troop had been heard, and it was evident that his warriors were in the woods not far distant. A single yo-ho-ehee, in the well-known voice of their chief, would bring them upon the ground before its echoes had died.

The yellow king seemed himself to be aware of their proximity. Hence it was that he replied not. A word at that minute might have proved his last; and with a sulky frown upon his face, he remained silent.

“Release them!” said Osceola, addressing the ci-devant diggers; “and be careful how you handle your spades.”

“Randolph!” he continued, bending over me; “I fear I have scarce been in time. I was for off when I heard of this, and have ridden hard. You have been wounded – are you ill hurt?”

I attempted to express my gratitude, and assure him I was not much injured; but my voice was so freak and hoarse as to be hardly intelligible. It grew stronger, however, as those fair fingers administered the refreshing draught, and we were soon conversing freely.

Both of us were quickly “unearthed,” and with free limbs stood once more upon the open ground. My first thoughts were to rush towards my sister, when, to my surprise, I was restrained by the chief.

“Patience,” said he; “not yet, not yet – Maümee will go and assure her of your safety. See! she knows it already! Go, Maümee! Tell Miss Randolph, her brother is safe! and will come presently. But she must remain where she is, only for a little while. Go, sister, and cheer her.”

Turning to me, he added in a whisper; “She has been placed there for a purpose – you shall see. Come with me – I shall show you a spectacle that may astonish you – there is not a moment to be lost; I hear the signal from my spies. A minute more, and we are too late – come! come!”

Without opposing a word, I hastened after the chief, who walked rapidly towards the nearest edge of the woods.

He entered the timber, but went no farther. When fairly under cover of the thick foliage, he stopped, turned round, and stood facing towards the camp.

Obedient to a sign, I imitated his example.

Chapter Ninety Four
The End of Arens Ringgold

I had not the slightest idea of the chief’s intention, or what was the nature of the spectacle I had been promised. Somewhat impatient, I questioned him.

“A new way of winning a mistress,” said he, with a smile.

“But who is the lover? – who to be the mistress?” I inquired.

“Patience, Randolph, and you shall see. Oh! it is a rare experiment – a most cunning plot, and would be laughable were it not for the tragedy mixed up with it. You shall see. But for a faithful friend, I should not have known of it, and would not have been here to witness it. For my presence and your life, as it now appears – more still, perhaps, the safety of your sister – you are indebted to Haj-Ewa.”

“Noble woman!”

“Hist! they are near – I hear the tread of hoofs. One – two – three. It must be they – yes – yonder. See!”

I looked in the direction pointed out, a small party of horsemen – half a dozen in all – was seen emerging from the timber, and riding with a brush into the open ground. As soon as they were fairly uncovered, they spurred their horses to a gallop, and with loud yells dashed rapidly into the midst of the camp. On reaching this point they fired their pieces – apparently into the air – and then continuing their shouts, rode on.

I saw that they were white men, and this surprised me, but what astonished me still more, was that I knew them. At least I knew their faces, and recognised the men as some of the most worthless scamps of our own settlement.

A third surprise awaited me, on looking more narrowly at their leader. Him I knew well. Again it was Arens Ringgold.

I had not time to recover from the third surprise, when still a fourth was before me. The men of the camp – both negroes and Yamassees – appeared terrified at this puny attack, and scattering off, hid themselves in the bushes. They yelled loudly enough, and some fired their guns as they retreated; but, like the attacking party, their shots appeared directed into the air! Mystery of mysteries! what could it mean?

I was about to inquire once more, when I observed that my companion was occupied with his own affairs, and did not desire to be disturbed. I saw that he was looking to his rifle, as if examining the sights.

Glancing back into the glade, I saw that Ringgold had advanced close to where my sister was seated, and was just halting in front of the group. I heard him address her by name, and pronounce some phrase of congratulation. He appeared about to dismount with the design of approaching her on foot, while his men, still upon horseback, were galloping through the camp, huzzaing fiercely and firing pistols through the air.

“His hour is come,” muttered Osceola, as he glided past me; “a fate deserved and long delayed – it is come at last,” and with these words, he stepped forth into the open ground.

I saw him raise his piece to the level, its muzzle pointed towards Ringgold, and the instant after, the report rang over the camp.

The shrill “Car-ha-queené” pealed from his lips, as the planter’s horse sprang forwards with an empty saddle, and the rider himself was seen struggling upon the grass.

The others uttered a terrific cry, and with fear and astonishment depicted in their looks, galloped back into the bushes – without waiting to exchange a word with their wounded leader, or a shot with the man who had wounded him.

“My aim has not been true,” said Osceola, with singular coolness; “he still lives. I have received much wrong from him and his – ay, very much wrong – or I might spare his wretched life. But no – my vow must be kept – he must die!”

As he said this he, rushed after Ringgold, who had regained his feet, and was making towards the bushes, as with a hope of escape.

A wild scream came from the terrified wretch, as he saw the avenger at his heels. It was the last time his voice was heard.

In a few bounds Osceola was by his side – the long blade glittered for an instant in the air – and the downward blow was given, so rapidly, that the stroke could scarce be perceived.

The blow was instantaneously fatal. The knees of the wounded man suddenly bent beneath him, and he sank lifeless on the spot where he had been struck – his body after death remaining doubled up as it had fallen.

“The fourth and last of my enemies,” said Osceola, as he returned to where I stood; “the last of those who deserved my vengeance, and against whom I had vowed it.”

“Scott?” I inquired.

“He was the third – he was killed yesterday, and by this hand. Hitherto I have fought for revenge – I have had it – I have slain many of your people – I have had full satisfaction, and henceforth – ”

The speaker made a long pause.

“Henceforth?” I mechanically inquired.

“I care but little how soon they kill me.”

As Osceola uttered these strange words, he sank down upon a prostrate trunk, covering his face with his hands. I saw that he did not expect a reply.

There was a sadness in his tone, as though some deep sorrow lay upon his heart, that could neither be controlled nor comforted. I had noticed it before; and thinking he would rather be left to himself, I walked silently away.

A few moments after I held my dear sister in my arms, while Jake was comforting Viola in his black embraces.

His old rival was no longer near. During the sham attack he had imitated his followers, and disappeared from the field; but though most of the latter soon returned, the yellow king, when sought for, was not to be found in the camp. His absence roused the suspicions of Osceola, who was now once more in action. By a signal his warriors were summoned; and came galloping up. Several were instantly dispatched in search of the missing chief, but after a while these came back without having found any traces of him. One only seemed to have discovered a clue to his disappearance. The followers of Ringgold consisted of only five men.

The Indian had gone for some distance on the path by which they had retreated. Instead of five, there were six sets of horse tracks upon the trail.

The report appeared to produce an unpleasant impression upon the mind of Osceola. Fresh scouts were sent forth, with orders to bring back the mulatto, living or dead.

The stern command proved that there were strong doubts about the fealty of the Yellow Chief, and the warriors of Osceola appeared to share the suspicions of their leader.

The patriot party had suffered from defections of late. Some of the smaller clans, wearied of fighting, and wasted by a long season of famine, had followed the example of the tribe Omatla, and delivered themselves up at the forts. Though in the battles hitherto fought, the Indians had generally been successful, they knew that their white foemen far outnumbered them, and that in the end the latter must triumph. The spirit of revenge, for wrongs long endured, had stimulated them at the first; but they had obtained full measure of vengeance, and were content. Love of country – attachment to their old homes – mere patriotism was now balanced against the dread of almost complete annihilation. The latter weighed heaviest in the scale.

The war spirit was no longer in the ascendant. Perhaps at this time had overtures of peace been made, the Indians would have laid down their arms, and consented to the removal. Even Osceola could scarce have prevented their acceptance of the conditions, and it was doubted whether he would have made the attempt.

Gifted with genius, with full knowledge of the strength and character of his enemies, he must have foreseen the disasters that were yet to befall his followers and his nation. It could not be otherwise.

Was it a gloomy forecast of the future that imparted to him that melancholy air, now observable both in his words and acts? Was it this, or was there a still deeper sorrow – the anguish of a hopeless passion – the drear heart-longing for a love he might never obtain?

To me it was a moment of strong emotions, as the young chief approached the spot where my sister was seated. Even then was I the victim of unhappy suspicions, and with eager scrutiny I scanned the countenances of both.

Surely I was wrong. On neither could I detect a trace of aught that should give me uneasiness. The bearing of the chief was simply gallant and respectful. The looks of my sister were but the expressions of a fervent gratitude. Osceola spoke first.

“I have to ask your forgiveness, Miss Randolph, for the scene you have been forced to witness; but I could not permit this man to escape. Lady, he was your greatest enemy, as he has been ours. Through the cooperation of the mulatto, he had planned this ingenious deception, with the design of inducing you to become his wife; but failing in this, the mask would have been thrown off, and you – I need not give words to his fool intent. It is fortunate I arrived in time.”

“Brave chief!” exclaimed Virginia – “twice have you preserved the lives of my brother and myself – more than our lives. We have neither words nor power to thank you. I can offer only this poor token to prove my gratitude.”

As she said this, she advanced towards the chief, and handed him a folded parchment, which she had drawn from her bosom.

Osceola at once recognised the document. It was the title deeds of his patrimonial estate.

“Thanks, thanks!” he replied, while a sad smile played over his features. “It is, indeed, an act of disinterested friendship. Alas! it has come too late. She who so much desired to possess this precious paper, who so much longed to return to that once loved home, is no more. My mother is dead. On yesternight her spirit passed away.”

It was news even to Maümee, who, bursting into a wild paroxysm of grief, fell upon the neck of my sister. Their arms became entwined, and both wept – their tears mingling as they fell.

There was silence, broken only by the sobbing of the two girls and at intervals the voice of Virginia murmuring words of consolation. Osceola himself appeared too much affected to speak.

After a while, the chief aroused himself from his sorrowing attitude.

“Come, Randolph!” said he – “we must not dwell on the past, while such a doubtful future is before us. You must go back to your home and rebuild it. You have lost only a house. Your rich lands still remain, and your negroes will be restored to you. I have given orders; they are already on the way. This is no place for her,” and he nodded towards Virginia. “You need not stay your departure another moment. Horses are ready for you; I myself will conduct you to the borders, and beyond that you have no longer an enemy to fear.”

As he pronounced the last words, he looked significantly towards the body of the planter, still lying near the edge of the woods. I understood his meaning, but made no reply.

“And she,” I said – “the forest is a rude home, especially in such times – may she go with us?”

My words had reference to Maümee. The chief grasped my hand and held it with earnest pressure. With joy I beheld gratitude sparkling in his eye.

“Thanks!” he exclaimed, “thanks for that friendly offer. It was the very favour I would have asked. You speak true; the trees must shelter her no more. Randolph, I can trust you with her life – with her honour. Take her to your home!”

Chapter Ninety Five
The Death Warning

The sun was going down as we took our departure from the Indian camp. For myself, I had not the slightest idea of the direction in which we were to travel, but with such a guide there was no danger of losing the way.

We were far from the settlements of the Suwanee – a long day’s journey – and we did not expect to reach home before another sun should set. That night there would be moonlight, if the clouds did not hinder it; and it was our intention to travel throughout the early part of the night, and then encamp. By this means the journey of to-morrow would be shortened.

To our guide the country was well-known, and every road that led through it.

For a long distance the route conducted through open woods, and we could all ride abreast; but the path grew narrower, and we were compelled to go by twos or in single file.

Habitually the young chief and I kept in the advance – our sisters riding close behind us. Behind them came Jake and Viola, and in the rear half a dozen Indian horsemen – the guard of Osceola. I wondered he had not brought with him more of his followers, and even expressed my surprise.

He made light of the danger.

The soldiers, he said, knew better than to be out after night, and for that part of the country through which we would travel by daylight, no troops ever strayed into it. Besides, there had been no scouting of late – the weather was too hot for the work. If we met any party they would be of his own people. From them, of course, we had nothing to fear. Since the war began he had often travelled most of the same route alone. He appeared satisfied there was no danger.

For my part, I was not satisfied. I knew that the path we were following would pass within a few miles of Fort King. I remembered the escape of Ringgold’s crew. They were likely enough to have ridden straight to the fort, and communicated an account of the planter’s death, garnished by a tale of their own brave attack upon the Indian camp. Among the authorities, Ringgold was no common man; a party might be organised to proceed to the camp. We were on the very road to meet them.

Another circumstance I thought of – the mysterious disappearance of the mulatto, as was supposed, in company with these men. It was enough to create suspicion. I mentioned my suspicion to the chief:

“No fear,” said he, in reply, “my trackers will be after them – they will bring me word in time – but no,” he added, hesitatingly, and for a moment appearing thoughtful; “they may not get up with them before the night falls, and then – you speak true, Randolph – I have acted imprudently. I should not care for these foolish fellows – but the mulatto – that is different – he knows all the paths, and if it should be that he is turning traitor – if it – Well! we are astart now, and we must go on. You have nothing to fear – and as for me – Osceola never yet turned his back upon danger, and will not now. Nay, will you believe me, Randolph, I rather seek it than otherwise?”

“Seek danger?”

“Ay – death – death!”

“Speak low – do not let them hear you talk thus.”

“Ah! yes,” he added, lowering his tone, and speaking in a half soliloquy, “in truth, I long for its coming.”

The words were spoken with a serious emphasis that left no room to doubt of their earnestness.

Some deep melancholy had settled upon his spirit and preyed upon it continually. What could be its cause?

I could remain silent no longer. Friendship, not curiosity, incited me. I put the inquiry.

“You have observed it, then? But not since we set out – not since you made that friendly offer? Ah! Randolph, you have rendered me happy. It was she alone that made the prospect of death so gloomy.”

“Why speak you of death?”

“Because it is near.”

“Not to you?”

“Yes – to me. The presentiment is upon me that I have not long to live.”

“Nonsense, Powell.”

“Friend, it is true – I have had my death warning.”

“Come, Osceola! This is unlike – unworthy of you. Surely you are above such vulgar fancies. I will not believe you can entertain them.”

“Think you I speak of supernatural signs? Of the screech of the war-bird, or the hooting of the midnight owl? Of omens in the air, the earth, or the water? No – no. I am above such shallow superstitions. For all that, I know I must soon die. It was wrong of me to call my death warning a presentiment – it is a physical fact that announces my approaching end – it is here.”

As he said this, he raised his hand, pointing with his fingers as if to indicate the chest.

I understood his melancholy meaning.

“I would rather,” he continued, after a pause, “rather it had been my fate to fall upon the field of battle. True, death is not alluring in any shape, but that appears to me most preferable. I would choose it rather than linger on. Nay, I have chosen it. Ten times have I thus challenged death – gone half-way to meet it; but like a coward, or a coy bride, it refuses to meet me.”

There was something almost unearthly in the laugh that accompanied these last words – a strange simile – a strange man!

I could scarce make an effort to cheer him. In fact, he needed no cheering: he seemed happier than before. Had it not been so, my poor speech, assuring him of his robust looks, would have been words thrown away. He knew they were but the false utterances of friendship.

I even suspected it myself. I had already noticed the pallid skin – the attenuated fingers – the glazed and sunken eye. This, then, was the canker that was prostrating that noble spirit – the cause of his deep melancholy. I had assigned to it one far different.

The future of his sister had been the heaviest load upon his heart. He told me so as we moved onward.

I need not repeat the promises I then made to him. It was not necessary they should be vows: my own happiness would hinder me from breaking them.