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The White Squaw

Chapter Twenty Nine.
An Exulting Fiend

“I has found you, has I?”

“Crookleg!”

“Yes, it am Crookleg.”

“A drop of water, for the love of God; a drop of water!”

“If de whole place war a lake, dis chile wouldn’t sprinkle you parched lips with a drop out ob it.”

“What do you mean, Crookleg?”

“Ha! the time I been waitin’ for has come at last. It hab been long, but it am come! Do you know war you son Warren am?”

“Thank heaven! away from this, and in safety.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Safe; yes, he am safe enough wid a big bullet through his brain!”

Elias Rody, with an effort, raised himself into a sitting posture, and glared upon the speaker.

“Dead!”

“Yes, dead; and it war me dat bro’t him to it. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Who are you? Has hell let loose its fiends to mock me?”

“Perhaps it have. Who am I? Don’t you know me yet, Rody —Massa Rody?”

“No, devil! I know you not. My son dead – oh, God! what have I done to deserve all this?”

“What hab you done? What hab you not done? You had done ebery ting that de black heart ob a white man do, and de day of recknin’ am come at last. So you don’t know me, don’t you?”

“Away, fiend, and let me die in peace!”

“In peace – no; you shall die as you hab made oders live – in pain! When you can’t hear dis nigga’s voice plainly, he’ll hiss it in at your ear, so it may reach your infernal soul, in de last minutes of you life!”

“Who – who are you?”

“I am Reuben, de son of Esther.”

“Esther!”

“Yes, Esther, your father’s slave. You was de cause ob her death. Do you know me now?”

Rody groaned.

“Dey call me Crookleg, kase I was lame. Who made me lame?”

Still no answer.

“It war you dat put de ball in my leg for sport, when you war a boy, and I war de same. I have been close to you for years, but you didn’t know me. I war too mean – too much below de notice of a proud gentleman like you. But I hab a good memory, and de oath I’d taken to be even wid ye, am kept. My mother war a slave, but she war my mother for all dat, an’ if I war a black man I war still a human bein’, although you and de likes of you didn’t think so. Do you know me now?”

Rody uttered not a word.

“When I war forced to limp away from your father’s plantation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de cruel massa dat de lame nigga hab now for Elias Rody. Days and years hab passed since den, but de hate war kept hot as ever; and I’se happy now when I knows dat de dyin’ planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don’t be skear’d, I wouldn’t lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All I’se a going to do is to sit hyar an’ watch ober you till you am cold and stiff. Every flutter you wicked soul makes to get free from you ugly body, will be a joy to me!”

“Oh, devil!” exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth of his agony.

“Debbil! Yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me one!”

The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody’s side and thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a demoniac joy lit up his horrid features.

And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the grey shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed with the film of death.

At last a scream burst from the lips of the dying man, followed by words of piteous appeal.

“Ha – help – water – water! My soul’s on fire! Devils – demons! Away – away! Let me go! Unloose your burning hands from my heart! Unloose – ah, horror!”

The cries ceased.

Elias Rody was dead!

Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring enemy as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when, at last, the spirit had passed away, he bounded to his feet and began to exult over his now unconscious victim.

At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene.

At some little distance from the spot a man, leaning upon his rifle, stood taking a survey of the smoking ruins.

He had been for some time ignorant that any living being but himself was upon the hill.

His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, assured of his enemy’s death, could no longer restrain his immense joy, but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings.

“Ho, ho – dead! It am ’plendid sport to de ole nigga! Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darkey hab been de cause ob a war ’tween de whites and de red-skins! Ha, ha, ha! it am most too good to be beliebed! But it am true – it am true!”

As the monstrous creature concluded the speech he was seen to spring suddenly into the air and fall flat upon his face – a corpse!

A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back!

“There, ye black hound! If you have been the cause of one war, you’ll never have a hand in another. I swore not to fight agin my own blood, nor to take part agin the red-skins, but black blood don’t count in my bargain!”

Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his blade from the negro’s body and coolly sauntered away from the spot.

Chapter Thirty.
Robbed of his Revenge

Wacora, after reaching the camp, dismissed his warriors, and entered his tent alone.

The remainder of that night he passed in meditation.

Was it the influence of the white blood flowing in his veins that made him think of the slaughter he had directed and taken part in?

Strange inconsistency of nature.

The heroic chief, still decked in the war paint of his father’s race, as he reviewed the events of the past few hours, could not restrain himself from shuddering.

His mother’s spirit seemed to hover around him; her eyes sad and reproachful; her heart heavy.

“They were the people of my race, and so of yours, that you have immolated on the throne of your vengeance.”

So seemed it to say!

His head sank upon his breast. He sighed heavily.

Long he continued in his gloomy abstraction; his thoughts deeper than plummet ever sounded.

The weary hours of night crept slowly past, and yet he stirred not.

Fears and forebodings filled his warrior’s heart.

“I have done all for the best,” muttered he to himself. “Witness it, thou Great Spirit; all for the best. For the future of my father’s race I have closed my heart to pity. It was not for present vengeance alone that I urged on the wild people to the slaughter. It was that they might then begin the great work of regeneration, assured in their strength, and conscious of their invincibility.”

Like all high-strung natures, Wacora was subject to fits of despondency.

With want of action this had come upon him. The excitement over, gloomy doubt had succeeded to bright hope.

The sun was high in the heavens ere he could bestir himself, and shake off such thoughts. He at length made the effort, and emerged from his tent to consult with the warriors of his tribe.

As he stepped forth, he perceived Maracota slowly approaching.

In an instant the slumbering passion of hate was awakened; he saw in the young Indian’s eye that he had news to communicate.

Speak! have you found him?

“Yes, he is found.”

“I mean Warren Rody. Make no error, Maracota – tell me, is it Warren Rody you have found?”

“He has been found.”

“Then all is well. Quick! bring him to me. Let me look upon this dog of a pale-face!”

Maracota made no answer, but stood silent.

“Do you hear me? Bring the dog before me. My eyes hunger for a sight of his craven countenance – I would see his white-livered face of fear – watch his trembling frame as he stands in my presence!”

Still Maracota did not speak.

“By the Great Spirit, Maracota, why do you not go for him? Why do you not answer me?”

“Maracota dreads your anger.”

“You an Indian warrior, and afraid. What do you mean?”

“That I have disobeyed your commands – ”

“Ha! wretch! I understand. You found him, but he escaped.”

“Not that – ”

“What is it then? Speak, did he defy you? Was he too powerful? Then summon our warriors, and if it cost the life of every Indian in Florida I swear he shall be captured. Answer me or I shall do you mischief.”

“Maracota deserves punishment.”

The young chief, now fully aroused to anger, cast a significant look at his subordinate; he could scarce refrain from striking him to the ground, and it was with an effort that he resumed speech —

“No more mystery. Speak! where is he?”

“Dead.”

Wacora made a bound towards the speaker, as he cried, “Did you kill him?”

“I did.”

Maracota fearlessly stood to await the stroke of the upraised tomahawk.

It fell, but not on the Indian’s skull.

Wacora flung his weapon on the grass.

“Wretch!” he cried, “you have robbed me of my revenge. May the arm that took that man’s life hang palsied by your side for ever! May – oh, curse you – curse you!”

Maracota’s head fell upon his breast. He dared not meet his chief’s angry glance – more dreaded than the blow of his hatchet.

For some moments there was silence; whilst Wacora paced to and fro like a tiger in its cage.

Chapter Thirty One.
A Sad Spectacle

After a time the enraged chief, pausing in his steps, stood by the side of the silent warrior.

“Tell me how it happened,” he said, apparently becoming calmer. “Tell me all.”

Maracota related the circumstances as they had happened.

“It was to save Nelatu’s life that you fired upon the monster?”

“It was.”

“And he – where is Nelatu?”

“He is close by. See, they come this way.”

As Wacora looked in the direction indicated, he perceived his two cousins approaching.

The beautiful maiden, now wan and sad, seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some wild flowers which she held in her hand. There were others wreathed in her hair.

In this manner had she been conducted to the camp.

Nelatu turned to his sister, put his arm in hers, and was about to lead her off, when a man rushed into the presence of the chief, crying out as he approached —

“Good news! The body of the white chief, Rody, has been found, and – ”

The warning gesture had been lost upon the impatient speaker.

It was too late now, Sansuta had heard the fated name.

Casting from her the flowers she had been trifling with, she uttered shriek upon shriek, running wildly and beseechingly, backwards and forwards, from her brother to her cousin, who both stood spell-bound with surprise and grief.

“Where have you hid him? Give him to me. You shall not kill him; no – no – no! I say you shall not hurt him! Warren! Warren! ’tis Sansuta calls. Murderers! He never injured you. Take nay life – not his! Warren! Warren! Oh, do not keep him from me. See, that is his blood upon your hands – his eyes are closed in death! It is you, wretches, that have murdered him. No, no – stand back – I would not have you touch me whilst your hands are red with his blood. Back! back! I will find him! – No, you shall kill me first! – I will find Warren Rody! Help, help! save me from his murderers!”

With renewed screams of agony that struck horror into the listeners’ hearts, the girl, eluding their grasp, darted away into the forest.

At a signal from Wacora, Nelatu started in pursuit.

“May the lightnings blast all who have brought about this! Fool that I was just now to feel pity for the pale-faces; nothing that revenge can accomplish will make up for this. Here I swear to take vengeance far more terrible – vengeance to which that of last night shall be but a mockery!”

With these words the young chief hastened away from the spot, followed by Maracota and the messenger.

Chapter Thirty Two.
“Spare Her! Spare Her!”

The opportunity of this vengeance was already close at hand.

Within the space enclosed by the Indian tents, under guard of some warriors, stood a group of pale-face prisoners.

It consisted of several men, and among them a young girl.

Wacora stopped on perceiving the group.

His features were illumined with a savage joy.

One of the chiefs, advancing, reported their having been captured while attempting to escape through the adjoining forest.

“What’s to be done with them?” he asked.

“They shall die by torture!”

“The girl?”

“She, too, shall die. Who is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Turning to Maracota, he propounded a similar question.

Maracota was equally ignorant of the person of the captive.

The chief ordered her to be brought before him.

With an undaunted step, although evidently suffering from debility and sorrow, the girl allowed herself to be led along.

Once in Wacora’s presence, with a modest courage, she gazed into his face.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Your prisoner.”

“When where you captured?”

“About two hours ago.”

“You were trying to escape?”

“I was.”

“Your companions – who are they?”

“I know nothing of them, except that they are people belonging to the settlement. They were kind to me, and endeavoured to help me in my escape.”

“You know your doom?”

She answered, sadly —

“I expect no mercy.”

Wacora, struck with this reply, felt an interest in the courageous girl, which he could not account for.

“You have been taught to think of the red man as a remorseless savage?”

“Not as remorseless, only as revengeful.”

“Then you acknowledge that we have just cause for revengeful feelings?”

“I did not say so.”

“But you implied it.”

“All men have enemies. The truly great are the only ones who can forego revenge.”

“But savages must act according to their instincts.”

“Savages – yes. But men who know right from wrong should act by their judgment.”

“If I spared your life, you would still consider me a savage.”

“My life is nothing to me. All those I loved are now dead.”

“Your mother?”

“She died when I was a child.”

“Your father?”

“Was killed last night.”

Wacora seemed lost in thought as he said, half aside —

“So young, and yet with no fear of death!”

The young girl overheard the muttered soliloquy, and made answer to it —

“To the unhappy death is welcome.”

“Unhappy?”

“I have told you that all I love are dead?”

“Yet death is terrible.”

“Your name?”

“Alice Rody.”

With a cry of fiendish delight, Wacora grasped the maiden’s arm.

“You, the daughter of that accursed man – the daughter of that demon in human form! Then, by the Great Spirit above us! by the ashes of my ancestors, you shall die! My own hand shall inflict the blow.”

As he uttered these words, he drew a knife from his belt, and was on the point of sheathing it in her heart, when his arm was seized, and a voice full of agony vibrated in his ear —

“Spare her! – oh! spare her. Take my life instead.”

“Nelatu!”

“Yes, Nelatu; your cousin, your slave, if you will – only spare her life!”

“You forget her name.”

“No, no; I know it but too well.”

“You forget that her father has been the accursed cause of all this misery?”

“No; I remember that too.”

“Then you are insane thus to beg for her life. She must die!”

“I am not insane. Oh! Wacora, on my knees I implore you to spare her!”

“Rise, Nelatu; the son of Oluski should not bend his knee to man. At your intercession, her life shall be spared!”

Nelatu rose from the ground.

“You are indeed our chief, Wacora. Your heart is open and generous.”

“Stay, yet, before you mistake me. I give you her life, but ‘an eye for an eye!’ She shall suffer what Sansuta has suffered; spare her life, but not her honour.”

“Wacora!”

“I have said it. Here” – turning to the assembled warriors who had been amazed witnesses of the scene – “this is the child of our enemy, Elias Rody. I have, at Nelatu’s entreaty, spared her life; I bestow her upon the tribe; do with her what you will.”

Nelatu leaped before the advancing braves.

“Back!” he cried. “The first who lays hands upon her, dies!”

Wacora gazed upon his cousin.

In his breast rage contended with wonder.

“Heed him not; he is insane.”

“No; not insane.”

“Speak; what then?”

“I love her! I love her!”

The young girl, who had stood like a statue throughout all the previous scene, gave a start, and, cowering to the ground, buried her face in her hands.

To Wacora the words of Nelatu were no less surprising.

Turning to the shrinking maiden, he said —

“You hear what Nelatu says? He loves you.”

She murmured faintly – “I hear.”

“He loves you. Wacora, too, has loved. That love has been trampled upon, and by your wretch of a brother! Yet still it shall plead for Nelatu. His request is granted. You are spared both life and honour, but must remain a prisoner. Conduct her hence!”

“And these?” asked a warrior, pointing to the other prisoners.

Wacora’s heart, touched for an instant by his cousin’s pleading, as well as by Alice Rody’s heroic bearing, became again hardened.

He replied —

“They must die! Not by the torture, but at once. Let them be shot!”

The brave fellows, disdaining to sue for mercy, were led away from the spot.

Soon after he heard several shots that came echoing from the woods.

His captives had been released from all earthly care.

Chapter Thirty Three.
Ruin among the Ruins

The Indians’ encampment near Tampa Bay was broken up.

The women and children, attended by a few warriors had departed for the town.

Alice Rody, a prisoner, went along with them.

Wacora, Nelatu, and the rest of the tribe, joined others of their race in the war which was now rapidly spreading over the whole peninsula.

For a time the Seminole tribe led a wandering life.

The varying successes or defeats of the protracted contest entailed upon them both vigilance and activity.

It was, therefore, only occasionally that the cousins were enabled to visit the town in which their people permanently resided.

Sansuta had now seldom any relapses of her fits of violent madness.

She was silent and melancholy, and wandered about wrapped in her own bewildered thoughts.

Alice, although a prisoner, was suffered to come and go as it pleased her.

Nelatu’s love for the pale-faced maiden made no progress.

A wan smile was all the reward the Indian youth received for his patient devotion.

He felt that his passion was hopeless, but still he nursed it.

To Sansuta, Alice indeed proved a guardian angel.

At first the Indian girl repelled the tender solicitude expressed by the white maiden, and with an alarmed look seemed to dread even her voice.

In time, however, won by the magic of kindness, she sought the company of the captive, and in her presence seemed happy.

Often they would stroll away from the town, and in some quiet spot pass hours together – Alice in silent thought, Sansuta in such childish employment as stringing beads, or making baskets with the flowers and tendrils of the wild vine.

A favourite haunt with them both was the old fort.

Amongst its ruins they would seat themselves in silence, each busy with her own thoughts.

And thus was their time tranquilly passed, while war was raging around them.

But the first storm of conflict had been passed, and was succeeded by a temporary calm.

The pale-faces had abandoned the smaller settlements and detached plantations, and in the neighbouring towns awaited the arrival of the Government troops on their way to prosecute the campaign throughout the whole peninsula.

The Indians had sought their respective rendezvous, there to mature plans for a more perfect organisation.

Nelatu and Wacora had returned home, for such was the title Wacora now gave to the place where Oluski’s tribe had their permanent residence.

The exigencies of the contest had compelled the withdrawal of his own warriors from his father’s town, and the two tribes, Oluski and his own, had become fused into one powerful community.

The chief’s views towards his captive had undergone a marked change.

He no longer wished to harm her, and had she demanded from him her liberty, he would have granted it freely.

Of what use is liberty to the homeless?

Alice Rody had become careless of her freedom – nay, in a manner, preferred her captivity to the uncertainty of an unknown future, where no kindred awaited her return, no friend stood expectant to receive her.

A sense of security – almost contentment – had stolen into her heart.

Time had done much to assuage the terrible sorrow from which she had suffered.

It was a wonderful transformation to the once high-spirited girl who had shown such energy and fortitude in the midst of danger.

So thought the young chief, Wacora.

To Nelatu it was a negative happiness. She had not energy to chide his ardent devotion, but submitted to it passively, without bestowing the slightest encouragement.

One lovely afternoon Sansuta, conducted by Alice, strolled to the ruined fort.

Arrived there, Sansuta proceeded to embroider a pouch she had commenced to make.

Alice, seated on a fragment of stone, watched her companion’s trivial employment.

As the Indian girl nestled close to the pale-faced maiden, she seemed on the point of fainting.

She had grown thinner during the last few weeks, and her hollow cheeks were tinted with a hectic flush.

“Rest your head on my lap, Sansuta.”

As Alice spoke, she gently caught the poor girl in her arms.

“I am tired, oh, so tired!” said Sansuta.

“You must not walk so far as this another time. We must seek some place nearer to the town.”

The Indian girl did not appear to heed her, but commenced singing softly to herself.

She paused abruptly in her song, and looked up into her companion’s face.

“Last night I dreamed I was in another land, walking along a footpath. It was strewn with lovely flowers. On both sides were beautiful creeping plants, over which bright butterflies sailed. There were two birds – such birds – their plumage of silver and gold. I heard music. Was it the land of the Great Spirit? Do you think it was?”

“Who knows? it might have been!”

“There I met my father. Not stern as our warriors are, but sad and weeping. Why did he weep?”

Alice was silent. Her own tears hindered her from making answer to the artless question.

“When I saw him weeping, I, too, wept, and kissed him. He spoke kindly to me; but why did he weep?”

Still no answer from her listening companion.

“Then I dreamt – no, I cannot remember what else I dreamt – yet there was some one else there. I seemed to know his face, too; but a great storm arose, and all became dark, and I grew frightened. What was that?”

“Alas! Sansuta, I cannot read my own dreams, far less yours.”

But Sansuta had already forgotten her question, and was again singing softly to herself.

Presently she stopped once more, and putting both arms around Alice’s neck, murmured that she was tired.

The pale-faced maiden kissed her, and, as she did so, the tears from her eyes fell on Sansuta’s cheek.

“Why do you weep? Who has injured you?”

Had Alice framed her thoughts into words she would have answered, the whole world; but, instead, she only replied to her companion with gentle endearments, and, at length, caressed her into a gentle sleep.

It was a beautiful tableaux for a painter to delineate – beautiful – but at the same time sadly impressive.

A young Indian chief, who had been a silent witness to it, must have thought so, by the sigh that escaped him, as he turned his face away.

Wacora was the chief who thus sighed.