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The White Squaw

Chapter Thirty Four.
Strange Changes

Wacora’s love for Sansuta had long since changed into pity.

A new feeling now possessed his heart.

A new love had arisen from the ashes of the past:

Alice Rody was the object!

He had at first been struck with admiration at her courage; afterwards he had witnessed her discretion and tenderness, and then noted her beauty.

His thoughts, thus stirred; soon ripened into a passion far stronger than respect.

Pity and love had exchanged places within his bosom.

He and his captive had done the same.

The girl was free; her gaoler had become her prisoner.

This new phase of feeling was not accomplished suddenly.

It grew silently and slowly but surely.

One thought troubled Wacora.

It was Nelatu’s admiration for Alice Rody.

He saw that she cared not for his cousin, but he forebore to urge his suit, out of compassion for Sansuta’s brother.

His love, therefore, was speechless, and his captive was unconscious of it.

But what of her? She, too, had changed.

By one of those marvellous transformations of which the human heart is capable, Alice Rody not only became reconciled to her residence among the Indians, but even found much that interested her, even to the awakening of pleasant thoughts.

Many of the Seminoles were, as has been stated, well educated, and with education had come the usual chastening influence.

This was especially true of the young chief Wacora, and she had not failed to observe it.

Her first reflection was what he might have been had he been brought up amongst her own race, for, although she had not been told of his mother being a white woman, she did not doubt that he had white blood in his veins.

What might not a man of his intelligence, chivalric courage, and purity of thought have become in a society where civilisation would have developed all these mental qualities?

The question was a natural one when viewing only the advantages which high culture presented; but its obverse was unfavourable, when considering that civilisation is often an approach to barbarism through selfishness and rapacity.

She answered the query herself, and favourably for him. This mental questioning once commenced, did not pause, but went on to farther consideration of the character of the young chief.

His thoughtfulness seemed as much sprung from regret at the compulsory warfare he was waging against her race, as the noble enthusiasm with which his soul was filled.

The heart of a woman easily yielded its admiration to an enthusiast!

The motive may be condemned, but the spiritual essence of thought that prompts to action still remains to be admired.

It will then be seen that the first abhorrence had given place to interest; and interest had ripened into —

Into what?

There was no answer to that question. As it came before Alice Rody’s mind she evaded it, and strove calmly to consider Wacora as her captor.

But it soon seemed impossible to look upon him in this light.

No preux chevalier could be more courteous in his bearing – no prince more calmly conscious of his own birthright.

His was of the oldest patent. Whether thinking so or not, he was one of Nature’s noblemen.

A few months had wrought these marvellous changes in the personages of our tale, and upon Wacora’s sudden departure to the scene of war, both he and his captive felt a strange void in their hearts, unaccountable, because novel.

Nelatu, whose hope of winning the regard of the pale-faced maiden had sunk into a calm state of despair, departed with his cousin, hoping that in the field of battle he might find a still calmer rest.

His fate, wrapt in the dark mystery of the future, was veiled from him.

Chapter Thirty Five.
A Peaceful Warning

The summer had waned into autumn.

With the changing season came also a change over the hapless Indian maiden, Sansuta.

Her weakness, which had been continually increasing, was now so great that she could no longer stray with Alice to their favourite haunts.

The poor girl’s form had wasted away, and her features become shrunken. Her dark, lustrous eyes alone seemed to retain their vitality.

All her former violence had disappeared, and a change had also made itself manifest in her mental condition.

Now and then she had lucid moments of thought, during which she would shed torrents of tears on Alice’s shoulder, only with the return of her malady would she appear happy and at peace.

Towards sunset of a lovely day the two girls sat together at the door of Sansuta’s dwelling.

“See!” said the Indian girl, “the flowers are closing, the birds have gone into the deep forest. I have been expecting some one, but he has not come yet. Do you know who it is?”

“No, I do not.”

“’Tis Warren. Why do you start and tremble? He will not hurt you. Who was it you thought I meant?”

“I cannot tell, dear Sansuta.”

“No one but him – I think of him always, although,” she added lowering her voice to a whisper, “I dare not call his name. I’m afraid to do that. I’m afraid of my brother Nelatu and my cousin Wacora. Why does the sun look so fiery? It is the colour of blood – blood – blood! That red colour, is it on your hands, too? Ah, no! You are no murderer!”

“Hush, Sansuta! you are excited.”

“Ah, yonder sun! Do you know that I feel as if it were the last time I should ever see it set. See, there are dark lines across the sky – ribbed with bands of black clouds. It is the last day – the last day – ”

“I see nothing, only the approach of night.”

“But you hear something. Don’t you hear the spirits singing their death march over Oluski’s grave? He was my father – I hear it. It is a summons. It is for me. I must go.”

“Go? Where?”

“Far away. No; it is of no use clasping me to your heart. It is not Sansuta’s body that will leave you – it is her spirit. In the happy hunting grounds I shall meet with him – ”

A few moments after she became tranquil; but the lucid interval succeeded, and hot tears coursed down her hollow cheeks.

Again her mind wandered, and for two or three hours, refusing to enter the house, she sate muttering to herself the same fancies.

Alice could but sit beside her and listen. Now and then she sought to soothe her, but in vain.

By and bye Sansuta’s voice grew faint. She seemed to lean heavier on the arm of her pale-faced friend, and the lustre of her eye gradually became dimmer.

The change was alarming, and Alice would have risen and called for help, but an imploring glance from Sansuta prevented her.

“Don’t leave me,” she murmured gently.

Her voice was changed; she had recovered reason, and her companion perceived it.

“Do not leave me. I shall not detain you long. I know you now – have known you it seems for years. I know all, for there is peace in my heart towards all, even to those who took his life. Forgiveness has come back with reason, and my last prayers shall be that they who made Sansuta unhappy may be forgiven!”

She spoke in so low a voice that it was with difficulty her companion could hear what she said.

“Kiss me, Alice Rody! Speak to me! Let me hear you say that Sansuta was your friend!”

“Was —is my friend!”

“No – let me say was, for I am about to leave you. The time is come; I am ready! My last prayer is ‘Pity and forgiveness! Pity and – ’”

By the gentle motion of her lips she appeared to be praying.

That motion ceased, and with it her unhappy life!

Alice still continued to hold her in her arms long after her soul had passed into Eternity!

Chapter Thirty Six.
The Burnt Shanty

The ghost of Crookleg did not in any way disturb Cris Carrol, either sleeping or awake.

The worthy backwoodsman believed that he had done a highly meritorious action in for ever disposing of that malevolent individual.

“The infernal black skunk, to be cuttin’ his capers over the bodies of brave men who had laid down their lives in a war he, and sich as he, brought about! It were no more nor an act of justice to send him to everlastin’ perdition, and, if I never done a more valuable thing to society than stickin’ three inches of cold steel atween his two shoulder-blades, I think I desarves the thanks of the hul community.”

This consolation Cris indulged in whenever he thought of that terrible episode upon Tampa hill.

He had returned a few days after the massacre and had found the dead decently buried.

Wacora had commanded it to be done.

The charred ruins of Rody’s house, however, recalled the memory of that eventful night.

For some time after his last visit to Tampa Bay, Cris Carrol had not been seen.

Neither the pale-faces nor the redskins had been able to discover his whereabouts.

The truth is, that the backwoodsman was glad to get away from scenes where so much violence had been done to his feelings.

As he had said, he couldn’t fight against the Indians, and he wouldn’t take up arms against the whites.

“It ain’t in human nature to shoot and stab one’s own sort, even when they’re in the wrong, unless they’d done somethin’ agin oneself; an’ that they hain’t done as regards me. I’ll be eternally dog-goned if I think the red-skins are to blame for rising agin oppression and tyranny, which is what old Rody did to them, to say nothin’ agin him now he’s dead, but to speak the truth, and that’s bad enough for him. No, they war not to blame for what they did, arter his conduct to them – the old cuss; who, bad as he war, had one redeemin’ feature in his karactur, and that war his angeliferous darter. Where kin she have gone a hidin’? Thet puzzles this chile, it do.”

Cris was unaware of Alice’s capture and imprisonment.

As suddenly as he had taken his departure from Tampa, Cris returned to the same neighbourhood. He expected the war to be transferred to a more distant point, and wished still to keep out of the way.

“It’s the durned’st fightin’ I ever heard on,” said he to himself; “first it’s here, then it’s there, and then it ain’t nowhere, till it breaks out all over again, where it was before, and they’re as far off the end as I am from Greenland. Durn it, I never knowed nothin’ like it.”

On his return to Tampa, he found the country around altogether deserted. Most of the buildings and the planter’s house had been destroyed, even his own wretched hut had been burnt to the ground.

“This is what they call the fortun’ of war, I ’spose?” he remarked, as he stood gazing at the ruins. “Wal, it war a ramshackle, crazy ole shanty anyhow, and I allers despised four walls an’ a roof at the best o’ times – still it war ‘home.’ Pshaw!” he added, after a moment’s silence, “what have I to grow molloncholly about, over sich a place as this – calling it ‘home,’ when I still have the Savannas to hunt over an’ sleep upon. If thar’s such a place as home for me that’s it, and no other.”

For all his stoicism, the old hunter sighed as he turned from the blackened spot which marked the site of his former dwelling.

He paused at the bend of the road, where Crookleg had first met Nelatu, to gaze again at his ruined home. Not only paused, but sat down upon the self-same rail that the negro had perched upon, and from gazing upon it, fell to reflecting.

So absorbed was he in his contemplation, that contrary to his usual custom, he took no note of the time, nor once removed his eyes from the subject of his thoughts.

He did not perceive the approach of a danger.

It came in the form of four individuals who had silently and stealthily crept close to the spot where he was sitting. Before he knew of their proximity, he was their prisoner.

“Red-skins!” he exclaimed, struggling to free himself.

His captors smiled grimly at his vain efforts.

“By the eternal! I’m fixed this time! Darn my stupid carcase for not havin’ eyes set in the back o’ my head. Wal, you may grin, old copper-skins, it’s your turn now – maybe, it’ll be mine next. What are you a-doin’ now?”

Without deigning a reply the Indians bound his arms securely behind him.

That done they made signs to him to follow them.

“Wal, gentlemen!” said Cris, “yur about as silent a party as a man might wish to meet, darn me, if you aint. I’m comin’.”

“Much obleeged to you for your escort, which I ked a done without. Thanks to your red-skin perliteness for nothin’. Go ahead, I kin walk without your helpin’ me. Where are ye bound for?”

“To the chief,” answered one of the men.

“The chief! What chief?”

“Wacora.”

Cris uttered an emphatic oath.

“Wacora, eh? If that’s the case, I reckon the days o’ Cris Carrol air drawin’ to a close. The fiercest and most ’vengeful cuss of them all, I’ve heard say. Lead on, I’ll go along with ye willin, but not cheerful. If they kill me like a man I’ll not tremble in a jint; but if it’s the torture – there, go ahead. Don’t keep the party waitin’.”

Brave heart, as he was, he followed them with as bold and free a step to what he believed to be his death, as if alone, and at liberty on the Savanna.

The Indians without exchanging a word, either among themselves or with him, proceeded in the direction of Oluski’s town.

Chapter Thirty Seven.
Death at the Stake

At night they encamped in the forest.

Lighting no fires, lest the light might betray them to their enemies, they produced from their packs some dried meat and meal cake.

Cris did full justice to the humble fare, although he made rather a wry face at the gourd of spring water with which he was invited by his captors to wash down the frugal repast.

Mastering his aversion, he, however, managed to swallow a few mouthfuls.

Supper over, two of his captors wrapped themselves up in their blankets, and immediately fell asleep. The other two remained awake, watching him.

Carrol saw that any attempt to escape under the eyes of two Indians would be idle.

One he might have coped with, even unarmed as he was. Two would be more than a match for him, and he knew that on the slightest alarm the sleeping men would awake, making it four to one.

With the philosophy of a stoic he threw himself upon the ground, and also fell asleep.

He awoke once in the night to find that his guard had been changed. There was no better prospect of freedom than before.

“Dura them! they’re bound to fix me, I kin see that plain enough. Besides, with these ’tarnal all-fired thongs cuttin’ into my elbows, what could I do?”

Apparently nothing, for with a muttered curse at his own stupidity, he again composed himself to slumber.

With the dawn of morning Cris Carrol and his captors continued their journey.

They made no other halt before reaching the town.

Carrol in vain tried to draw from them the reason of their unexpected presence at so great a distance from the residence of the tribe.

They gave him no satisfaction.

He discovered, however, that whatever errand they had been sent on, they had failed in accomplishing it, and his own capture began to be considered by him as a peace offering with which they intended to mollify Wacora’s wrath at their want of success in the mission with which they had been charged.

“Wal,” reflected he, “I suppose I’m in some poor devil’s place; perhaps I mout take more pleasure in doing him this good turn if I only knowed who he is. No doubt he’s got some folks as ’ud grieve over him, but there ain’t a many as will fret over Cris Carrol, not as I know on – yes, all right! go ahead. Let’s go whar glory waits us, ye catawampous scamps, you. Ah! four to one; if it had been two to one, or, at a pinch, three to one, I’d have tried it on, if it had cost me all I’ve got, and that’s my life – yah! it’s almost enough to make one turn storekeeper to think on’t.”

Unmoved by the taunts and jeers which Cris liberally bestowed upon them during the journey, the Indians continued to watch him narrowly.

It was about mid-day when they arrived at their destination.

On entering the Indian town Carrol was thrust into one of the houses, where he was left to await the order of Wacora as to his final disposition. Four guards were kept over him, two inside the house, the other two without.

He expected immediate death, but he was left undisturbed for the rest of the day, and at night received some supper, consisting of dried meat, bread, and water. He was then permitted to pass the hours till morning as seemed best to him.

The hunter soon arranged his plans. He wrapped the blanket that had been given him around his body, and in a few moments was in a sound slumber.

His sleep lasted until a hand upon his shoulder, along with a summons to awake, aroused him.

It was one of his guards of yesterday who addressed him.

“Come!”

“Is that you, old Dummy?” asked he, recognising the Indian. “I can’t say I’m glad to see yur, since yur’ve broke in on the pleasantest dream I’ve had for a long time. But never mind, how shed you know that you whar a doing it, you poor savage critter you, that don’t know nothin’ but to handle a tomahawk, and raise the hair off a human head? What do you want with me now?”

“The warriors are assembled!”

“Air they? Wal, that’s kind of them, only they needn’t have put themselves out o’ the way to get up so early on my account; I could ha’ waited.”

“Come.”

“Wal, I’m comin’; d’ye think I’m afraid, durn yur? D’ye think I’m afraid of you or all the warriors of your tribe, or of your chief, Wacora, either?”

“Wacora is not here.”

“Not here! Where is he?”

“I cannot answer the pale-face’s questions. I came to bring you before the council.”

“Wal, I’m ready to go afore the council.”

As they were about to emerge from the house, a sudden idea seemed to strike Carrol, and he stopped his conductors.

“Stay, friend, will you tell me one thing?”

“Speak!”

“Whar are we?”

“At Oluski’s town.”

Carrol’s face beamed with a sudden joy.

“And his son Nelatu – is this his home?”

“It is.”

“Hurray! Now, I dare say you wonder at my bein’ struck all of a heap wi’ delight. But I’ll tell you one thing, red-skin – no offence, not knowin’ your name – you and yur three partners have taken a most uncommon sight o’ trouble all for nothin’.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just this – go and tell Nelatu that Cris Carrol is the party as you sneaked up to and took prisoner, and arter that, streak it for your precious lives.”

“Nelatu?”

“Yes, Nelatu, he’s a friend o’ this ole coon, and one that’ll prove himself so, too, in givin’ you skunks as took me a deal more nor you bargained for.”

“Nelatu is not here.”

“Not here? Why, didn’t you tell me just now that this war his father’s town?”

“I did; but Nelatu is not here.”

“Not now, perhaps; but I s’pose he’ll be here?”

“He will not return for weeks.”

Carrol’s countenance fell.

“Then, dog-gone yur skin, lead on! I throw up the pack of cards now that the trump’s out of ’em. It’s my luck, and it’s the darndest luck I ever seed; there’s no standin’ agin it. I s’pose I must give in.”

Without another word he followed his guards.

They entered the council chamber, where the assembled warriors awaited them.

With his foot upon the threshold, his manner entirely changed from the light, jeering hilarity he had exhibited to that of a calm and dignified bearing.

He saw in an instant that he was foredoomed.

The stern expression of his judges told him as much.

The mock ceremonial of examination was proceeded with, and a vain attempt made to extract from him intelligence of the movements of the whites, especially of the numbers and disposition of the Government troops, some of whom had by this time arrived in the peninsula.

His disdainful refusal to betray his own race did him no service.

True, he was already sentenced to die, but the manner of his death might inflict horror on him who had no fear of dying.

Though the questions were skilfully put to him, the old hunter saw through them all.

He did not, indeed, possess much knowledge of the military invasion; but had he been in the secret of the commanding officer himself, he could not have been more reticent in his replies.

Utterly foiled in their questions, the warriors played their last card, and with threats of the most terrible tortures endeavoured to wring from his fears what his honour would not reveal.

Vain effort on their part.

Cris did, indeed, wince when they first spoke of torture; but, recovering himself, he became more proudly defiant than before.

“Ye may shake my old body with rackin’ pains. I know you’ve got devil’s inventions, and I don’t deny but they’re awful; but there’s somethin’ about me that ye can’t make tremble, not if all the imps o’ hell war yer slaves – that’s my soul. It’ll come out of yer fiery ordeal as calm as it is now; and with its last thoughts it’ll despise and dare ye! Cris Carrol arn’t bin backwoods hunter for a matter goin’ on forty year to be skeart at burnin’ sticks or hot lead; and he’ll die as he has lived, an honest man!”

A mingled murmur of admiration and anger ran through the assembled crowd, and it was evident that many of the warriors would have given their consent to his being set free.

There is something about TRUE courage which extorts admiration even from an enemy.

A hurried consultation took place among the head men in council.

It was speedily over, and the oldest of their number rose and pronounced sentence against the prisoner.

It was death by burning at the stake!

Cris Carrol was not surprised on hearing it.

The sentence had already lost half of its terror. He had made up his mind that this would be his doom.

Only one word of response came from his lips —

“When?”

“To-morrow!” replied he who had pronounced judgment.

Without bestowing a glance upon those who had thus fixed the limit of his earthly career, the hunter strode from the council chamber with calm and measured steps.

As he passed out the crowd made way for him, and many of the faces expressed admiration – some even pity.

The stoic bravery of the Indian is marvellous, and for him death has no terrors. With them it is a sort of fatalism.

What they do not dread themselves, they make but light of in others.

Por all that they have the highest admiration for a man who dares meet death calmly.

In their eyes the white captive had assumed all the importance of a great warrior.

Yet was he an enemy – one of the race with whom they were at war – therefore he must die.

Thus strangely do civilisation and barbarism meet on common ground.