Chapter Thirty Four.A Pretty Plot.To dispute the identity was to doubt the evidence of my senses. The mulatto was before me—just as I remembered him—though with changed apparel, and perhaps grown a little bigger in body. But the features were the same—thattout ensemblethe same as that presented by Yellow Jake, theci-devantwoodman of our plantation.And yet how could itpossiblybe he? And in the company of Arens Ringgold too, one of the most active of his intended executioners? No, no, no! altogether improbable—utterly impossible! Then must I be deluded—my eyes deceiving me—for as certain as I looked upon man, I was looking upon Jake the mulatto! He was not twenty feet from where I lay hidden; his face was full towards me; the moon was shining upon it with a brilliancy scarcely inferior to the light of day. I could note the old expression of evil in his eyes, and mark the play of his features. ItwasYellow Jake.To confirm the impression, I remembered that, notwithstanding all remonstrance and ridicule, the black pertinaciously adhered to his story. He would listen to no compromise, no hypothesis founded upon resemblance. He had seen Yellow Jake, or his ghost. This was his firm belief, and I had been unable to shake it.Another circumstance I now remember: the strange behaviour of the Ringgolds during the postprandial conversation—the action of Arens when I mentioned the mulatto’s name. It had attracted my attention at the time, but what was I to think now? Here was a man supposed to be dead, in company of three others who had been active in assisting at his death—one of them the very keenest of his executioners, and all four now apparently as thick as thieves! How was I to explain, in one moment, this wonderful resurrection and reconciliation?I could not explain it—it was too complicated a mystery to be unravelled by a moment’s reflection; and I should have failed, had not the parties themselves soon after aided me to an elucidation.I had arrived at the only natural conclusion, and this was, that the mulatto, notwithstanding the perfect resemblance,could not beYellow Jake. This, of course, would account for everything, after a manner; and had the four men gone away without parley, I should have contented myself with this hypothesis.But they went not, until after affording me an opportunity of overhearing a conversation, which gave me to know, that, not only was Yellow Jakestill in the land of the living, but that Haj-Ewa had spoken the truth, when she told memy life was in danger.“Damn! he’s not here, and yet where can he have gone?”The ejaculation and interrogative were in the voice of Arens Ringgold, uttered in a tone of peevish surprise. Some one was sought for by the party who could not be found. Who that was, the next speaker made manifest.There was a pause, and then reached my ears the voice of Bill Williams—which I easily recognised, from having heard it but the day before.“You are sartint, Master Arens, he didn’t sneak back to the fort ’long wi’ the ginral?”“Sure of it,” replied Master Arens; “I was by the gate as they came in. There were only the two—the general and the commissioner. But the question is, did he leave the hommock along with them? There’s where we played devil’s fool with the business—in not getting here in time, and watching them as they left. But who’d have thought he was going to stay behind them; if I had only known that—You say,” he continued, turning to the mulatto—“you say,Jake, you came direct from the Indian camp? He couldn’t have passed you on the path.”“Carajo!SeñorAren! No?”The voice, the old Spanish expression of profanity, just as I had heard them in my youth. If there had been doubt of the identity, it was gone. The testimony of my ears confirmed that of my eyes. The speaker was Yellow Jake.“Straight from Seminole come. Cat no pass me on the road; I see her. Two chiefs me meet. I hide under the palmettoes; they no me see.Carrambo! no.”“Deuce take it! where can he have gone! There’s no signs of him here. I know hemight have a reasonfor paying a visit to the Indians—that I know; but how has he got round there without Jake seeing him!”“What’s to hinder him to hev goed round the tother road?”“By the open plain?”“Yes—that away.”“No—he would not be likely. There’s only one way I can explain it: he must have come as far as the gate along with the general, and then kept down the stockade, and past the sutler’s house—that’s likely enough.”This was said by Ringgold in a sort of half soliloquy.“Devils?” he exclaimed in an impatient tone, “we’ll not get such a chance soon again.”“Ne’er a fear, Master Arens,” said Williams—“ne’er a fear. Plenty o’ chances, I kalkerlate—gobs o’ chances sech times as these.”“We’ll make chances,” pithily added Spence, who now spoke for the first time in my hearing.“Ay, but here was a chance forJake—hemust do it, boys; neither of you must have a hand in it. Itmight leak out; and then we’d all be in a pretty pickle. Jake can do it, and not harm himself, forhe’s dead, you know, and the law can’t reach him! Isn’t it so, my yellow boy?”“Carrambo! si, señor. No fear have, Don Aren Ringgol; ’for long, I opportunity find. Jake you get rid of enemy—never hear more of him; soon Yellow Jake good chance have. Yesterday miss. She bad gun, Don Aren—not worth shuck gun.”“He has not yet returned inside the fort,” remarked Ringgold, again speaking in a half soliloquy. “I think he has not. If no, then he should be at the camp. He must go back to-night. It may be after the moon goes down. He must cross the open ground in the darkness. You hear, Jake, what I am saying?”“Si, señor; Jake hear all.”“And you know how to profit by the hint, eh?”“Carrambo! si, señor. Jake know.”“Well, then, we must return. Hear me, Jake—if—”Here the voice of the speaker fell into a half whisper, and I could not hear what was said. Occasionally there were phrases muttered so loudly that I could catch their sound, and from what had already transpired, was enabled to apprehend something of their signification. I heard frequently pronounced the names of Viola the quadroon, and that of my own sister; the phrases—“only one that stands in our way,”—“mother easily consent,”—“when I am master of the plantation,”—“pay you two hundred dollars.”These, with others of like import, satisfied me that between the two fiends some contract for the taking of my life had already been formed; and that this muttered dialogue was only a repetition of the terms of the hideous bargain!No wonder that the cold sweat was oozing from my temples, and standing in bead-like drops upon my brow. No wonder that I sat upon my perch shaking like an aspen—far less with fear than with horror at the contemplated crime—absolute horror. I might have trembled in a greater degree, but that my nerves were to some extent stayed by the terrible indignation that was swelling up within my bosom.I had sufficient command of my temper to remain silent; it was prudent I did so; had I discovered myself at that moment, I should never have left the ground alive. I felt certain of this, and took care to make no noise that might betray my presence.And yet it was hard to hear four men coolly conspiring against one’s life—plotting and bargaining it away like a piece of merchandise—each expecting some profit from the speculation!My wrath was as powerful as my fears—almost too strong for prudence. There were four of them, all armed. I had sword and pistols; but this would not have made me a match for four desperadoes such as they. Had there been only two of them—only Ringgold and the mulatto—so desperate was my indignation, at that moment, I should have leaped from the tree and risked the encountercoûte qui coûte.But I disobeyed the promptings of passion, and remained silent till they had moved away.I observed that Ringgold and his brace of bullies went towards the fort, while the mulatto took the direction of the Indian camp.
To dispute the identity was to doubt the evidence of my senses. The mulatto was before me—just as I remembered him—though with changed apparel, and perhaps grown a little bigger in body. But the features were the same—thattout ensemblethe same as that presented by Yellow Jake, theci-devantwoodman of our plantation.
And yet how could itpossiblybe he? And in the company of Arens Ringgold too, one of the most active of his intended executioners? No, no, no! altogether improbable—utterly impossible! Then must I be deluded—my eyes deceiving me—for as certain as I looked upon man, I was looking upon Jake the mulatto! He was not twenty feet from where I lay hidden; his face was full towards me; the moon was shining upon it with a brilliancy scarcely inferior to the light of day. I could note the old expression of evil in his eyes, and mark the play of his features. ItwasYellow Jake.
To confirm the impression, I remembered that, notwithstanding all remonstrance and ridicule, the black pertinaciously adhered to his story. He would listen to no compromise, no hypothesis founded upon resemblance. He had seen Yellow Jake, or his ghost. This was his firm belief, and I had been unable to shake it.
Another circumstance I now remember: the strange behaviour of the Ringgolds during the postprandial conversation—the action of Arens when I mentioned the mulatto’s name. It had attracted my attention at the time, but what was I to think now? Here was a man supposed to be dead, in company of three others who had been active in assisting at his death—one of them the very keenest of his executioners, and all four now apparently as thick as thieves! How was I to explain, in one moment, this wonderful resurrection and reconciliation?
I could not explain it—it was too complicated a mystery to be unravelled by a moment’s reflection; and I should have failed, had not the parties themselves soon after aided me to an elucidation.
I had arrived at the only natural conclusion, and this was, that the mulatto, notwithstanding the perfect resemblance,could not beYellow Jake. This, of course, would account for everything, after a manner; and had the four men gone away without parley, I should have contented myself with this hypothesis.
But they went not, until after affording me an opportunity of overhearing a conversation, which gave me to know, that, not only was Yellow Jakestill in the land of the living, but that Haj-Ewa had spoken the truth, when she told memy life was in danger.
“Damn! he’s not here, and yet where can he have gone?”
The ejaculation and interrogative were in the voice of Arens Ringgold, uttered in a tone of peevish surprise. Some one was sought for by the party who could not be found. Who that was, the next speaker made manifest.
There was a pause, and then reached my ears the voice of Bill Williams—which I easily recognised, from having heard it but the day before.
“You are sartint, Master Arens, he didn’t sneak back to the fort ’long wi’ the ginral?”
“Sure of it,” replied Master Arens; “I was by the gate as they came in. There were only the two—the general and the commissioner. But the question is, did he leave the hommock along with them? There’s where we played devil’s fool with the business—in not getting here in time, and watching them as they left. But who’d have thought he was going to stay behind them; if I had only known that—You say,” he continued, turning to the mulatto—“you say,Jake, you came direct from the Indian camp? He couldn’t have passed you on the path.”
“Carajo!SeñorAren! No?”
The voice, the old Spanish expression of profanity, just as I had heard them in my youth. If there had been doubt of the identity, it was gone. The testimony of my ears confirmed that of my eyes. The speaker was Yellow Jake.
“Straight from Seminole come. Cat no pass me on the road; I see her. Two chiefs me meet. I hide under the palmettoes; they no me see.Carrambo! no.”
“Deuce take it! where can he have gone! There’s no signs of him here. I know hemight have a reasonfor paying a visit to the Indians—that I know; but how has he got round there without Jake seeing him!”
“What’s to hinder him to hev goed round the tother road?”
“By the open plain?”
“Yes—that away.”
“No—he would not be likely. There’s only one way I can explain it: he must have come as far as the gate along with the general, and then kept down the stockade, and past the sutler’s house—that’s likely enough.”
This was said by Ringgold in a sort of half soliloquy.
“Devils?” he exclaimed in an impatient tone, “we’ll not get such a chance soon again.”
“Ne’er a fear, Master Arens,” said Williams—“ne’er a fear. Plenty o’ chances, I kalkerlate—gobs o’ chances sech times as these.”
“We’ll make chances,” pithily added Spence, who now spoke for the first time in my hearing.
“Ay, but here was a chance forJake—hemust do it, boys; neither of you must have a hand in it. Itmight leak out; and then we’d all be in a pretty pickle. Jake can do it, and not harm himself, forhe’s dead, you know, and the law can’t reach him! Isn’t it so, my yellow boy?”
“Carrambo! si, señor. No fear have, Don Aren Ringgol; ’for long, I opportunity find. Jake you get rid of enemy—never hear more of him; soon Yellow Jake good chance have. Yesterday miss. She bad gun, Don Aren—not worth shuck gun.”
“He has not yet returned inside the fort,” remarked Ringgold, again speaking in a half soliloquy. “I think he has not. If no, then he should be at the camp. He must go back to-night. It may be after the moon goes down. He must cross the open ground in the darkness. You hear, Jake, what I am saying?”
“Si, señor; Jake hear all.”
“And you know how to profit by the hint, eh?”
“Carrambo! si, señor. Jake know.”
“Well, then, we must return. Hear me, Jake—if—”
Here the voice of the speaker fell into a half whisper, and I could not hear what was said. Occasionally there were phrases muttered so loudly that I could catch their sound, and from what had already transpired, was enabled to apprehend something of their signification. I heard frequently pronounced the names of Viola the quadroon, and that of my own sister; the phrases—“only one that stands in our way,”—“mother easily consent,”—“when I am master of the plantation,”—“pay you two hundred dollars.”
These, with others of like import, satisfied me that between the two fiends some contract for the taking of my life had already been formed; and that this muttered dialogue was only a repetition of the terms of the hideous bargain!
No wonder that the cold sweat was oozing from my temples, and standing in bead-like drops upon my brow. No wonder that I sat upon my perch shaking like an aspen—far less with fear than with horror at the contemplated crime—absolute horror. I might have trembled in a greater degree, but that my nerves were to some extent stayed by the terrible indignation that was swelling up within my bosom.
I had sufficient command of my temper to remain silent; it was prudent I did so; had I discovered myself at that moment, I should never have left the ground alive. I felt certain of this, and took care to make no noise that might betray my presence.
And yet it was hard to hear four men coolly conspiring against one’s life—plotting and bargaining it away like a piece of merchandise—each expecting some profit from the speculation!
My wrath was as powerful as my fears—almost too strong for prudence. There were four of them, all armed. I had sword and pistols; but this would not have made me a match for four desperadoes such as they. Had there been only two of them—only Ringgold and the mulatto—so desperate was my indignation, at that moment, I should have leaped from the tree and risked the encountercoûte qui coûte.
But I disobeyed the promptings of passion, and remained silent till they had moved away.
I observed that Ringgold and his brace of bullies went towards the fort, while the mulatto took the direction of the Indian camp.
Chapter Thirty Five.Light after Darkness.I stirred not till they were gone—till long after. In fact, my mind was in a state of bewilderment, that for some moments hindered me either from acting or thinking; and I sat as if glued to the branch. Reflection came at length, and I began to speculate upon what I had just heard and seen.Was it a farce to frighten me? No, no—they were not the characters of a farce—not one of the four; and the re-appearance of Yellow Jake, partaking as it did of the wild and supernatural, was too dramatic, too serious to form an episode in comedy.On the contrary, I had just listened to the prologue of an intended tragedy, of which I was myself to be the victim. Beyond doubt, these men had a design upon my life!Four men, too, not one of whom could charge me with ever having done him a serious injury. I knew that all four disliked me, and ever had—though Spence and Williams could have no other cause of offence than what might spring from boyish grudge—long-forgotten by me; but doubtless their motive was Ringgold’s. As for the mulatto, I could understand his hostility; though mistaken, it was of the deadliest kind.But what was I to think of Arens Ringgold, the leader in this designed assassination? A man of some education—my equal in social rank—a gentleman!O Arens Ringgold—Arens Ringgold! How was I to explain it? How account for conduct so atrocious, so fiendish?I knew that this young man liked me but little—of late less than ever. I knew the cause too. I stood in the way of his relations with my sister—at least so thought he. And he had reason; for, since my father’s death, I had spoken more freely of family affairs. I had openly declared that, with my consent, he should never be my brother; and this declaration had reached him. I could easily believe, therefore, that he was angry with me; but anger that would impel a man to such demoniac purpose, I could not comprehend.And what meant those half-heard phrases—“one that stands in our way,” “mother easily consent,” “master of the plantation,” coupled with the names of Viola and my sister? What meant they?I could give them but one, and that a terrible interpretation—too fearful to dwell upon.I could scarcely credit my senses, scarcely believe that I was not labouring under some horrid hallucination, some confusion of the brain produced by my having beenen rapportwith the maniac!But no; the moon had been over them—my eyes open upon them—my ears open, and could not have deceived me. I saw what they did—I heard what they said. They designed to kill me!“Ho, ho, young mico, you may come down. Thehonowaw-hulwa(bad men) are gone.Hinklas! Come down, pretty mico—down, down, down!”I hastened to obey, and stood once more in the presence of the mad queen.“Now you believe Haj-Ewa? Have an enemy, young mico? Ho—four enemies. Your life in danger? Ho? ho?”“Ewa, you have saved my life; how am I to thank you for the service you have done me?”“Be true toher—true—true—true.”“To whom?”“Great Spirit! he has forgotten her! False young mico! false pale-face! Why did I save him? Why did I not let his blood fall to the ground?”“Ewa!”“Hulwak, hulwak! Poor forest-bird! the beauty-bird of all; her heart will sicken and die, her head will go mad.”“Ewa, explain.”“Hulwak! better he should die than desert her. Ho, ho! false pale-face, would that he had died before he broke poor Ewa’s heart; then Ewa would have lost only her heart; but her head—her head, that is worse. Ho, ho, ho!“Why did I trust in a pale-faced lover?Ho, ho, ho!Why did I meet him—”“Ewa,” I exclaimed with an earnestness that caused the woman to leave off her wild song, “tell me! of whom do you speak?”“Great Spirit, hear what he asks! Of whom?—of whom? there is more than one. Ho, ho! there is more than one, and the true one forgotten.Hulwak, hulwak! what shall Ewa say? What tale can Ewa tell? Poor bird! her heart will bleed, and her brain be crushed. Ho, ho! There will be two Haj-Ewas—two mad queens of the Micosaucs.”“For Heaven’s sake! keep me not in suspense. Tell me, Ewa, good Ewa, of whom are you speaking? Is it—”The name trembled upon my tongue; I hesitated to pronounce it. Notwithstanding that my heart was full of delightful hope, from the confidence I felt of receiving an affirmative answer, I dreaded to put the question.Not a great while did I hesitate; I had gone too far to recede. I had long waited to satisfy the wish of a yearning heart; I could wait no longer. Ewa might give me the satisfaction. I pronounced the words:“Is it—Maümee?”The maniac gazed upon me for some moments without speaking. The expression of her eye I could not read; for the last few minutes, it had been one of reproach and scorn. As I uttered the name, it changed to a look of bewilderment; and then her glance became fixed upon me, as if searching my thoughts.“If it be Maümee,” I continued, without awaiting her reply—for I was now carried away by the ardour of my resuscitated passion—“if it be she, know, Ewa, that her I love—Maümee I love.”“You love Maümee? You still love Maümee?” interrogated the maniac with startling quickness.“Ay, Ewa—by my life—by my—”“Cooree, cooree! swear not—hisvery oath.Hulwak! and he was false. Speak again, young mico? say you love Maümee—say you are true, but do not swear.”“True—true?”“Hinklas!” cried the woman in a loud and apparently joyful tone—“Hinklas! the mico is true—the pretty pale-faced mico is true, and thehaintclitz(the pretty one) will be happy.”Ho, ho!Now for the love, the sweet young loveUnder the tala tree (Palm,Chamaerops palmetto).Who would not be like yonder dove—The wild little dove—The soft little dove—Sitting close by his mate in the shade of the grove—Co-cooing to his mate in the shade of the grove,With none to hear or see?“Down,chitta mico!” she exclaimed, once more addressing the rattlesnake; “and you,ocola chitta! (Green snake.) Be quiet both. It isnotan enemy. Quiet, or I crush your heads!”“Good Ewa—”“Ho! you call me good Ewa. Some day, you may call me bad Ewa. Hear me!” she continued, raising her voice, and speaking with increased earnestness—“hear me, George Randolph! If ever you are bad—false likehim, likehim, then Haj-Ewa will be your enemy;chitta micowill destroy you. You will, my king of serpents? you will? Ho, ho, ho!”As she spoke the reptile appeared to comprehend her, for its head was suddenly raised aloft, its bright basilisk eyes gleamed as though emitting sparks of fire—its forked, glittering tongue was protruded from its mouth, and the “skirr-rr” of the rattles could be heard for some moments sounding continuously.“Quiet! now quiet!” said she, with a motion of her fingers, causing the serpent to resume its attitude of repose. “Not he,chitta! not he, thou king of the crawlers! Quiet, I say!”“Why do you threaten me, Ewa? You have no cause.”“Hinklas! I believe it, fair mico, gallant mico; true, I believe it.”“But, good Ewa, explain to me—tell me of—”“Cooree, cooree! not now, not to-night. There is no time,chepawnee! See! look yonder to the west!Netle-hasse(the night sun—the moon) is going to bed. You must be gone. You dare not walk in the darkness. You must get back to thetopekeebefore the moon is hid—go, go, go!”“But I told you, Ewa, I had business here. I dare not leave till it is done.”“Hulwak! there is danger then. What business, mico! Ah! I guess. See! they come for whom you wait?”“True—it is they, I believe.”I said this, as I perceived the tall shadows of the two chiefs flitting along the further edge of the pond.“Be quick, then: do what you must, but waste not time. In the darkness you will meet danger. Haj-Ewa must be gone. Good night, young mico: good night.”I returned the salutation; and facing round to await the arrival of the chiefs, lost sight of my strange companion.The Indians soon came upon the ground, and briefly delivered their report.Holata Mico had struck his tents, and was moving away from the encampment.I was too much disgusted with these traitorous men to spend a moment in their company; and, as soon as I had gained the required information, I hurried away from their presence.Warned by Haj-Ewa, as well as by the words of Arens Ringgold, I lost no time in returning to the fort. The moon was still above the horizon; and I had the advantage of her light to protect me from being surprised by any sudden onset.I walked hastily, taking the precaution to keep in the open ground, and giving a wide berth to any covert that might shelter an assassin.I saw no one on the way, nor around the back of the stockade. On arriving opposite the gate of the fort, however, I perceived the figure of a man—not far from the sutler’s store—apparently skulking behind some logs. I fancied I knew the man; I fancied he was the mulatto.I would have gone after him, and satisfied myself; but I had already hailed the sentinel, and given the countersign; and I did not desire to cause a flurry among the guard—particularly as I had received injunctions to pass in as privately as possible.Another time, I should likely encounter this Jacobredivivus; when I should be less embarrassed, and perhaps have a better opportunity of calling him and his diabolical associates to an account. With this reflection, I passed through the gate, and carried my report to the quarters of the commander-in-chief.
I stirred not till they were gone—till long after. In fact, my mind was in a state of bewilderment, that for some moments hindered me either from acting or thinking; and I sat as if glued to the branch. Reflection came at length, and I began to speculate upon what I had just heard and seen.
Was it a farce to frighten me? No, no—they were not the characters of a farce—not one of the four; and the re-appearance of Yellow Jake, partaking as it did of the wild and supernatural, was too dramatic, too serious to form an episode in comedy.
On the contrary, I had just listened to the prologue of an intended tragedy, of which I was myself to be the victim. Beyond doubt, these men had a design upon my life!
Four men, too, not one of whom could charge me with ever having done him a serious injury. I knew that all four disliked me, and ever had—though Spence and Williams could have no other cause of offence than what might spring from boyish grudge—long-forgotten by me; but doubtless their motive was Ringgold’s. As for the mulatto, I could understand his hostility; though mistaken, it was of the deadliest kind.
But what was I to think of Arens Ringgold, the leader in this designed assassination? A man of some education—my equal in social rank—a gentleman!
O Arens Ringgold—Arens Ringgold! How was I to explain it? How account for conduct so atrocious, so fiendish?
I knew that this young man liked me but little—of late less than ever. I knew the cause too. I stood in the way of his relations with my sister—at least so thought he. And he had reason; for, since my father’s death, I had spoken more freely of family affairs. I had openly declared that, with my consent, he should never be my brother; and this declaration had reached him. I could easily believe, therefore, that he was angry with me; but anger that would impel a man to such demoniac purpose, I could not comprehend.
And what meant those half-heard phrases—“one that stands in our way,” “mother easily consent,” “master of the plantation,” coupled with the names of Viola and my sister? What meant they?
I could give them but one, and that a terrible interpretation—too fearful to dwell upon.
I could scarcely credit my senses, scarcely believe that I was not labouring under some horrid hallucination, some confusion of the brain produced by my having beenen rapportwith the maniac!
But no; the moon had been over them—my eyes open upon them—my ears open, and could not have deceived me. I saw what they did—I heard what they said. They designed to kill me!
“Ho, ho, young mico, you may come down. Thehonowaw-hulwa(bad men) are gone.Hinklas! Come down, pretty mico—down, down, down!”
I hastened to obey, and stood once more in the presence of the mad queen.
“Now you believe Haj-Ewa? Have an enemy, young mico? Ho—four enemies. Your life in danger? Ho? ho?”
“Ewa, you have saved my life; how am I to thank you for the service you have done me?”
“Be true toher—true—true—true.”
“To whom?”
“Great Spirit! he has forgotten her! False young mico! false pale-face! Why did I save him? Why did I not let his blood fall to the ground?”
“Ewa!”
“Hulwak, hulwak! Poor forest-bird! the beauty-bird of all; her heart will sicken and die, her head will go mad.”
“Ewa, explain.”
“Hulwak! better he should die than desert her. Ho, ho! false pale-face, would that he had died before he broke poor Ewa’s heart; then Ewa would have lost only her heart; but her head—her head, that is worse. Ho, ho, ho!
“Why did I trust in a pale-faced lover?Ho, ho, ho!Why did I meet him—”
“Why did I trust in a pale-faced lover?Ho, ho, ho!Why did I meet him—”
“Ewa,” I exclaimed with an earnestness that caused the woman to leave off her wild song, “tell me! of whom do you speak?”
“Great Spirit, hear what he asks! Of whom?—of whom? there is more than one. Ho, ho! there is more than one, and the true one forgotten.Hulwak, hulwak! what shall Ewa say? What tale can Ewa tell? Poor bird! her heart will bleed, and her brain be crushed. Ho, ho! There will be two Haj-Ewas—two mad queens of the Micosaucs.”
“For Heaven’s sake! keep me not in suspense. Tell me, Ewa, good Ewa, of whom are you speaking? Is it—”
The name trembled upon my tongue; I hesitated to pronounce it. Notwithstanding that my heart was full of delightful hope, from the confidence I felt of receiving an affirmative answer, I dreaded to put the question.
Not a great while did I hesitate; I had gone too far to recede. I had long waited to satisfy the wish of a yearning heart; I could wait no longer. Ewa might give me the satisfaction. I pronounced the words:
“Is it—Maümee?”
The maniac gazed upon me for some moments without speaking. The expression of her eye I could not read; for the last few minutes, it had been one of reproach and scorn. As I uttered the name, it changed to a look of bewilderment; and then her glance became fixed upon me, as if searching my thoughts.
“If it be Maümee,” I continued, without awaiting her reply—for I was now carried away by the ardour of my resuscitated passion—“if it be she, know, Ewa, that her I love—Maümee I love.”
“You love Maümee? You still love Maümee?” interrogated the maniac with startling quickness.
“Ay, Ewa—by my life—by my—”
“Cooree, cooree! swear not—hisvery oath.Hulwak! and he was false. Speak again, young mico? say you love Maümee—say you are true, but do not swear.”
“True—true?”
“Hinklas!” cried the woman in a loud and apparently joyful tone—“Hinklas! the mico is true—the pretty pale-faced mico is true, and thehaintclitz(the pretty one) will be happy.”
Ho, ho!Now for the love, the sweet young loveUnder the tala tree (Palm,Chamaerops palmetto).Who would not be like yonder dove—The wild little dove—The soft little dove—Sitting close by his mate in the shade of the grove—Co-cooing to his mate in the shade of the grove,With none to hear or see?
Ho, ho!Now for the love, the sweet young loveUnder the tala tree (Palm,Chamaerops palmetto).Who would not be like yonder dove—The wild little dove—The soft little dove—Sitting close by his mate in the shade of the grove—Co-cooing to his mate in the shade of the grove,With none to hear or see?
“Down,chitta mico!” she exclaimed, once more addressing the rattlesnake; “and you,ocola chitta! (Green snake.) Be quiet both. It isnotan enemy. Quiet, or I crush your heads!”
“Good Ewa—”
“Ho! you call me good Ewa. Some day, you may call me bad Ewa. Hear me!” she continued, raising her voice, and speaking with increased earnestness—“hear me, George Randolph! If ever you are bad—false likehim, likehim, then Haj-Ewa will be your enemy;chitta micowill destroy you. You will, my king of serpents? you will? Ho, ho, ho!”
As she spoke the reptile appeared to comprehend her, for its head was suddenly raised aloft, its bright basilisk eyes gleamed as though emitting sparks of fire—its forked, glittering tongue was protruded from its mouth, and the “skirr-rr” of the rattles could be heard for some moments sounding continuously.
“Quiet! now quiet!” said she, with a motion of her fingers, causing the serpent to resume its attitude of repose. “Not he,chitta! not he, thou king of the crawlers! Quiet, I say!”
“Why do you threaten me, Ewa? You have no cause.”
“Hinklas! I believe it, fair mico, gallant mico; true, I believe it.”
“But, good Ewa, explain to me—tell me of—”
“Cooree, cooree! not now, not to-night. There is no time,chepawnee! See! look yonder to the west!Netle-hasse(the night sun—the moon) is going to bed. You must be gone. You dare not walk in the darkness. You must get back to thetopekeebefore the moon is hid—go, go, go!”
“But I told you, Ewa, I had business here. I dare not leave till it is done.”
“Hulwak! there is danger then. What business, mico! Ah! I guess. See! they come for whom you wait?”
“True—it is they, I believe.”
I said this, as I perceived the tall shadows of the two chiefs flitting along the further edge of the pond.
“Be quick, then: do what you must, but waste not time. In the darkness you will meet danger. Haj-Ewa must be gone. Good night, young mico: good night.”
I returned the salutation; and facing round to await the arrival of the chiefs, lost sight of my strange companion.
The Indians soon came upon the ground, and briefly delivered their report.
Holata Mico had struck his tents, and was moving away from the encampment.
I was too much disgusted with these traitorous men to spend a moment in their company; and, as soon as I had gained the required information, I hurried away from their presence.
Warned by Haj-Ewa, as well as by the words of Arens Ringgold, I lost no time in returning to the fort. The moon was still above the horizon; and I had the advantage of her light to protect me from being surprised by any sudden onset.
I walked hastily, taking the precaution to keep in the open ground, and giving a wide berth to any covert that might shelter an assassin.
I saw no one on the way, nor around the back of the stockade. On arriving opposite the gate of the fort, however, I perceived the figure of a man—not far from the sutler’s store—apparently skulking behind some logs. I fancied I knew the man; I fancied he was the mulatto.
I would have gone after him, and satisfied myself; but I had already hailed the sentinel, and given the countersign; and I did not desire to cause a flurry among the guard—particularly as I had received injunctions to pass in as privately as possible.
Another time, I should likely encounter this Jacobredivivus; when I should be less embarrassed, and perhaps have a better opportunity of calling him and his diabolical associates to an account. With this reflection, I passed through the gate, and carried my report to the quarters of the commander-in-chief.
Chapter Thirty Six.In Need of a Friend.To pass the night under the same roof with a man who intends to murder you is anything but pleasant, and repose under the circumstance, is next to impossible. I slept but little, and the little sleep I did obtain was not tranquil.Before retiring for the night, I had seen nothing of the Ringgolds, neither father nor son; but I knew they were still in the fort, where they were to remain as guests a day or two longer. They had either gone to bed before my return, or were entertained in the quarters of some friendly officer. At all events, they did not appear to me during the remainder of the night.Neither saw I aught of Spence and Williams. These worthies, if in the fort, would find a lodgment among the soldiers, but I did not seek them.Most of the night I lay awake, pondering on the strange incidents of the day, or rather upon that one episode that had made me acquainted with such deadly enemies.I was in a state of sad perplexity as to what course I should pursue—uncertain all night long; and when daylight shone through the shutters, still uncertain.My first impulse had been to disclose the whole affair at head-quarters, and demand an investigation—a punishment.On reflection, this course would not do. What proofs could I offer of so grave an accusation? Only my own assertions, unbacked by any other evidence—unsustained even by probability—for who would have given credence to crime so unparalleled in atrocity?Though certain the assassins referred to me, I could not assert that they had even mentioned my name. My story would be treated with ridicule, myself perhaps with something worse. The Ringgolds were mighty men—personal friends both of the general and commissioner—and though known to be a little scoundrelly and unscrupulous in worldly affairs, still holding the rank of gentlemen. It would need better evidence than I could offer to prove Arens Ringgold a would-be murderer.I saw the difficulty, and kept my secret.Another plan appeared more feasible—to accuse Arens Ringgold openly before all, and challenge him to mortal combat. This, at least, would prove that I was sincere in my allegations.But duelling was against the laws of the service. It would require some management to keep clear of an arrest—which of course would frustrate the scheme before satisfaction could be obtained. I had my own thoughts about Master Arens Ringgold. I knew his courage was but slippery. He would be likely enough to play the poltroon; but whether so or not, the charge and challenge would go some way towards exposing him.I had almost decided on adopting this course, though it was morning before I had come to any determination.I stood sadly in need of a friend; not merely a second—for this I could easily procure—but a companion in whom I could confide, and who might aid me by his counsel. As ill luck would have it, every officer in the fort was a perfect stranger to me. With the Ringgolds alone had I any previous acquaintance.In my dilemma, I thought of one whose advice might stand me in good stead, and I determined to seek it. Black Jake was the man—he should be my counsellor.Shortly after daylight the brave fellow was by my side. I told him all. He appeared very little surprised. Some suspicion of such a plot had already taken possession of his mind, and it was his intention to have revealed it to me that very morning. Least of all did he express surprise about Yellow Jake. That was but the confirmation of a belief, which he entertained already, without the shadow of a doubt. He knew positively that the mulatto was living—still more, he had ascertained the mode by which the latter had made his almost miraculous escape.And yet it was simple enough. The alligator had seized him, as was supposed; but the fellow had the adroitness to “job” its eyes with the knife, and thus cause it to let go its hold. He had followed the example of the young Indian, using the same weapon!This occurred under water, for the mulatto was a good diver. His limbs were lacerated—hence the blood—but the wounds did not signify, nor did they hinder him from making further efforts to escape.He took care not to rise to the surface until after swimming under the bank; there, concealed by the drooping branches, he had glided out, and climbed up into a live-oak—where the moss sheltered him from the eyes of his vengeful pursuers. Being entirely naked, there was no sign left by dripping garments, to betray him; besides, the blood upon the water had proved his friend. On seeing that, the hunters were under the full belief that he had “gone under,” and therefore took but little pains to search further.Such was Black Jake’s account of this affair. He had obtained it the evening before from one of the friendly Indians at the fort, who professed to have the narration from the mulatto’s own lips.There was nothing improbable in the story, but the contrary. In all likelihood, it was strictly true; and it at once dispersed the half-dozen mysteries that had gathered in my mind.The black had received other information. The runaway had taken refuge with one of the half-negro tribes established amid the swamps that envelop the head-waters of the Amazura. He had found favour among his new associates, had risen to be a chief, and now passed under the cognomen of the “Mulatto-mica.”There was still a little mystery: how came he and Arens Ringgold in “cahoot?”After all, there was not much puzzle in the matter. The planter had no particular cause for hating the runaway. His activity during the scene of the baffled execution was all a sham. The mulatto had more reason for resentment; but the loves or hates of such men are easily set aside—where self-interest interferes—and can, at any time, be commuted for gold.No doubt, the white villain had found the yellow one of service in some base undertaking, andvice versâ. At all events, it was evident that the “hatchet had been buried” between them, and their present relations were upon the most friendly footing.“Jake!” said I, coming to the point on which I desired to hear his opinion, “what about Arens Ringgold—shall I call him out?”“Golly, Massr George, he am out long ’go—I see um ’bout, dis two hour an’ more—dat ar bossy doant sleep berry sound—he hant got de good conscience, I reck’n.”“Oh! that is not what I mean, my man.”“Wha—what massr mean?”“To call him out—challenge him to fight me.”“Whaugh! massr, d’you mean to say a dewel ob sword an’ pistol?”“Swords, pistols, or rifles—I care not which weapon he may choose.”“Gorramity! Massr George, don’t talk ob such a thing. O Lordy! no—you hab moder—you hab sister. ’Spose you get kill—who know—tha bullock he sometime kill tha butcha—den, Massr George, no one lef—who lef take care on ya moder?—who be guardium ob ya sister Vagin? who ’tect Viola—who ’tect all ob us from dese bad bad men? Gorramity! massr, let um lone—doant call ’im out!”At that moment, I was myself called out. The earnest appeal was interrupted by the braying of bugles and the rolling of drums, announcing the assembling of the council; and without waiting to reply to the disinterested remonstrance of my companion, I hastened to the scene of my duties.
To pass the night under the same roof with a man who intends to murder you is anything but pleasant, and repose under the circumstance, is next to impossible. I slept but little, and the little sleep I did obtain was not tranquil.
Before retiring for the night, I had seen nothing of the Ringgolds, neither father nor son; but I knew they were still in the fort, where they were to remain as guests a day or two longer. They had either gone to bed before my return, or were entertained in the quarters of some friendly officer. At all events, they did not appear to me during the remainder of the night.
Neither saw I aught of Spence and Williams. These worthies, if in the fort, would find a lodgment among the soldiers, but I did not seek them.
Most of the night I lay awake, pondering on the strange incidents of the day, or rather upon that one episode that had made me acquainted with such deadly enemies.
I was in a state of sad perplexity as to what course I should pursue—uncertain all night long; and when daylight shone through the shutters, still uncertain.
My first impulse had been to disclose the whole affair at head-quarters, and demand an investigation—a punishment.
On reflection, this course would not do. What proofs could I offer of so grave an accusation? Only my own assertions, unbacked by any other evidence—unsustained even by probability—for who would have given credence to crime so unparalleled in atrocity?
Though certain the assassins referred to me, I could not assert that they had even mentioned my name. My story would be treated with ridicule, myself perhaps with something worse. The Ringgolds were mighty men—personal friends both of the general and commissioner—and though known to be a little scoundrelly and unscrupulous in worldly affairs, still holding the rank of gentlemen. It would need better evidence than I could offer to prove Arens Ringgold a would-be murderer.
I saw the difficulty, and kept my secret.
Another plan appeared more feasible—to accuse Arens Ringgold openly before all, and challenge him to mortal combat. This, at least, would prove that I was sincere in my allegations.
But duelling was against the laws of the service. It would require some management to keep clear of an arrest—which of course would frustrate the scheme before satisfaction could be obtained. I had my own thoughts about Master Arens Ringgold. I knew his courage was but slippery. He would be likely enough to play the poltroon; but whether so or not, the charge and challenge would go some way towards exposing him.
I had almost decided on adopting this course, though it was morning before I had come to any determination.
I stood sadly in need of a friend; not merely a second—for this I could easily procure—but a companion in whom I could confide, and who might aid me by his counsel. As ill luck would have it, every officer in the fort was a perfect stranger to me. With the Ringgolds alone had I any previous acquaintance.
In my dilemma, I thought of one whose advice might stand me in good stead, and I determined to seek it. Black Jake was the man—he should be my counsellor.
Shortly after daylight the brave fellow was by my side. I told him all. He appeared very little surprised. Some suspicion of such a plot had already taken possession of his mind, and it was his intention to have revealed it to me that very morning. Least of all did he express surprise about Yellow Jake. That was but the confirmation of a belief, which he entertained already, without the shadow of a doubt. He knew positively that the mulatto was living—still more, he had ascertained the mode by which the latter had made his almost miraculous escape.
And yet it was simple enough. The alligator had seized him, as was supposed; but the fellow had the adroitness to “job” its eyes with the knife, and thus cause it to let go its hold. He had followed the example of the young Indian, using the same weapon!
This occurred under water, for the mulatto was a good diver. His limbs were lacerated—hence the blood—but the wounds did not signify, nor did they hinder him from making further efforts to escape.
He took care not to rise to the surface until after swimming under the bank; there, concealed by the drooping branches, he had glided out, and climbed up into a live-oak—where the moss sheltered him from the eyes of his vengeful pursuers. Being entirely naked, there was no sign left by dripping garments, to betray him; besides, the blood upon the water had proved his friend. On seeing that, the hunters were under the full belief that he had “gone under,” and therefore took but little pains to search further.
Such was Black Jake’s account of this affair. He had obtained it the evening before from one of the friendly Indians at the fort, who professed to have the narration from the mulatto’s own lips.
There was nothing improbable in the story, but the contrary. In all likelihood, it was strictly true; and it at once dispersed the half-dozen mysteries that had gathered in my mind.
The black had received other information. The runaway had taken refuge with one of the half-negro tribes established amid the swamps that envelop the head-waters of the Amazura. He had found favour among his new associates, had risen to be a chief, and now passed under the cognomen of the “Mulatto-mica.”
There was still a little mystery: how came he and Arens Ringgold in “cahoot?”
After all, there was not much puzzle in the matter. The planter had no particular cause for hating the runaway. His activity during the scene of the baffled execution was all a sham. The mulatto had more reason for resentment; but the loves or hates of such men are easily set aside—where self-interest interferes—and can, at any time, be commuted for gold.
No doubt, the white villain had found the yellow one of service in some base undertaking, andvice versâ. At all events, it was evident that the “hatchet had been buried” between them, and their present relations were upon the most friendly footing.
“Jake!” said I, coming to the point on which I desired to hear his opinion, “what about Arens Ringgold—shall I call him out?”
“Golly, Massr George, he am out long ’go—I see um ’bout, dis two hour an’ more—dat ar bossy doant sleep berry sound—he hant got de good conscience, I reck’n.”
“Oh! that is not what I mean, my man.”
“Wha—what massr mean?”
“To call him out—challenge him to fight me.”
“Whaugh! massr, d’you mean to say a dewel ob sword an’ pistol?”
“Swords, pistols, or rifles—I care not which weapon he may choose.”
“Gorramity! Massr George, don’t talk ob such a thing. O Lordy! no—you hab moder—you hab sister. ’Spose you get kill—who know—tha bullock he sometime kill tha butcha—den, Massr George, no one lef—who lef take care on ya moder?—who be guardium ob ya sister Vagin? who ’tect Viola—who ’tect all ob us from dese bad bad men? Gorramity! massr, let um lone—doant call ’im out!”
At that moment, I was myself called out. The earnest appeal was interrupted by the braying of bugles and the rolling of drums, announcing the assembling of the council; and without waiting to reply to the disinterested remonstrance of my companion, I hastened to the scene of my duties.
Chapter Thirty Seven.The Final Assembly.The spectacle of yesterday was repeated: the troops in serried lines of blue and steel—the officers in full uniform with shining epaulettes—in the centre the staff grouped around the general, close buttoned and of brilliant sheen; fronting these the half-circle of chiefs, backed by concentric lines of warriors, plumed, painted, and picturesque—horses standing near, some neighing under ready saddles, some picketed and quietly browsing—Indian women in their longhunnas, hurrying to and fro—boys and babes at play upon the grass—flags waring above the soldiers—banners and pennons floating over the heads of the red warriors—drums beating—bugles braying; such was the array.Again the spectacle was imposing, yet scarcely so much as that of the preceding day. The eye at once detected a deficiency in the circle of the chiefs, and nearly half of the warriors were wanting. The assemblage no longer impressed you with the idea of a multitude—it was only a respectable crowd, with room enough for all to gather close around the council.The absence of many chiefs was at once perceived. King Onopa was not there. The coronet of British brass—lacquered symbol of royalty, yesterday conspicuous in the centre—was no longer to be seen. Holato Mico was missing, with other leaders of less note; and the thinness in the ranks of the common warriors showed that these chiefs had taken their followers along with them. Most of the Indians on the ground appeared to be of the clans of Omatla, “Black Dirt,” and Ohala.Notwithstanding the fewness of their following, I saw that Hoitle-mattee, Arpiucki, negro Abram, and the dwarf were present. Surely these stayed not to sign?I looked for Osceola. It was not difficult to discover one so conspicuous, both in figure and feature. He formed the last link in the now contracted curve of the chiefs. He was lowest in rank, but this did not signify, as regarded his position. Perhaps he had placed himself there from a feeling of modesty—a well-known characteristic of the man. He was in truth the very youngest of the chiefs, and by birthright entitled to a smaller command than any present; but, viewing him as he stood—even at the bottom of the rank—one could not help fancying that he was the head of all.As upon the preceding day, there was no appearance of bravado about him. His attitude, though stately and statuesque, was one of perfect ease. His arms were folded over his full chest—his weight resting on one limb, the other slightly retired—his features in repose, or now and then lit up by an expression rather of gentleness. He seemed the impersonation of an Apollo—or, to speak less mythologically, a well-behaved gentleman waiting for some ceremony, of which he was to be a simple spectator. As yet, nothing had transpired to excite him; no words had been uttered to rouse a spirit that onlyseemedto slumber.Ere long, that attitude of repose would pass away—that soft smile would change to the harsh frown of passion.Gazing upon his face, one could hardly fancy such a transformation possible, and yet a close observer might. It was like the placid sky that precedes the storm—the calm ocean that in a moment may be convulsed by the squall—the couchant lion that on the slightest provocation may be roused to ungovernable rage.During the moments that preceded the inauguration of the council, I kept my eyes upon the young chief. Other eyes were regarding him as well; he was the cynosure of many, but mine was a gaze of peculiar interest.I looked for some token of recognition, but received none—neither nod nor glance. Once or twice, his eye fell upon me, but passed on to some one else, as though I was but one among the crowd of his pale-faced adversaries. He appeared not to remember me. Was this really so? or was it, that his mind, preoccupied with great thoughts, hindered him from taking notice?I did not fail to cast my eyes abroad—over the plain—to the tents—towards the groups of loitering women. I scanned their forms, one after another.I fancied I saw the mad queen in their midst—a centre of interest. I had hopes that herprotégéemight be near, but no. None of the figures satisfied my eye: they were all toosquaw-like—too short or too tall—too corpulent or toomaigre. She was not there. Even under the loosehunnaI should have recognised her splendid form—if still unchanged.If—the hypothesis excites your surprise. Why changed, you ask? Growth?—development?—maturity? Rapid in this southern clime is the passage from maiden’s form to that of matron.No; not that, not that. Though still so young, the undulating outlines had already shown themselves. When I last looked upon her, her stature had reached its limits; her form exhibited the bold curve of Hogarth, so characteristic of womanhood complete. Not that did I fear.And what then? The contrary? Change from attenuation—from illness or grief? Nor this.I cannot explain the suspicions that racked me—sprung from a stray speech. That jay bird, that yestreen chattered so gaily, had poured poison into my heart. But no; it could not be Maümee? She was too innocent. Ah! why do I rave? There is no guilt in love. If true—if she—hers was not crime; he alone was the guilty one.I have ill described the torture I experienced, consequent upon my unlucky “eaves-dropping.” During the whole of the preceding days it had been a source of real suffering. I was in the predicament of one who had, heard too much, and to little.You will scarcely wonder that the words of Haj-Ewa cheered me; they drove the unworthy suspicion out of my mind, and inspired me with fresh hopes. True, she had mentioned no name till I myself had pronounced it; but to whom could her speech refer? “Poor bird of the forest—her heart will bleed and break.” She spoke of the “Rising Sun:” that was Osceola, who could the “haintclitz” be? who but Maümee?It might be but a tale of bygone days—a glimpse of the past deeply impressed upon the brain of the maniac, and still living in her memory. This was possible. Haj-Ewa had known us in these days, had often met us in our wild wood rambles, had even been with us upon the island—for the mad queen could paddle her canoe with skill, could ride her wild steed, could go anywhere, went everywhere.It might only be a souvenir of these happy days that caused her to speak as she had done—in the chaos of her intellect, mistaking the past for the present. Heaven forbid!The thought troubled me, but not long; for I did not long entertain it. I clung to the pleasanter belief. Her words were sweet as honey, and formed a pleasing counterpoise to the fear I might otherwise have felt, on discovering the plot against my life. With the knowledge that Maümee once loved—still loved me—I could brave dangers a hundred-fold greater than that. It is but a weak heart that would not be gallant under the influence of love. Encouraged by the smiles of a beautiful mistress, even cowards can be brave. Arens Ringgold was standing by my side. Entrained in the crowd, our garments touched; we conversed together!He was even more polite to me than was his wont—morefriendly! His speech scarcely betrayed the habitual cynicism of his nature; though, whenever I looked him in the face, his eye quailed, and his glance sought the ground.For all that, he had no suspicion—not the slightest—that I knew I was side by side with the man who designed to murder me.
The spectacle of yesterday was repeated: the troops in serried lines of blue and steel—the officers in full uniform with shining epaulettes—in the centre the staff grouped around the general, close buttoned and of brilliant sheen; fronting these the half-circle of chiefs, backed by concentric lines of warriors, plumed, painted, and picturesque—horses standing near, some neighing under ready saddles, some picketed and quietly browsing—Indian women in their longhunnas, hurrying to and fro—boys and babes at play upon the grass—flags waring above the soldiers—banners and pennons floating over the heads of the red warriors—drums beating—bugles braying; such was the array.
Again the spectacle was imposing, yet scarcely so much as that of the preceding day. The eye at once detected a deficiency in the circle of the chiefs, and nearly half of the warriors were wanting. The assemblage no longer impressed you with the idea of a multitude—it was only a respectable crowd, with room enough for all to gather close around the council.
The absence of many chiefs was at once perceived. King Onopa was not there. The coronet of British brass—lacquered symbol of royalty, yesterday conspicuous in the centre—was no longer to be seen. Holato Mico was missing, with other leaders of less note; and the thinness in the ranks of the common warriors showed that these chiefs had taken their followers along with them. Most of the Indians on the ground appeared to be of the clans of Omatla, “Black Dirt,” and Ohala.
Notwithstanding the fewness of their following, I saw that Hoitle-mattee, Arpiucki, negro Abram, and the dwarf were present. Surely these stayed not to sign?
I looked for Osceola. It was not difficult to discover one so conspicuous, both in figure and feature. He formed the last link in the now contracted curve of the chiefs. He was lowest in rank, but this did not signify, as regarded his position. Perhaps he had placed himself there from a feeling of modesty—a well-known characteristic of the man. He was in truth the very youngest of the chiefs, and by birthright entitled to a smaller command than any present; but, viewing him as he stood—even at the bottom of the rank—one could not help fancying that he was the head of all.
As upon the preceding day, there was no appearance of bravado about him. His attitude, though stately and statuesque, was one of perfect ease. His arms were folded over his full chest—his weight resting on one limb, the other slightly retired—his features in repose, or now and then lit up by an expression rather of gentleness. He seemed the impersonation of an Apollo—or, to speak less mythologically, a well-behaved gentleman waiting for some ceremony, of which he was to be a simple spectator. As yet, nothing had transpired to excite him; no words had been uttered to rouse a spirit that onlyseemedto slumber.
Ere long, that attitude of repose would pass away—that soft smile would change to the harsh frown of passion.
Gazing upon his face, one could hardly fancy such a transformation possible, and yet a close observer might. It was like the placid sky that precedes the storm—the calm ocean that in a moment may be convulsed by the squall—the couchant lion that on the slightest provocation may be roused to ungovernable rage.
During the moments that preceded the inauguration of the council, I kept my eyes upon the young chief. Other eyes were regarding him as well; he was the cynosure of many, but mine was a gaze of peculiar interest.
I looked for some token of recognition, but received none—neither nod nor glance. Once or twice, his eye fell upon me, but passed on to some one else, as though I was but one among the crowd of his pale-faced adversaries. He appeared not to remember me. Was this really so? or was it, that his mind, preoccupied with great thoughts, hindered him from taking notice?
I did not fail to cast my eyes abroad—over the plain—to the tents—towards the groups of loitering women. I scanned their forms, one after another.
I fancied I saw the mad queen in their midst—a centre of interest. I had hopes that herprotégéemight be near, but no. None of the figures satisfied my eye: they were all toosquaw-like—too short or too tall—too corpulent or toomaigre. She was not there. Even under the loosehunnaI should have recognised her splendid form—if still unchanged.
If—the hypothesis excites your surprise. Why changed, you ask? Growth?—development?—maturity? Rapid in this southern clime is the passage from maiden’s form to that of matron.
No; not that, not that. Though still so young, the undulating outlines had already shown themselves. When I last looked upon her, her stature had reached its limits; her form exhibited the bold curve of Hogarth, so characteristic of womanhood complete. Not that did I fear.
And what then? The contrary? Change from attenuation—from illness or grief? Nor this.
I cannot explain the suspicions that racked me—sprung from a stray speech. That jay bird, that yestreen chattered so gaily, had poured poison into my heart. But no; it could not be Maümee? She was too innocent. Ah! why do I rave? There is no guilt in love. If true—if she—hers was not crime; he alone was the guilty one.
I have ill described the torture I experienced, consequent upon my unlucky “eaves-dropping.” During the whole of the preceding days it had been a source of real suffering. I was in the predicament of one who had, heard too much, and to little.
You will scarcely wonder that the words of Haj-Ewa cheered me; they drove the unworthy suspicion out of my mind, and inspired me with fresh hopes. True, she had mentioned no name till I myself had pronounced it; but to whom could her speech refer? “Poor bird of the forest—her heart will bleed and break.” She spoke of the “Rising Sun:” that was Osceola, who could the “haintclitz” be? who but Maümee?
It might be but a tale of bygone days—a glimpse of the past deeply impressed upon the brain of the maniac, and still living in her memory. This was possible. Haj-Ewa had known us in these days, had often met us in our wild wood rambles, had even been with us upon the island—for the mad queen could paddle her canoe with skill, could ride her wild steed, could go anywhere, went everywhere.
It might only be a souvenir of these happy days that caused her to speak as she had done—in the chaos of her intellect, mistaking the past for the present. Heaven forbid!
The thought troubled me, but not long; for I did not long entertain it. I clung to the pleasanter belief. Her words were sweet as honey, and formed a pleasing counterpoise to the fear I might otherwise have felt, on discovering the plot against my life. With the knowledge that Maümee once loved—still loved me—I could brave dangers a hundred-fold greater than that. It is but a weak heart that would not be gallant under the influence of love. Encouraged by the smiles of a beautiful mistress, even cowards can be brave. Arens Ringgold was standing by my side. Entrained in the crowd, our garments touched; we conversed together!
He was even more polite to me than was his wont—morefriendly! His speech scarcely betrayed the habitual cynicism of his nature; though, whenever I looked him in the face, his eye quailed, and his glance sought the ground.
For all that, he had no suspicion—not the slightest—that I knew I was side by side with the man who designed to murder me.
Chapter Thirty Eight.Cashiering the Chiefs.To-day the commissioner showed a bolder front. A bold part had he resolved to play, but he felt sure of success; and consequently there was an air of triumph in his looks. He regarded the chiefs with the imperious glance of one determined to command them; confident they would yield obedience to his wishes.At intervals his eye rested upon Osceola with a look of peculiar significance, at once sinister and triumphant. I was in the secret of that glance: I guessed its import; I knew that it boded no good to the young Seminole chief. Could I have approached him at that moment, I should have held duty but lightly, and whimpered in his ear a word of warning.I was angry with myself that I had not thought of this before. Haj-Ewa could have borne a message on the previous night; why did I not send it? My mind had been too full. Occupied with my own thoughts, I had not thought of the danger that threatened my friend—for in this light I still regarded Powell.I had no exact knowledge of what was meant; though, from the conversation I had overheard, I more than half divined the commissioner’s purpose. Upon some plea,Osceola was to be arrested.A plea was needed; the outrage could not be perpetrated without one. Even the reckless agent might not venture upon such a stretch of power without plausible pretext; and how was this pretext to be obtained?The withdrawal of Onopa and the “hostiles,” while Omatla with the “friendlies” remained, had given the agent the opportunity.Osceola himself was to furnish the plea.Would that I could have whispered in his ear one word of caution!It was too late: the toils had been laid—the trap set; and the noble game was about to enter it. It was too late for me to warn him. I must stand idly by—spectator to an act of injustice—a gross violation of right.A table was placed in front of the ground occupied by the general and staff; the commissioner stood immediately behind it. Upon this table was an inkstand with pens; while a broad parchment, exhibiting the creases of many folds, was spread out till it occupied nearly the whole surface. This parchment was the treaty of the Oclawaha.“Yesterday,” began the commissioner, without further preamble, “we did nothing but talk—to-day we are met to act. This,” said he, pointing to the parchment, “is the treaty of Payne’s Landing. I hope you have all considered what I said yesterday, and are ready to sign it?”“We have considered,” replied Omatla for himself and those of his party. “We are ready to sign.”“Onopa is head chief,” suggested the commissioner; “let him sign first. Where is Miconopa?” he added, looking around the circle with feigned surprise.“The mico-mico is not here.”“And why not here? He should have been here. Why is he absent?”“He is sick—he is not able to attend the council.”“That is alie, Jumper. Miconopa is shamming—you know he is.”The dark brow of Hoitle-mattee grew darker at the insult, while his body quivered with rage. A grunt of disdain was all the reply he made, and folding his arms, he drew back into his former attitude.“Abram! you are Miconopa’s private counsellor—you know his intentions. Why has he absented himself?”“O Massr Ginral!” replied the black in broken English, and speaking without much show of respect for his interrogator, “how shed ole Abe know the ’tention of King Nopy? The mico no tell me ebberting—he go he please—he come he please—he great chief; he no tell nobody his ’tention.”“Does he intend to sign? Say yes or no.”“No, den!” responded the interpreter, in a firm voice, as if forced to the answer. “That much ob his mind Abedoknow. He no ’tend to sign that ar dockament. He say no, no.”“Enough!” cried the commissioner in a loud voice—“enough! Now hear me, chiefs and warriors of the Seminole nation! I appear before you armed with a power from your Great Father the President—he who is chief of us all. That power enables me to punish for disloyalty and disobedience; and I now exercise that right upon Miconopa.He is no longer king of the Seminoles!”This unexpected announcement produced an effect upon the audience similar to that of an electric shock. It started the chiefs and warriors into new attitudes, and all stood looking eagerly at the speaker. But the expression upon their faces was not of like import—it varied much. Some showed signs of anger as well as surprise. A few appeared pleased, while the majority evidently received the announcement with incredulity.Surely the commissioner was jesting? How couldhemake or unmake a king of the Seminoles? How could the Great Father himself do this? The Seminoles were a free nation; they were not even tributary to the whites—under no political connection whatever. They themselves could alone elect their king—they only could depose him. Surely the commissioner was jesting?Not at all. In another moment, they perceived he was in earnest. Foolish as was the project of deposing King Onopa, he entertained it seriously. He had resolved to carry it into execution; and as far as decrees went, he did so without further delay.“Omatla! you have been faithful to your word and your honour; you are worthy to head a brave nation. From this time forth,youare King of the Seminoles. Our Great Father, and the people of the United States, hail you as such; they will acknowledge no other. Now—let the signing proceed.”At a gesture from the commissioner, Omatla stepped forward to the table, and taking the pen in his hand, wrote his name upon the parchment.The act was done in perfect silence. But one voice broke the deep stillness—one word only was heard uttered with angry aspirate; it was the word “traitor.”I looked round to discover who had pronounced it; the hiss was still quivering upon the lips of Osceola; while his eye was fixed on Omatla with a glance of ineffable scorn.“Black Crazy Clay” next took the pen, and affixed his signature, which was done by simply making his “mark.”After him follower Ohala, Itolasse Omatla, and about a dozen—all of whom were known as the chiefs that favoured the scheme of removal.The hostile chiefs—whether by accident or design I know not—stood together, forming the left wing of the semi-circle. It was now their turn to declare themselves.Hoitle-mattee was the first about whose signing the commissioner entertained any doubt. There was a pause, significant of apprehension.“It is your turn, Jumper,” said the latter at length, addressing the chief by his English name.“You mayjumpme, then,” replied the eloquent and witty chief, making a jest of what he meant for earnest as well.“How? you refuse to sign?”“Hoitle-mattee does not write.”“It is not necessary; your name is already written; you have only to place your finger upon it.”“I might put my finger on the wrong place.”“You can sign by making a cross,” continued the agent, still in hopes that the chief would consent.“We Seminoles have but little liking for the cross; we had enough of it in the days of the Spaniards.Hulwak!”“Then you positively refuse to sign?”“Ho! Mister Commissioner does it surprise you?”“Be it so, then. Now hear what I have to say to you.”“Hoitle-mattee’s ears are as open as the commissioner’s mouth,” was the sneering rejoinder.“I depose Hoitle-mattee from the chieftainship of his clan. The Great Father will no longer recognise him as chief of the Seminoles.”“Ha, ha, ha!” came the scornful laugh in reply. “Indeed—indeed! And tell me,” he asked, still continuing to laugh, and treating with derision the solemn enunciation of the commissioner, “of whom am I to be chief, General Thompson.”“I have pronounced,” said the agent, evidently confused and nettled by the ironical manner of the Indian; “you are no more a chief—we will not acknowledge you as one.”“But my people?—what of them?” asked the other in a fine tone of irony; “have they nothing to say in this matter?”“Your people will act with reason. They will listen to their Great Father’s advice. They will no longer obey a leader who has acted without faith.”“You say truly, agent,” replied the chief, now speaking seriously. “My people will act with reason, but they will also act with patriotism and fidelity. Do not flatter yourself on the potency of our Great Father’s advice. If it be given as a father’s counsel, they will listen to it; if not, they will shut their ears against it. As to your disposal of myself, I only laugh at the absurdity of the act. I treat both act and agent with scorn. I have no dread of your power. I have no fear of the loyalty of my people. Sow dissension among them as you please; you have been successful elsewhere in making traitors,”—here the speaker glared towards Omatla and his warriors—“but I disregard your machinations. There is not a man in my tribe that will turn his back upon Hoitle-mattee—not one.”The orator ceased speaking, and, folding his arms, fell back into an attitude of silent defiance. He saw that the commissioner had done with him, for the latter was now appealing to Abram for his signature.The black’s first answer was a decided negative—simply “No.” When urged to repeat his refusal, he added:“No—by Jovah! I nebber sign the damned paper—nebber. Dat’s enuf—aint it, Bossy Thompson?”Of course, this put an end to the appeal, and Abram was “scratched” from the list of chiefs.Arpiucki followed next, and “Cloud” and the “Alligator,” and then the dwarf Poshalla. All these refused their signatures, and were in turn formally deposed from their dignities. So, likewise, were Holata Mico and others who were absent.Most of the chiefs only laughed as they listened to the wholesale cashiering. It was ludicrous enough to hear this puny office holder of an hour pronounce edicts with all the easy freedom of an emperor! (Note 1.)Poshala, the last who had been disgraced, laughed like the others; but the dwarf had a bitter tongue, and could not refrain from a rejoinder.“Tell the fat agent,” cried he to the interpreter—“tell him that I shall be chief of the Seminoles when the rank weeds are growing over his great carcass—ha, ha!”The rough speech was not carried to the ears of the commissioner. He did not even hear the scornful cachinnation that followed it, for his attention was now entirely occupied with one individual—the youngest of the chiefs—the last in the line—Osceola.Note 1. The United States government afterwards disapproved of this absurd dethronement of the chiefs; but there is no doubt that Thompson acted under secret instructions from the President.
To-day the commissioner showed a bolder front. A bold part had he resolved to play, but he felt sure of success; and consequently there was an air of triumph in his looks. He regarded the chiefs with the imperious glance of one determined to command them; confident they would yield obedience to his wishes.
At intervals his eye rested upon Osceola with a look of peculiar significance, at once sinister and triumphant. I was in the secret of that glance: I guessed its import; I knew that it boded no good to the young Seminole chief. Could I have approached him at that moment, I should have held duty but lightly, and whimpered in his ear a word of warning.
I was angry with myself that I had not thought of this before. Haj-Ewa could have borne a message on the previous night; why did I not send it? My mind had been too full. Occupied with my own thoughts, I had not thought of the danger that threatened my friend—for in this light I still regarded Powell.
I had no exact knowledge of what was meant; though, from the conversation I had overheard, I more than half divined the commissioner’s purpose. Upon some plea,Osceola was to be arrested.
A plea was needed; the outrage could not be perpetrated without one. Even the reckless agent might not venture upon such a stretch of power without plausible pretext; and how was this pretext to be obtained?
The withdrawal of Onopa and the “hostiles,” while Omatla with the “friendlies” remained, had given the agent the opportunity.Osceola himself was to furnish the plea.
Would that I could have whispered in his ear one word of caution!
It was too late: the toils had been laid—the trap set; and the noble game was about to enter it. It was too late for me to warn him. I must stand idly by—spectator to an act of injustice—a gross violation of right.
A table was placed in front of the ground occupied by the general and staff; the commissioner stood immediately behind it. Upon this table was an inkstand with pens; while a broad parchment, exhibiting the creases of many folds, was spread out till it occupied nearly the whole surface. This parchment was the treaty of the Oclawaha.
“Yesterday,” began the commissioner, without further preamble, “we did nothing but talk—to-day we are met to act. This,” said he, pointing to the parchment, “is the treaty of Payne’s Landing. I hope you have all considered what I said yesterday, and are ready to sign it?”
“We have considered,” replied Omatla for himself and those of his party. “We are ready to sign.”
“Onopa is head chief,” suggested the commissioner; “let him sign first. Where is Miconopa?” he added, looking around the circle with feigned surprise.
“The mico-mico is not here.”
“And why not here? He should have been here. Why is he absent?”
“He is sick—he is not able to attend the council.”
“That is alie, Jumper. Miconopa is shamming—you know he is.”
The dark brow of Hoitle-mattee grew darker at the insult, while his body quivered with rage. A grunt of disdain was all the reply he made, and folding his arms, he drew back into his former attitude.
“Abram! you are Miconopa’s private counsellor—you know his intentions. Why has he absented himself?”
“O Massr Ginral!” replied the black in broken English, and speaking without much show of respect for his interrogator, “how shed ole Abe know the ’tention of King Nopy? The mico no tell me ebberting—he go he please—he come he please—he great chief; he no tell nobody his ’tention.”
“Does he intend to sign? Say yes or no.”
“No, den!” responded the interpreter, in a firm voice, as if forced to the answer. “That much ob his mind Abedoknow. He no ’tend to sign that ar dockament. He say no, no.”
“Enough!” cried the commissioner in a loud voice—“enough! Now hear me, chiefs and warriors of the Seminole nation! I appear before you armed with a power from your Great Father the President—he who is chief of us all. That power enables me to punish for disloyalty and disobedience; and I now exercise that right upon Miconopa.He is no longer king of the Seminoles!”
This unexpected announcement produced an effect upon the audience similar to that of an electric shock. It started the chiefs and warriors into new attitudes, and all stood looking eagerly at the speaker. But the expression upon their faces was not of like import—it varied much. Some showed signs of anger as well as surprise. A few appeared pleased, while the majority evidently received the announcement with incredulity.
Surely the commissioner was jesting? How couldhemake or unmake a king of the Seminoles? How could the Great Father himself do this? The Seminoles were a free nation; they were not even tributary to the whites—under no political connection whatever. They themselves could alone elect their king—they only could depose him. Surely the commissioner was jesting?
Not at all. In another moment, they perceived he was in earnest. Foolish as was the project of deposing King Onopa, he entertained it seriously. He had resolved to carry it into execution; and as far as decrees went, he did so without further delay.
“Omatla! you have been faithful to your word and your honour; you are worthy to head a brave nation. From this time forth,youare King of the Seminoles. Our Great Father, and the people of the United States, hail you as such; they will acknowledge no other. Now—let the signing proceed.”
At a gesture from the commissioner, Omatla stepped forward to the table, and taking the pen in his hand, wrote his name upon the parchment.
The act was done in perfect silence. But one voice broke the deep stillness—one word only was heard uttered with angry aspirate; it was the word “traitor.”
I looked round to discover who had pronounced it; the hiss was still quivering upon the lips of Osceola; while his eye was fixed on Omatla with a glance of ineffable scorn.
“Black Crazy Clay” next took the pen, and affixed his signature, which was done by simply making his “mark.”
After him follower Ohala, Itolasse Omatla, and about a dozen—all of whom were known as the chiefs that favoured the scheme of removal.
The hostile chiefs—whether by accident or design I know not—stood together, forming the left wing of the semi-circle. It was now their turn to declare themselves.
Hoitle-mattee was the first about whose signing the commissioner entertained any doubt. There was a pause, significant of apprehension.
“It is your turn, Jumper,” said the latter at length, addressing the chief by his English name.
“You mayjumpme, then,” replied the eloquent and witty chief, making a jest of what he meant for earnest as well.
“How? you refuse to sign?”
“Hoitle-mattee does not write.”
“It is not necessary; your name is already written; you have only to place your finger upon it.”
“I might put my finger on the wrong place.”
“You can sign by making a cross,” continued the agent, still in hopes that the chief would consent.
“We Seminoles have but little liking for the cross; we had enough of it in the days of the Spaniards.Hulwak!”
“Then you positively refuse to sign?”
“Ho! Mister Commissioner does it surprise you?”
“Be it so, then. Now hear what I have to say to you.”
“Hoitle-mattee’s ears are as open as the commissioner’s mouth,” was the sneering rejoinder.
“I depose Hoitle-mattee from the chieftainship of his clan. The Great Father will no longer recognise him as chief of the Seminoles.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” came the scornful laugh in reply. “Indeed—indeed! And tell me,” he asked, still continuing to laugh, and treating with derision the solemn enunciation of the commissioner, “of whom am I to be chief, General Thompson.”
“I have pronounced,” said the agent, evidently confused and nettled by the ironical manner of the Indian; “you are no more a chief—we will not acknowledge you as one.”
“But my people?—what of them?” asked the other in a fine tone of irony; “have they nothing to say in this matter?”
“Your people will act with reason. They will listen to their Great Father’s advice. They will no longer obey a leader who has acted without faith.”
“You say truly, agent,” replied the chief, now speaking seriously. “My people will act with reason, but they will also act with patriotism and fidelity. Do not flatter yourself on the potency of our Great Father’s advice. If it be given as a father’s counsel, they will listen to it; if not, they will shut their ears against it. As to your disposal of myself, I only laugh at the absurdity of the act. I treat both act and agent with scorn. I have no dread of your power. I have no fear of the loyalty of my people. Sow dissension among them as you please; you have been successful elsewhere in making traitors,”—here the speaker glared towards Omatla and his warriors—“but I disregard your machinations. There is not a man in my tribe that will turn his back upon Hoitle-mattee—not one.”
The orator ceased speaking, and, folding his arms, fell back into an attitude of silent defiance. He saw that the commissioner had done with him, for the latter was now appealing to Abram for his signature.
The black’s first answer was a decided negative—simply “No.” When urged to repeat his refusal, he added:
“No—by Jovah! I nebber sign the damned paper—nebber. Dat’s enuf—aint it, Bossy Thompson?”
Of course, this put an end to the appeal, and Abram was “scratched” from the list of chiefs.
Arpiucki followed next, and “Cloud” and the “Alligator,” and then the dwarf Poshalla. All these refused their signatures, and were in turn formally deposed from their dignities. So, likewise, were Holata Mico and others who were absent.
Most of the chiefs only laughed as they listened to the wholesale cashiering. It was ludicrous enough to hear this puny office holder of an hour pronounce edicts with all the easy freedom of an emperor! (Note 1.)
Poshala, the last who had been disgraced, laughed like the others; but the dwarf had a bitter tongue, and could not refrain from a rejoinder.
“Tell the fat agent,” cried he to the interpreter—“tell him that I shall be chief of the Seminoles when the rank weeds are growing over his great carcass—ha, ha!”
The rough speech was not carried to the ears of the commissioner. He did not even hear the scornful cachinnation that followed it, for his attention was now entirely occupied with one individual—the youngest of the chiefs—the last in the line—Osceola.
Note 1. The United States government afterwards disapproved of this absurd dethronement of the chiefs; but there is no doubt that Thompson acted under secret instructions from the President.