Chapter Thirty Nine.The Signature of Osceola.Up to this moment the young chief had scarcely spoken; only when Charles Omatla took hold of the pen he had hissed out the word traitor.He had not remained all the time in the same attitude, neither had his countenance shown him indifferent to what was passing. There was no constraint either in his gestures or looks—no air of affected stoicism—for this was not his character. He had laughed at the wit of Jumper, and applauded the patriotism of Abram and the others, as heartily as he had frowned disapproval of the conduct of the traitors.It was now his turn to declare himself, and he stood, with modest mien, in the expectation of being asked. All the others had been appealed to by name—for the names of all were well-known to the agent and his interpreters.I need hardly state that at this crisis silence was on tiptoe. Throughout the ranks of the soldiery—throughout the crowd of warriors—everywhere—there was a moment of breathless expectancy, as if every individual upon the ground was imbued with the presentiment of a scene.For my part I felt satisfied that an explosion was about to take place; and, like the rest, I stood spell-bound with expectation.The commissioner broke the silence with the words:“At last we have come to you,Powell. Before proceeding further, let me ask—Are you acknowledged as achief?”There was insult in the tone, the manner, the words. It was direct and intended, as the countenance of the speaker clearly showed. There was malice in his eye—malice mingled with the confidence of prospective triumph.The interrogation was irrelevant, superfluous. Thompson knew well that Powell was a chief—a sub-chief, it is true, but still a chief—a war-chief of the Redsticks, the most warlike tribe of the nation. The question was put for mere provocation. The agent tempted an outburst of that temper that all knew to be none of the gentlest.Strange to say, the insult failed in its effect, or it seemed so. They who expected an angry answer were doomed to disappointment. Osceola made no reply. Only a peculiar smile was observed upon his features. It was not of anger, nor yet of scorn: it was rather a smile of silent, lordly contempt—the look which a gentleman would bestow upon a blackguard who is abusing him. Those who witnessed it were left under the impression that the young chief regarded his insulter as beneath the dignity of a reply, and the insult too gross, as it really was, to be answered. Such impression had I, in common with others around me.Osceola’s look, might have silenced the commissioner, or, at least, have caused him to have changed his tactics, had he been at all sensitive to derision. But no—the vulgar soul of the plebeian official was closed against shame, as against justice; and without regarding the repulse, he pressed on with his plan.“I ask, are you a chief?” continued he, repeating the interrogatory in a still more insulting tone. “Have you the right to sign?”This time his questions were answered, and by a dozen voices at once. Chieftains in the ring, and warriors who stood behind it; shouted in reply:“The Rising Sun?—a chief! Heisa chief. He has the right to sign.”“Why call his right in question?” inquired Jumper, with a sneering laugh. “Time enough when he wishes to exercise it. He is not likely to do that now.”“But I am,” said Osceola, addressing himself to the orator, and speaking with marked emphasis. “I have the right to sign—I shall sign.”It is difficult to describe the effect produced by this unexpected avowal. The entire audience—white men as well as red men—was taken by surprise; and for some moments there was a vibratory movement throughout the assembly, accompanied by a confused murmur of voices. Exclamations were heard on all sides—cries of varied import, according to the political bias of those who uttered them. All, however, betokened astonishment; with some, in tones of joy; with others, in the accents of chagrin or anger. Was it Osceola who had spoken? Had they heard aright? Was the “Rising Sun” so soon to sink behind the clouds? After all that had transpired—after all he had promised—washegoing to turn traitor?Such questions passed rapidly among the hostile chiefs and warriors; while those of the opposite party could scarcely conceal their delight. All knew that the signing of Osceola would end the affair; and the removal become a matter of coarse. The Omatlas would have nothing more to fear; the hostile warriors, who had sworn it might still resist; but there was no leader among them who could bind the patriots together as Osceola had done. With this defection the spirit of resistance would become a feeble thing; the patriots might despair.Jumper, Cloud, Coa Hajo, and Abram, Arpiucki and the dwarf, seemed all equally stricken with astonishment. Osceola—he on whom they had reposed their fullest confidence—the bold designer of the opposition—the open foe to all who had hitherto advocated the removal—he, the pure patriot in whom all had believed—whom all had trusted, was now going to desert them—now, in the eleventh hour, when his defection would be fatal to their cause.“He has been bribed,” said they. “His patriotism has been all a sham: his resistance a cheat. He has been bought by the agent! He has been acting for him all along.Holy-waugus! Iste-hulwa-stchay. (bad man—villain). ’Tis a treason blacker than Omatla’s!”Thus muttered the chiefs to one another, at the same time eyeing Osceola with the fierce look of tigers.With regard to Powell’s defection, I did not myself know what to make of it. He had declared his resolution to sign the treaty; what more was needed? That he was ready to do so was evident from his attitude; he seemed only to wait for the agent to invite him.As to the commissioner being a party to this intention, I knew he was nothing of the kind. Any one who looked in his face, at that moment, would have acquitted him of all privity to the act. He was evidently as much astonished by Osceola’s declaration as any one upon the ground, or even more so; in fact, he seemed bewildered by the unexpected avowal; so much so, that it was some time before he could make rejoinder.He at length stammered out:“Very well, Osceola! Step forward here, and sign then.”Thompson’s tone was changed; he spoke soothingly. A new prospect was before him. Osceola would sign, and thus agree to the removal. The business upon which the supreme government had deputed him would thus be accomplished, and with a dexterity that would redound to his own credit. “Old Hickory” would be satisfied; and then what next? what next? Not a mission to a mere tribe of savages, but an embassy to some high court of civilisation. He might yet be ambassador? perhaps to Spain?Ah! Wiley Thompson! thy castles in the air (châteaux en Espagne) were soon dissipated. They fell as suddenly as they had been built; they broke down like a house of cards.Osceola stepped forward to the table, and bent over it, as if to scan the words of the document. His eyes ran rapidly across the parchment; he seemed to be searching for some particular place.He found it—it was a name—he read it aloud: “Charles Omatla.”Raising himself erect, he faced the commissioner; and, in a tone of irony, asked the latter if he still desired him to sign.“You have promised, Osceola.”“Then will I keep my promise.”As he spoke the words, he drew his long Spanish knife from its sheath, and raising it aloft, struck the blade through the parchment till its point was deep buried in the wood.“That is my signature!” cried he, as he drew forth the steel. “See, Omatla! it is throughyourname. Beware, traitor! Undo what you have done, or its blade may yet pass through your heart!”“Oh! that is what he meant,” cried the commissioner, rising in rage. “Good. I was prepared for this insolence—this outrage. General Clinch!—I appeal to you—your soldiers—seize upon him—arrest him!”These broken speeches I heard amidst the confusion of voices. I heard Clinch issue some hurried orders to an officer who stood near. I saw half a dozen files separate from the ranks, and rush forward; I saw them cluster around Osceola—who the next moment was in their grasp.Not till several of the blue-coated soldiers were sent sprawling over the ground; not till guns had been thrown aside, and a dozen strong men had fixed their gripe upon him, did the young chief give over his desperate struggles to escape; and then apparently yielding, he stood rigid and immobile, as if his frame had been iron.It was an unexpecteddénouement—alike unlooked for by either white men or Indians. It was a violent proceeding, and altogether unjustifiable. This was no court whose judge had the right to arrest for contempt. It was a council, and even the insolence of an individual could not be punished without the concurrence of both parties. General Thompson had exceeded his duty—he had exercised a power arbitrary as illegal.The scene that followed was so confused as to defy description. The air was rent with loud ejaculations; the shouts of men, the screams of the women, the cries of children, the yells of the Indian warriors, fell simultaneously upon the ear. There was no attempt at rescue—that would have been impossible in the presence of so many troops—so many traitors; but the patriot chiefs, as they hurried away from the ground, gave out their wild ‘Yo-ho-ehee’—the gathering war-word of the Seminole nation—that in every utterance promised retaliation and revenge.The soldiers commenced dragging Osceola inside the fort.“Tyrant!” cried he, fixing his eye upon the commissioner, “you have triumphed by treachery; but fancy not that this is the end of it. You may imprison Osceola—hang him, if you will—but think not that his spirit will die. No; it will live, and cry aloud for vengeance. It speaks! Hear ye yonder sounds? Know ye the ‘war-cry’ of the Redsticks? Mark it well; for it is not the last time it will ring in your ears.Ho—yo-ho-ehee! yo-ho-ehee! Listen to it, tyrant! it is your death-knell—it is your death-knell!”While giving utterance to these wild threats, the young chief was drawn through the gate, and hurried off to the guard-house within the stockade.As I followed amid the crowd, some one touched me on the arm, as if to draw my attention. Turning, I beheld Haj-Ewa.“To-night, by the we-wa,” (spring, pond, water) said she, speaking so as not to be heard by those around. “There will be shadows—more shadows upon the water. Perhaps—”I did not hear more; the crowd pressed us apart; and when I looked again, the mad queen had moved away from the spot.
Up to this moment the young chief had scarcely spoken; only when Charles Omatla took hold of the pen he had hissed out the word traitor.
He had not remained all the time in the same attitude, neither had his countenance shown him indifferent to what was passing. There was no constraint either in his gestures or looks—no air of affected stoicism—for this was not his character. He had laughed at the wit of Jumper, and applauded the patriotism of Abram and the others, as heartily as he had frowned disapproval of the conduct of the traitors.
It was now his turn to declare himself, and he stood, with modest mien, in the expectation of being asked. All the others had been appealed to by name—for the names of all were well-known to the agent and his interpreters.
I need hardly state that at this crisis silence was on tiptoe. Throughout the ranks of the soldiery—throughout the crowd of warriors—everywhere—there was a moment of breathless expectancy, as if every individual upon the ground was imbued with the presentiment of a scene.
For my part I felt satisfied that an explosion was about to take place; and, like the rest, I stood spell-bound with expectation.
The commissioner broke the silence with the words:
“At last we have come to you,Powell. Before proceeding further, let me ask—Are you acknowledged as achief?”
There was insult in the tone, the manner, the words. It was direct and intended, as the countenance of the speaker clearly showed. There was malice in his eye—malice mingled with the confidence of prospective triumph.
The interrogation was irrelevant, superfluous. Thompson knew well that Powell was a chief—a sub-chief, it is true, but still a chief—a war-chief of the Redsticks, the most warlike tribe of the nation. The question was put for mere provocation. The agent tempted an outburst of that temper that all knew to be none of the gentlest.
Strange to say, the insult failed in its effect, or it seemed so. They who expected an angry answer were doomed to disappointment. Osceola made no reply. Only a peculiar smile was observed upon his features. It was not of anger, nor yet of scorn: it was rather a smile of silent, lordly contempt—the look which a gentleman would bestow upon a blackguard who is abusing him. Those who witnessed it were left under the impression that the young chief regarded his insulter as beneath the dignity of a reply, and the insult too gross, as it really was, to be answered. Such impression had I, in common with others around me.
Osceola’s look, might have silenced the commissioner, or, at least, have caused him to have changed his tactics, had he been at all sensitive to derision. But no—the vulgar soul of the plebeian official was closed against shame, as against justice; and without regarding the repulse, he pressed on with his plan.
“I ask, are you a chief?” continued he, repeating the interrogatory in a still more insulting tone. “Have you the right to sign?”
This time his questions were answered, and by a dozen voices at once. Chieftains in the ring, and warriors who stood behind it; shouted in reply:
“The Rising Sun?—a chief! Heisa chief. He has the right to sign.”
“Why call his right in question?” inquired Jumper, with a sneering laugh. “Time enough when he wishes to exercise it. He is not likely to do that now.”
“But I am,” said Osceola, addressing himself to the orator, and speaking with marked emphasis. “I have the right to sign—I shall sign.”
It is difficult to describe the effect produced by this unexpected avowal. The entire audience—white men as well as red men—was taken by surprise; and for some moments there was a vibratory movement throughout the assembly, accompanied by a confused murmur of voices. Exclamations were heard on all sides—cries of varied import, according to the political bias of those who uttered them. All, however, betokened astonishment; with some, in tones of joy; with others, in the accents of chagrin or anger. Was it Osceola who had spoken? Had they heard aright? Was the “Rising Sun” so soon to sink behind the clouds? After all that had transpired—after all he had promised—washegoing to turn traitor?
Such questions passed rapidly among the hostile chiefs and warriors; while those of the opposite party could scarcely conceal their delight. All knew that the signing of Osceola would end the affair; and the removal become a matter of coarse. The Omatlas would have nothing more to fear; the hostile warriors, who had sworn it might still resist; but there was no leader among them who could bind the patriots together as Osceola had done. With this defection the spirit of resistance would become a feeble thing; the patriots might despair.
Jumper, Cloud, Coa Hajo, and Abram, Arpiucki and the dwarf, seemed all equally stricken with astonishment. Osceola—he on whom they had reposed their fullest confidence—the bold designer of the opposition—the open foe to all who had hitherto advocated the removal—he, the pure patriot in whom all had believed—whom all had trusted, was now going to desert them—now, in the eleventh hour, when his defection would be fatal to their cause.
“He has been bribed,” said they. “His patriotism has been all a sham: his resistance a cheat. He has been bought by the agent! He has been acting for him all along.Holy-waugus! Iste-hulwa-stchay. (bad man—villain). ’Tis a treason blacker than Omatla’s!”
Thus muttered the chiefs to one another, at the same time eyeing Osceola with the fierce look of tigers.
With regard to Powell’s defection, I did not myself know what to make of it. He had declared his resolution to sign the treaty; what more was needed? That he was ready to do so was evident from his attitude; he seemed only to wait for the agent to invite him.
As to the commissioner being a party to this intention, I knew he was nothing of the kind. Any one who looked in his face, at that moment, would have acquitted him of all privity to the act. He was evidently as much astonished by Osceola’s declaration as any one upon the ground, or even more so; in fact, he seemed bewildered by the unexpected avowal; so much so, that it was some time before he could make rejoinder.
He at length stammered out:
“Very well, Osceola! Step forward here, and sign then.”
Thompson’s tone was changed; he spoke soothingly. A new prospect was before him. Osceola would sign, and thus agree to the removal. The business upon which the supreme government had deputed him would thus be accomplished, and with a dexterity that would redound to his own credit. “Old Hickory” would be satisfied; and then what next? what next? Not a mission to a mere tribe of savages, but an embassy to some high court of civilisation. He might yet be ambassador? perhaps to Spain?
Ah! Wiley Thompson! thy castles in the air (châteaux en Espagne) were soon dissipated. They fell as suddenly as they had been built; they broke down like a house of cards.
Osceola stepped forward to the table, and bent over it, as if to scan the words of the document. His eyes ran rapidly across the parchment; he seemed to be searching for some particular place.
He found it—it was a name—he read it aloud: “Charles Omatla.”
Raising himself erect, he faced the commissioner; and, in a tone of irony, asked the latter if he still desired him to sign.
“You have promised, Osceola.”
“Then will I keep my promise.”
As he spoke the words, he drew his long Spanish knife from its sheath, and raising it aloft, struck the blade through the parchment till its point was deep buried in the wood.
“That is my signature!” cried he, as he drew forth the steel. “See, Omatla! it is throughyourname. Beware, traitor! Undo what you have done, or its blade may yet pass through your heart!”
“Oh! that is what he meant,” cried the commissioner, rising in rage. “Good. I was prepared for this insolence—this outrage. General Clinch!—I appeal to you—your soldiers—seize upon him—arrest him!”
These broken speeches I heard amidst the confusion of voices. I heard Clinch issue some hurried orders to an officer who stood near. I saw half a dozen files separate from the ranks, and rush forward; I saw them cluster around Osceola—who the next moment was in their grasp.
Not till several of the blue-coated soldiers were sent sprawling over the ground; not till guns had been thrown aside, and a dozen strong men had fixed their gripe upon him, did the young chief give over his desperate struggles to escape; and then apparently yielding, he stood rigid and immobile, as if his frame had been iron.
It was an unexpecteddénouement—alike unlooked for by either white men or Indians. It was a violent proceeding, and altogether unjustifiable. This was no court whose judge had the right to arrest for contempt. It was a council, and even the insolence of an individual could not be punished without the concurrence of both parties. General Thompson had exceeded his duty—he had exercised a power arbitrary as illegal.
The scene that followed was so confused as to defy description. The air was rent with loud ejaculations; the shouts of men, the screams of the women, the cries of children, the yells of the Indian warriors, fell simultaneously upon the ear. There was no attempt at rescue—that would have been impossible in the presence of so many troops—so many traitors; but the patriot chiefs, as they hurried away from the ground, gave out their wild ‘Yo-ho-ehee’—the gathering war-word of the Seminole nation—that in every utterance promised retaliation and revenge.
The soldiers commenced dragging Osceola inside the fort.
“Tyrant!” cried he, fixing his eye upon the commissioner, “you have triumphed by treachery; but fancy not that this is the end of it. You may imprison Osceola—hang him, if you will—but think not that his spirit will die. No; it will live, and cry aloud for vengeance. It speaks! Hear ye yonder sounds? Know ye the ‘war-cry’ of the Redsticks? Mark it well; for it is not the last time it will ring in your ears.Ho—yo-ho-ehee! yo-ho-ehee! Listen to it, tyrant! it is your death-knell—it is your death-knell!”
While giving utterance to these wild threats, the young chief was drawn through the gate, and hurried off to the guard-house within the stockade.
As I followed amid the crowd, some one touched me on the arm, as if to draw my attention. Turning, I beheld Haj-Ewa.
“To-night, by the we-wa,” (spring, pond, water) said she, speaking so as not to be heard by those around. “There will be shadows—more shadows upon the water. Perhaps—”
I did not hear more; the crowd pressed us apart; and when I looked again, the mad queen had moved away from the spot.
Chapter Forty.“Fighting Gallagher.”The prisoner was confined in a strong, windowless blockhouse. Access to him would be easy enough, especially to those who wore epaulets. It was my design to visit him; but, for certain reasons, I forbore putting it in execution, so long as daylight lasted. I was desirous that my interview should be as private as possible and therefore waited for the night.I was influenced by other reasons; my hands were full of business; I had not yet done with Arens Ringgold.I had a difficulty in deciding how to act. My mind was a chaos of emotions; hatred for the conspirators—indignation at the unjust behaviour of the agent towards Osceola—love for Maümee—now fond and trusting—anon doubting and jealous. Amid such confusion, how could I think with clearness?Withal, one of these emotions had precedence—anger against the villain who intended to take my life was at that moment the strongest passion in my breast.Hostility so heartless, so causeless, so deadly, had not failed to imbue me with a keen desire for vengeance; and I resolved to punish my enemy at all hazards.He only, whose life has been aimed at by an assassin, can understand the deadly antipathy I felt towards Arens Ringgold. An open enemy, who acts under the impulse of anger, jealousy, or fancied wrong, you may respect. Even the two white wretches, and the yellow runaway, I regarded only with contempt, as tools pliant for any purpose; but the arch-conspirator himself I now both hated and despised. So acute was my sense of injury, that I could not permit it to pass without some act of retaliation, some effort to punish my wronger.But how? Therein lay the uncertainty! How? A duel?I could think of no other way. The criminal was still inside the law. I could not reach him, otherwise than by my own arm.I well weighed the words of my sable counsellor; but the faithful fellow had spoken in vain, and I resolved to act contrary to his advice, let the hazard fall as it might. I made up my mind to the challenge.One consideration still caused me to hesitate:I must give Ringgold my reasons.He should have been welcome to them as a dying souvenir; but if I succeeded in onlyhalf-killinghim, or he in half-killing me, how about the future? I should be showing my hand to him, by which he would profit; whereas, unknown to him, I now knew his, and might easily foil his designs.Such calculations ran rapidly through my mind, though I considered them with a coolness that in after-thought surprises me. The incidents that I had lately encountered—combined with angry hatred of this plausible villain—had made me fierce, cold and cruel. I was no longer myself; and, wicked as it may appear, I could not control my longings for vengeance.I needed a friend to advise me. Who could I make the confidant of my terrible secret?Surely my ears were not deceiving me? No; it was the voice of my old school-fellow, Charley Gallagher. I heard it outside, and recognised the ring of his merry laugh. A detachment of rifles had just entered the fort with Charley at their head. In another instant we had “embraced.”What could have been more opportune? Charley had been my “chum” at college—my bosom companion. He deserved my confidence, and almost upon the instant, I made known to him the situation of affairs.It required much explanation to remove his incredulity; he was disposed to treat the whole thing as a joke—that is, the conspiracy against my life. But the rifle shot was real, and Black Jake was by to confirm my account of it: so that my friend was at length induced to take a serious view of the matter.“Bad luck to me!” said he, in Irish accent: “it’s the quarest case that ever came accrast your humble frind’s experience. Mother o’ Moses! the fellow must be the divil incarnate. Geordie, my boy, have ye looked under his instip?”Despite the name and “brogue,” Charley was not a Hibernian—only the son of one. He was a New-Yorker by birth, and could speak good English when he pleased; but from some freak of eccentricity or affectation, he had taken to the brogue, and used it habitually, when among friends, with all the rich garniture of a true Milesian, fresh from the “sod.”He was altogether an odd fellow, but with a soul of honour, and a heart true as steel. He was no dunce either, and the man above all others upon whose coat tail it would not have been safe to “trid.” He was already notorious for having been engaged in two or three “affairs,” in which he had played both principal and second, and had earned the bellicose appellation of “Fighting Gallagher.” I knew whathisadvice would be before asking it—“Call the schoundrel out by all manes.”I stated the difficulty as to my reasons for challenging Ringgold.“Thrue,ma bohill! You’re right there; but there need be no throuble about the matther.”“How?”“Make the spalpeen challenge you. That’s betther—besides, it gives you the choice of waypons.”“In what way can I do this?”“Och! my innocent gossoon! Shure that’s as asy as tumblin’ from a haycock. Call him a liar; an’ if that’s not sufficiently disagraable, twake his nose, or squirt your tobacco in his ugly countenance. That’ll fetch him out, I’ll be bail for ye.“Come along, my boy!” continued my ready counsellor, moving towards the door. “Where is this Mister Ringgowld to be sarched for? Find me the gint, and I’ll shew you how to scratch his buttons. Come along wid ye!”Not much liking the plan of procedure, but without the moral strength to resist, I followed this impetuous son of a Celt through the doorway.
The prisoner was confined in a strong, windowless blockhouse. Access to him would be easy enough, especially to those who wore epaulets. It was my design to visit him; but, for certain reasons, I forbore putting it in execution, so long as daylight lasted. I was desirous that my interview should be as private as possible and therefore waited for the night.
I was influenced by other reasons; my hands were full of business; I had not yet done with Arens Ringgold.
I had a difficulty in deciding how to act. My mind was a chaos of emotions; hatred for the conspirators—indignation at the unjust behaviour of the agent towards Osceola—love for Maümee—now fond and trusting—anon doubting and jealous. Amid such confusion, how could I think with clearness?
Withal, one of these emotions had precedence—anger against the villain who intended to take my life was at that moment the strongest passion in my breast.
Hostility so heartless, so causeless, so deadly, had not failed to imbue me with a keen desire for vengeance; and I resolved to punish my enemy at all hazards.
He only, whose life has been aimed at by an assassin, can understand the deadly antipathy I felt towards Arens Ringgold. An open enemy, who acts under the impulse of anger, jealousy, or fancied wrong, you may respect. Even the two white wretches, and the yellow runaway, I regarded only with contempt, as tools pliant for any purpose; but the arch-conspirator himself I now both hated and despised. So acute was my sense of injury, that I could not permit it to pass without some act of retaliation, some effort to punish my wronger.
But how? Therein lay the uncertainty! How? A duel?
I could think of no other way. The criminal was still inside the law. I could not reach him, otherwise than by my own arm.
I well weighed the words of my sable counsellor; but the faithful fellow had spoken in vain, and I resolved to act contrary to his advice, let the hazard fall as it might. I made up my mind to the challenge.
One consideration still caused me to hesitate:I must give Ringgold my reasons.
He should have been welcome to them as a dying souvenir; but if I succeeded in onlyhalf-killinghim, or he in half-killing me, how about the future? I should be showing my hand to him, by which he would profit; whereas, unknown to him, I now knew his, and might easily foil his designs.
Such calculations ran rapidly through my mind, though I considered them with a coolness that in after-thought surprises me. The incidents that I had lately encountered—combined with angry hatred of this plausible villain—had made me fierce, cold and cruel. I was no longer myself; and, wicked as it may appear, I could not control my longings for vengeance.
I needed a friend to advise me. Who could I make the confidant of my terrible secret?
Surely my ears were not deceiving me? No; it was the voice of my old school-fellow, Charley Gallagher. I heard it outside, and recognised the ring of his merry laugh. A detachment of rifles had just entered the fort with Charley at their head. In another instant we had “embraced.”
What could have been more opportune? Charley had been my “chum” at college—my bosom companion. He deserved my confidence, and almost upon the instant, I made known to him the situation of affairs.
It required much explanation to remove his incredulity; he was disposed to treat the whole thing as a joke—that is, the conspiracy against my life. But the rifle shot was real, and Black Jake was by to confirm my account of it: so that my friend was at length induced to take a serious view of the matter.
“Bad luck to me!” said he, in Irish accent: “it’s the quarest case that ever came accrast your humble frind’s experience. Mother o’ Moses! the fellow must be the divil incarnate. Geordie, my boy, have ye looked under his instip?”
Despite the name and “brogue,” Charley was not a Hibernian—only the son of one. He was a New-Yorker by birth, and could speak good English when he pleased; but from some freak of eccentricity or affectation, he had taken to the brogue, and used it habitually, when among friends, with all the rich garniture of a true Milesian, fresh from the “sod.”
He was altogether an odd fellow, but with a soul of honour, and a heart true as steel. He was no dunce either, and the man above all others upon whose coat tail it would not have been safe to “trid.” He was already notorious for having been engaged in two or three “affairs,” in which he had played both principal and second, and had earned the bellicose appellation of “Fighting Gallagher.” I knew whathisadvice would be before asking it—“Call the schoundrel out by all manes.”
I stated the difficulty as to my reasons for challenging Ringgold.
“Thrue,ma bohill! You’re right there; but there need be no throuble about the matther.”
“How?”
“Make the spalpeen challenge you. That’s betther—besides, it gives you the choice of waypons.”
“In what way can I do this?”
“Och! my innocent gossoon! Shure that’s as asy as tumblin’ from a haycock. Call him a liar; an’ if that’s not sufficiently disagraable, twake his nose, or squirt your tobacco in his ugly countenance. That’ll fetch him out, I’ll be bail for ye.
“Come along, my boy!” continued my ready counsellor, moving towards the door. “Where is this Mister Ringgowld to be sarched for? Find me the gint, and I’ll shew you how to scratch his buttons. Come along wid ye!”
Not much liking the plan of procedure, but without the moral strength to resist, I followed this impetuous son of a Celt through the doorway.
Chapter Forty One.Provoking a Duel.We were scarcely outside before we saw him for whom we were searching. He was standing at a short distance from the porch, conversing with a group of officers, among whom was the dandy already alluded to, and who passed under the appropriate appellation of “Beau Scott.” The latter was aide-de-camp to the commander-in-chief, of whom he was also a relative.I pointed Ringgold out to my companion.“He in the civilian dress,” I said.“Och! man, ye needn’t be so purticular in your idintification. That sarpint-look spakes for itself. Be my sowl! it’s an unwholesome look altogither. That fellow needn’t fear wather—the say’ll niver drownhim. Now, look here, Geordy, boy,” continued Gallagher, facing towards me and speaking in a more earnest tone: “Follow my advice to the letther! First trid upon his toes, an’ see how he takes it. The fellow’s got corns; don’t ye see, he wears a tight boot? Give him a good scrouge; make him sing out. Ov course, he’ll ask you to apologise—he must—you won’t. Shurely that’ll do the bizness without farther ceremony? If it don’t, then, by Jabus! hit him a kick in the latter end.”“No, Gallagher,” said I, disliking the programme, “it will never do.”“Bad luck to it, an’ why not? You’re not going to back out, are ye? Think man! a villain who would murdher you! an’ maybe will some day, if you let him escape.”“True—but—”“Bah! no buts. Move up, an’ let’s see what they’re talking about, anyhow. I’ll find ye a chance, or my name’s not Gallagher.”Undetermined how to act, I walked after my companion, and joined the group of officers.Of course, I had no thoughts of following Gallagher’s advice. I was in hopes that some turn in the conversation might give me the opportunity I desired, without proceeding to such rude extremes.My hopes did not deceive me. Arens Ringgold seemed to tempt his fate, for I had scarcely entered among the crowd, before I found cause sufficient for my purpose.“Talking of Indian beauties,” said he, “no one has been so successful among them as Scott here. He has been playing Don Giovanni ever since he came to the fort.”“Oh,” exclaimed one of the newly arrived officers, “that does not surprise us. He has been a lady-killer ever since I knew him. The man who is irresistible among the belles of Saratoga, will surely find little difficulty in carrying the heart of an Indian maiden.”“Don’t be so confident about that, Captain Roberts. Sometimes these forest damsels are very shy of us pale-faced lovers. Lieutenant Scott’s present sweetheart cost him a long siege before he could conquer her. Is it not so, lieutenant?”“Nonsense,” replied the dandy with a conceited smirk.“But she yielded at last?” said Roberts, turning interrogatively towards Scott.The dandy made no reply, but his simpering smile was evidently intended to be taken in the affirmative.“Oh yes,” rejoined Ringgold, “she yielded at last: and is now the ‘favourite,’ it is said.”“Her name—her name?”“Powell—Miss Powell.”“What! That name is not Indian?”“No, gentlemen; the lady is no savage, I assure you; she can play and sing, and read and write too—such prettybillets-doux. Is it not so, lieutenant?”Before the latter could make reply, another spoke:“Is not that the name of the young chief who has just been arrested?”“True,” answered Ringgold; “it is the fellow’s name. I had forgotten to say that she is his sister.”“What! the sister of Osceola?”“Neither more nor less—half-blood like him too. Among the whites they are known by the name of Powell, since that was the cognomen of the worthy old gentleman who begot them. Osceola, which signifies ‘the Rising Sun,’ is the name by which he is known among the Seminoles; andhernative appellation—ah, that is a very pretty name indeed.”“What is it? Let us hear it; let us judge for ourselves.”“Maümee.”“Very pretty indeed!”“Beautiful! If the damsel be only as sweet as her name, then Scott is a fortunate fellow.”“Oh, she is a very wonder of beauty; eyes liquid and full of fiery love—long lashes: lips luscious as honeycombs; figure tall; bust full and firm; limbs like those of the Cyprian goddess; feet like Cinderella’s—in short, perfection.”“Wonderful. Why, Scott, you are the luckiest mortal alive. But say, Ringgold! are you speaking in seriousness. Has he really conquered this Indian divinity? Honour bright—has he succeeded? You understand what I mean?”“Most certainly,” was the prompt reply.Up to this moment I had not interfered. The first words of the conversation had bound me like a spell, and I stood as if glued to the ground. My brain was giddy, and my heart felt as if the blood passing through it was molten lead. The bold enunciations had so staggered me, that it was some time before I could draw my breath; and more than one of the bystanders noticed the effect which the dialogue was producing on me.After a little, I grew calmer, or rather more resolute. The very despair that had passed into my bosom had the effect of steeling my nerves; and just as Ringgold uttered the flippant affirmative, I was ready for him.“Liar!” I exclaimed; and before the red could mount into his cheek, I gave it a slap with the back of my hand, that no doubt helped to heighten the colour.“Nately done!” cried Gallagher; “there can be no mistake about the maynin of that.”Nor was there. My antagonist accepted the act for what it was meant—a deadly insult. In such company, he could not do otherwise; and, muttering some indistinct threats, he walked away from the ground, attended by his especial friend, the lady-killer, and two or three others.The incident, instead of gathering a crowd, had the contrary effect; it scattered the little group who had witnessed it; the officers retiring in-doors to discuss the motives, and speculate as as to when and where “the affair would come off.”Gallagher and I also left the ground; and, closeted in my quarters, commenced preparing for the event.
We were scarcely outside before we saw him for whom we were searching. He was standing at a short distance from the porch, conversing with a group of officers, among whom was the dandy already alluded to, and who passed under the appropriate appellation of “Beau Scott.” The latter was aide-de-camp to the commander-in-chief, of whom he was also a relative.
I pointed Ringgold out to my companion.
“He in the civilian dress,” I said.
“Och! man, ye needn’t be so purticular in your idintification. That sarpint-look spakes for itself. Be my sowl! it’s an unwholesome look altogither. That fellow needn’t fear wather—the say’ll niver drownhim. Now, look here, Geordy, boy,” continued Gallagher, facing towards me and speaking in a more earnest tone: “Follow my advice to the letther! First trid upon his toes, an’ see how he takes it. The fellow’s got corns; don’t ye see, he wears a tight boot? Give him a good scrouge; make him sing out. Ov course, he’ll ask you to apologise—he must—you won’t. Shurely that’ll do the bizness without farther ceremony? If it don’t, then, by Jabus! hit him a kick in the latter end.”
“No, Gallagher,” said I, disliking the programme, “it will never do.”
“Bad luck to it, an’ why not? You’re not going to back out, are ye? Think man! a villain who would murdher you! an’ maybe will some day, if you let him escape.”
“True—but—”
“Bah! no buts. Move up, an’ let’s see what they’re talking about, anyhow. I’ll find ye a chance, or my name’s not Gallagher.”
Undetermined how to act, I walked after my companion, and joined the group of officers.
Of course, I had no thoughts of following Gallagher’s advice. I was in hopes that some turn in the conversation might give me the opportunity I desired, without proceeding to such rude extremes.
My hopes did not deceive me. Arens Ringgold seemed to tempt his fate, for I had scarcely entered among the crowd, before I found cause sufficient for my purpose.
“Talking of Indian beauties,” said he, “no one has been so successful among them as Scott here. He has been playing Don Giovanni ever since he came to the fort.”
“Oh,” exclaimed one of the newly arrived officers, “that does not surprise us. He has been a lady-killer ever since I knew him. The man who is irresistible among the belles of Saratoga, will surely find little difficulty in carrying the heart of an Indian maiden.”
“Don’t be so confident about that, Captain Roberts. Sometimes these forest damsels are very shy of us pale-faced lovers. Lieutenant Scott’s present sweetheart cost him a long siege before he could conquer her. Is it not so, lieutenant?”
“Nonsense,” replied the dandy with a conceited smirk.
“But she yielded at last?” said Roberts, turning interrogatively towards Scott.
The dandy made no reply, but his simpering smile was evidently intended to be taken in the affirmative.
“Oh yes,” rejoined Ringgold, “she yielded at last: and is now the ‘favourite,’ it is said.”
“Her name—her name?”
“Powell—Miss Powell.”
“What! That name is not Indian?”
“No, gentlemen; the lady is no savage, I assure you; she can play and sing, and read and write too—such prettybillets-doux. Is it not so, lieutenant?”
Before the latter could make reply, another spoke:
“Is not that the name of the young chief who has just been arrested?”
“True,” answered Ringgold; “it is the fellow’s name. I had forgotten to say that she is his sister.”
“What! the sister of Osceola?”
“Neither more nor less—half-blood like him too. Among the whites they are known by the name of Powell, since that was the cognomen of the worthy old gentleman who begot them. Osceola, which signifies ‘the Rising Sun,’ is the name by which he is known among the Seminoles; andhernative appellation—ah, that is a very pretty name indeed.”
“What is it? Let us hear it; let us judge for ourselves.”
“Maümee.”
“Very pretty indeed!”
“Beautiful! If the damsel be only as sweet as her name, then Scott is a fortunate fellow.”
“Oh, she is a very wonder of beauty; eyes liquid and full of fiery love—long lashes: lips luscious as honeycombs; figure tall; bust full and firm; limbs like those of the Cyprian goddess; feet like Cinderella’s—in short, perfection.”
“Wonderful. Why, Scott, you are the luckiest mortal alive. But say, Ringgold! are you speaking in seriousness. Has he really conquered this Indian divinity? Honour bright—has he succeeded? You understand what I mean?”
“Most certainly,” was the prompt reply.
Up to this moment I had not interfered. The first words of the conversation had bound me like a spell, and I stood as if glued to the ground. My brain was giddy, and my heart felt as if the blood passing through it was molten lead. The bold enunciations had so staggered me, that it was some time before I could draw my breath; and more than one of the bystanders noticed the effect which the dialogue was producing on me.
After a little, I grew calmer, or rather more resolute. The very despair that had passed into my bosom had the effect of steeling my nerves; and just as Ringgold uttered the flippant affirmative, I was ready for him.
“Liar!” I exclaimed; and before the red could mount into his cheek, I gave it a slap with the back of my hand, that no doubt helped to heighten the colour.
“Nately done!” cried Gallagher; “there can be no mistake about the maynin of that.”
Nor was there. My antagonist accepted the act for what it was meant—a deadly insult. In such company, he could not do otherwise; and, muttering some indistinct threats, he walked away from the ground, attended by his especial friend, the lady-killer, and two or three others.
The incident, instead of gathering a crowd, had the contrary effect; it scattered the little group who had witnessed it; the officers retiring in-doors to discuss the motives, and speculate as as to when and where “the affair would come off.”
Gallagher and I also left the ground; and, closeted in my quarters, commenced preparing for the event.
Chapter Forty Two.The Challenge.At the time of which I write duelling was not uncommon in the United States army. Inwar-time, it is not uncommon yet, as I can testify from late experience. It is contrary to the regulations of the American service—as I believe it is of every other in the civilised world. Notwithstanding, an infringement of thecode militairein this regard, is usually looked upon with leniency—more often “winked at” than punished. This much I can affirm—that any officer in the American army who has received the “lie direct,” will find more honour in the breach of this military rule than in its observance.After all that has been said and written about duelling, the outcry against it is a sad sham, at least in the United States of America—nothing less than a piece of superb hypocrisy. Universal as has been this condemnation, I should not like to take shelter under it. I well know that it would not protect me from being called by that ugly appellation, “poltroon.” I have noticed over and over again, that the newspapers loudest in their declamations against duelling, are the first to fling “coward” in the teeth of him who refuses to fight.It is even so. In America, moral courage, though much be-praised, does not find ready credence. A refusal to meet the man who may challenge you is not thus explained. It is called “backing out,” “shewing the white feather;” and he who does this, need look no more upon his ladye-love; she would “flog him with her garters.”More than once have I heard this threat, spoken by pretty lips, and in the centre of a brilliant circle. His moral courage must be great who would provoke such chastisement. With such a sentiment over the land, then, I had nailed Arens Ringgold for a meeting; and I joyed to think I had done so without compromising my secret.But ah! it was a painful provocation he had given me; and if he had been the greatest coward in the world, he could not have been more wretched than I, as I returned to my quarters.My jovial companion could no longer cheer me, though it was not fear for the coming fight that clouded my spirits. Far from it—far otherwise. I scarcely thought of that. My thoughts were of Maümee—of what I had just heard. She was false—false—betraying, herself betrayed—lost—lost forever!In truth was I wretched. One thing alone could have rendered me more so—an obstacle to the anticipated meeting—anything to hinder my revenge. On the duel now rested my hopes. It might enable me to disembarrass my heart of the hot blood that was burning it. Not all—unless he too stood before me—he, the seducer who had made this misery. Would I could find pretext for challenging him. I should do so yet. Why had I not? Why did I not strike him for that smile? I could have fought them both at the same time, one after the other.Thus I raved, with Gallagher by my side. My friend knew not all my secret. He asked what I had got “aginst the aide-de-cong.”“Say the word, Geordie, boy, an’ we’ll make a four-handed game ov it. Be Saint Pathrick! I’d like mightily to take the shine out of that purty paycock!”“No, Gallagher, no. It’s not your affair; you could not givemesatisfaction for that. Let us wait till we know more. I cannot believe it—I cannot believe it.”“Believe what?”“Not now, my friend. When it is over I shall explain.”“All right, my boy! Charley Gallagher’s not the man to disturb your saycrets. Now let’s look to the bull-dogs, an’ make shure they’re in barking condition. I hope the scamps won’t blab at head-quarters, an’ disappoint us after all.”It was my only fear. I knew that arrest was possible—probable—certain, if my adversary wished it. Arrest would put an end to the affair; and I should be left in a worse position than ever. Ringgold’s father was gone—I had ascertained this favourable circumstance; but no matter. The commander-in-chief was the friend of the family—a word in his ear would be sufficient. I feared that the aide-de-camp Scott, instructed by Arens, might whisper that word.“After all, he daren’t,” said Gallagher; “you driv the nail home, an’ clinched it. He daren’t do the dhirty thing—not a bit of it; it might get wind, an’ thin he’d have the kettle to his tail; besides,ma bohill, he wants to kill you anyhow; so he ought to be glad of the fine handy chance you’ve given him. He’s not a bad shot, they say. Never fear, Geordie, boy! he won’t back out this time; he must fight—he will fight. Ha! I told you so. See, yonder comes Apollo Belvidare! Holy Moses! how Phoebus shines!”A knock—“Come in,”—the door was opened, and the aide-de-camp appeared in full uniform.“To arrest me,” thought I, and my heart fell.But no; the freshly written note spoke a different purpose, and I was relieved. It was the challenge.“Lieutenant Randolph, I believe,” said the gentleman, advancing towards me.I pointed to Gallagher, but made no reply.“I am to understand that Captain Gallagher is your friend.”I nodded assent.The two faced each other, and the next instant wereen rapport; talking the matter over as cool as cucumbers and sweet as sugar-plums.From observation, I hazard this remark—that the politeness exhibited between the seconds in a duel cannot be surpassed by that of the most accomplished courtiers in the world.The time occupied in the business was brief. Gallagher well knew the routine, and I saw that the other was not entirely unacquainted with it. In five minutes, everything was arranged—place, weapons, and distance.I nodded; Gallagher made a sweeping salaam; the aide-de-camp bowed stiffly and withdrew.I shall not trouble you with my reflections previous to the duel, nor yet with many details of the affair itself. Accounts of these deadly encounters are common enough in books, and their sameness will serve as my excuse for not describing one.Ours differed only from the ordinary kind in the weapon used. We fought withrifles, instead of swords or pistols. It was my choice—as the challenged party, I had the right—but it was equally agreeable to my adversary, who was as well skilled in the use of the rifle as I. I chose this weapon because it was thedeadliest.The time arranged was an hour before sunset. I had urged this early meeting in fear of interruption; the place, a spot of level ground near the edge of the little pond where I had met Haj-Ewa; the distance, ten paces.We met—took our places, back to back—waited for the ominous signal, “one, two, three,”—received it—faced rapidly round—and fired at each other.I heard the “hist” of the leaden pellet as it passed my ear, but felt no stroke.The smoke puffed upward. I saw my antagonist upon the ground: he was not dead; he was writhing and groaning.The seconds, and several spectators who were present, ran up to him, but I kept my ground.“Well, Gallagher?” I asked, as my friend came back to me.“Winged, by japers! You’ve spoilt the use ov his dexter arm—bone broke above the ilbow-joint.”“That all?”“Arrah, sowl! aren’t it enough? Hear how the hound whimpers!”I felt as the tiger is said to feel after tasting blood, though I cannot now account for my ferocity. The man had sought my life—I thirsted for his. This combined with the other thought had nigh driven me mad.I was not satisfied, and would make no apology; but my antagonist had had enough; he was eager to be taken from the ground on any terms, and thus the affair ended.It was my first duel, but not my last.
At the time of which I write duelling was not uncommon in the United States army. Inwar-time, it is not uncommon yet, as I can testify from late experience. It is contrary to the regulations of the American service—as I believe it is of every other in the civilised world. Notwithstanding, an infringement of thecode militairein this regard, is usually looked upon with leniency—more often “winked at” than punished. This much I can affirm—that any officer in the American army who has received the “lie direct,” will find more honour in the breach of this military rule than in its observance.
After all that has been said and written about duelling, the outcry against it is a sad sham, at least in the United States of America—nothing less than a piece of superb hypocrisy. Universal as has been this condemnation, I should not like to take shelter under it. I well know that it would not protect me from being called by that ugly appellation, “poltroon.” I have noticed over and over again, that the newspapers loudest in their declamations against duelling, are the first to fling “coward” in the teeth of him who refuses to fight.
It is even so. In America, moral courage, though much be-praised, does not find ready credence. A refusal to meet the man who may challenge you is not thus explained. It is called “backing out,” “shewing the white feather;” and he who does this, need look no more upon his ladye-love; she would “flog him with her garters.”
More than once have I heard this threat, spoken by pretty lips, and in the centre of a brilliant circle. His moral courage must be great who would provoke such chastisement. With such a sentiment over the land, then, I had nailed Arens Ringgold for a meeting; and I joyed to think I had done so without compromising my secret.
But ah! it was a painful provocation he had given me; and if he had been the greatest coward in the world, he could not have been more wretched than I, as I returned to my quarters.
My jovial companion could no longer cheer me, though it was not fear for the coming fight that clouded my spirits. Far from it—far otherwise. I scarcely thought of that. My thoughts were of Maümee—of what I had just heard. She was false—false—betraying, herself betrayed—lost—lost forever!
In truth was I wretched. One thing alone could have rendered me more so—an obstacle to the anticipated meeting—anything to hinder my revenge. On the duel now rested my hopes. It might enable me to disembarrass my heart of the hot blood that was burning it. Not all—unless he too stood before me—he, the seducer who had made this misery. Would I could find pretext for challenging him. I should do so yet. Why had I not? Why did I not strike him for that smile? I could have fought them both at the same time, one after the other.
Thus I raved, with Gallagher by my side. My friend knew not all my secret. He asked what I had got “aginst the aide-de-cong.”
“Say the word, Geordie, boy, an’ we’ll make a four-handed game ov it. Be Saint Pathrick! I’d like mightily to take the shine out of that purty paycock!”
“No, Gallagher, no. It’s not your affair; you could not givemesatisfaction for that. Let us wait till we know more. I cannot believe it—I cannot believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“Not now, my friend. When it is over I shall explain.”
“All right, my boy! Charley Gallagher’s not the man to disturb your saycrets. Now let’s look to the bull-dogs, an’ make shure they’re in barking condition. I hope the scamps won’t blab at head-quarters, an’ disappoint us after all.”
It was my only fear. I knew that arrest was possible—probable—certain, if my adversary wished it. Arrest would put an end to the affair; and I should be left in a worse position than ever. Ringgold’s father was gone—I had ascertained this favourable circumstance; but no matter. The commander-in-chief was the friend of the family—a word in his ear would be sufficient. I feared that the aide-de-camp Scott, instructed by Arens, might whisper that word.
“After all, he daren’t,” said Gallagher; “you driv the nail home, an’ clinched it. He daren’t do the dhirty thing—not a bit of it; it might get wind, an’ thin he’d have the kettle to his tail; besides,ma bohill, he wants to kill you anyhow; so he ought to be glad of the fine handy chance you’ve given him. He’s not a bad shot, they say. Never fear, Geordie, boy! he won’t back out this time; he must fight—he will fight. Ha! I told you so. See, yonder comes Apollo Belvidare! Holy Moses! how Phoebus shines!”
A knock—“Come in,”—the door was opened, and the aide-de-camp appeared in full uniform.
“To arrest me,” thought I, and my heart fell.
But no; the freshly written note spoke a different purpose, and I was relieved. It was the challenge.
“Lieutenant Randolph, I believe,” said the gentleman, advancing towards me.
I pointed to Gallagher, but made no reply.
“I am to understand that Captain Gallagher is your friend.”
I nodded assent.
The two faced each other, and the next instant wereen rapport; talking the matter over as cool as cucumbers and sweet as sugar-plums.
From observation, I hazard this remark—that the politeness exhibited between the seconds in a duel cannot be surpassed by that of the most accomplished courtiers in the world.
The time occupied in the business was brief. Gallagher well knew the routine, and I saw that the other was not entirely unacquainted with it. In five minutes, everything was arranged—place, weapons, and distance.
I nodded; Gallagher made a sweeping salaam; the aide-de-camp bowed stiffly and withdrew.
I shall not trouble you with my reflections previous to the duel, nor yet with many details of the affair itself. Accounts of these deadly encounters are common enough in books, and their sameness will serve as my excuse for not describing one.
Ours differed only from the ordinary kind in the weapon used. We fought withrifles, instead of swords or pistols. It was my choice—as the challenged party, I had the right—but it was equally agreeable to my adversary, who was as well skilled in the use of the rifle as I. I chose this weapon because it was thedeadliest.
The time arranged was an hour before sunset. I had urged this early meeting in fear of interruption; the place, a spot of level ground near the edge of the little pond where I had met Haj-Ewa; the distance, ten paces.
We met—took our places, back to back—waited for the ominous signal, “one, two, three,”—received it—faced rapidly round—and fired at each other.
I heard the “hist” of the leaden pellet as it passed my ear, but felt no stroke.
The smoke puffed upward. I saw my antagonist upon the ground: he was not dead; he was writhing and groaning.
The seconds, and several spectators who were present, ran up to him, but I kept my ground.
“Well, Gallagher?” I asked, as my friend came back to me.
“Winged, by japers! You’ve spoilt the use ov his dexter arm—bone broke above the ilbow-joint.”
“That all?”
“Arrah, sowl! aren’t it enough? Hear how the hound whimpers!”
I felt as the tiger is said to feel after tasting blood, though I cannot now account for my ferocity. The man had sought my life—I thirsted for his. This combined with the other thought had nigh driven me mad.
I was not satisfied, and would make no apology; but my antagonist had had enough; he was eager to be taken from the ground on any terms, and thus the affair ended.
It was my first duel, but not my last.
Chapter Forty Three.The Assignation.Our opponents passed silently away—the spectators along with them—leaving my second and myself upon the ground.It was my intention to stay by the pond. I remembered the invitation of Haj-Ewa. By remaining, I should avoid the double journey. Better to await her coming.A glance to the western horizon shewed me that the sun had already sunk below the tree-tops. The twilight would be short. The young moon was already in the heavens. It might be only a few minutes before Haj-Ewa should come. I resolved to stay.I desired not that Gallagher should be with me; and I expressed the wish to be left alone.My companion was a little surprised and puzzled at the request; but he was too well bred not to yield instant compliance.“Why, Geordie, boy!” said he, about to retire, “shurely there’s something the matther wid ye? It isn’t this thrifling spurt we’ve been engaged in? Didn’t it ind intirely to your satisfaction? Arrah, man! are ye sorry you didn’t kill him dead? Be my trath, you look as milancholic and down-hearted as if he had killedyou!”“Dear friend, leave me alone. On my return to quarters, you shall know the cause of my melancholy, and why I now desire to part from your pleasant company.”“Oh, that part I can guess,” rejoined he with a significant laugh; “always a petticoat where there’s shots exchanged. Niver mind, my boy, no saycrets for Charley Gallagher; I’m bad at keepin’ them. Ov coorse, you’re going to meet betther company than mine; but laste you might fall in with worse—an’ by my sowl! from what ye’ve towld me, that same isn’t beyond the bounds of probability—take this little cheeper. I’m a great dog-braker, you know.” Here the speaker handed me a silver call, which he had plucked from his button. “If any thing inconvenient or disagraable should turn up, put that between your lips, an’ Charley Gallagher will be at your side in the mention of Jack Robison’s name. Cupid spade ye with your lady-love. I’ll go an’ kill time over a tumbler ov nagus till ye come.”So saying, my warm-hearted friend left me to myself.I ceased to think of him ere he was gone out of sight—even the bloody strife, in which I had been so recently engaged, glided out of my mind. Maümee—her falsehood and her fall—alone occupied my thoughts.For a long while, I made no doubt of what I had heard. How could I, with proofs so circumstantial?—the testimony of those cognisant of the scandal—of the chief actor in it, whose silent smile spoke stronger than words. That smile of insolent triumph—why had I permitted it to pass without challenge, without rebuke? It was not too late—I should call upon him to speak plainly and point blank—yes or no. If yes, then for a second duel more deadly than the first.Notwithstanding these resolves to make my rival declare himself, I doubted not the damning truth; I endeavoured to resign myself to its torture.For a long while was my soul upon the rack—more than an hour. Then, as my blood grew more cool, reflections of a calmer nature entered my mind; and at intervals, I experienced the soothing influence of hope; this especially when I recalled the words of Haj-Ewa, spoken on the preceding night. Surely the maniac had not been mocking me? Surely it was not a dream of her delirious brain? a distortedmirageof memory—the memory of some far-away, long-forgotten scene, by her only remembered? No, no; her tale was not distorted—her thoughts were not delirious—her words were not mockeries!How sweet it was to think so!Yes—I began to experience intervals of placid thought: more than placid—pleasant.Alas! they were evanescent. The memory of those bold meretricious phrases, those smiling innuendoes, dissipated or darkened them, as cumuli darken the sun. “Hehadsucceeded.” She was now his favourite. “Most certainly”—words worse than death. Withal it was a foul testimony on which to build a faith.I longed for light, that true light—the evidence of the senses—that leaves nought uncertain. I should seek it with rash directness, reckless of the result, till it illumined her whole history, proving the past a disgrace, the future a chaos of utter despair. I longed for light; I longed for the coming of Haj-Ewa.I knew not what the maniac wanted—something, I supposed, concerning the captive. Since noon, I had little thought of him. The mad queen went everywhere, knew every one; she must know all, understand all—ay, well understand; she, too, had been betrayed.I repaired to our place of meeting on the preceding night; there I might expect her. I crossed the little ridge among the stems of the palmettoes; it was the direct route to the shadowy side of the tank. I descended the slope, and stood as before under the spreading arms of the live-oak.Haj-Ewa was before me. A single moonbeam slanting athwart the leaves, shone upon her majestic figure. Under its light the two serpents glittered with a metallic lustre, as though her neck and waist were encircled with precious gems.“Hinklas! pretty mico! you are come. Gallant mico! where was thine eye and thine arm that thou didst not kill theIste-hulwa?” (Literally bad man—villain.)“Ah! the hunter of the deer—He was stricken so with fearWhen he stood before the wolf,The gaunt wicked wolf,When he saw the snarling wolf,He trembled so with fear,That unharmed the fierce wolf ran away.“Ha, ha, ha! was it not so, brave mico?”“It was not fear that hindered me, Ewa. Besides, the wolf did not go unscathed.”“Ho! the wolf has a wounded leg—he will lick himself well again; he will soon be strong as ever.Hulwak! you should have killed him, fair mico, ere he bring the pack upon you.”“I could not help my ill luck. I am unfortunate every way.”“Cooree, cooree—no. You shall be happy, young mico; youshallbe happy, friend of the red Seminole. Wait till you see—”“See what?”“Patience,chepawnee! To-night under this very tree, you will see what is fair—you will hear what is sweet—and perchance Haj-Ewa will be revenged.”This last phrase was spoken with an earnest emphasis, and in a tone that shewed a strong feeling of resentment against some one unknown. I could not comprehend the nature of the expected vengeance.“His son—yes,” continued the maniac, now in soliloquy, “it must be—it must: his eyes, his hair, his form, his gait, hisname;hisson andhers. Oh, Haj-Ewa will have revenge.”Was I myself the object of this menace? Such a thought entered my mind.“Good Ewa! of whom are you speaking?”Roused by my voice, she looked upon me with a bewildered stare, and then broke out into her habitual chant:“Why did I trust to a pale-faced lover?Ho, ho, ho!” etc.Suddenly stopping, she seemed once more to remember herself, and essayed a reply to my question.“Whom, young mico? Of him the fair one—the wicked one—theWykomé hulwa(the spirit of evil). See! he comes, he comes! Behold him in the water. Ho, ho! it is he. Up, young mico! up into thy leafy bower; stay till Ewa comes! Hear what you may hear—see what you may see; but, for your life, stir not till I give you the signal. Up, up, up!”Just as on the preceding night, half lifting me into the live-oak, the maniac glided away amidst the shadows.I lost no time in getting into my former position, where I sat silent and expecting.The shadow had grown shorter, but there was still enough to shew me that it was the form of a man. In another moment, it vanished.Scarcely an instant had elapsed, ere a second was flung upon the water, advancing over the ridge, and as if following the track of the former one, though the two persons did not appear to be in company.That which followed I could trace in full outline. It was the figure of a woman, one whose upright bearing and free port proved her to be young.Even the shadow exhibited a certain symmetry of form and gracefulness of motion, incompatible with age. Was it still Haj-Ewa? Had she gone round through the thicket, and was now following the footsteps of the man?For a moment I fancied so; but I soon perceived that my fancy was astray.The man advanced under the tree. The same moonbeam, that but a moment before had shone upon Haj-Ewa, now fell upon him, and I saw him with sufficient distinctness; he was the aide-de-camp.He stopped, took out his watch, held it up to the light, and appeared to be inquiring the hour.But I heeded him no further. Another face appeared under that silvery ray—false and shining as itself: it was the face that to me seemed the loveliest in the world—the face of Maümee.
Our opponents passed silently away—the spectators along with them—leaving my second and myself upon the ground.
It was my intention to stay by the pond. I remembered the invitation of Haj-Ewa. By remaining, I should avoid the double journey. Better to await her coming.
A glance to the western horizon shewed me that the sun had already sunk below the tree-tops. The twilight would be short. The young moon was already in the heavens. It might be only a few minutes before Haj-Ewa should come. I resolved to stay.
I desired not that Gallagher should be with me; and I expressed the wish to be left alone.
My companion was a little surprised and puzzled at the request; but he was too well bred not to yield instant compliance.
“Why, Geordie, boy!” said he, about to retire, “shurely there’s something the matther wid ye? It isn’t this thrifling spurt we’ve been engaged in? Didn’t it ind intirely to your satisfaction? Arrah, man! are ye sorry you didn’t kill him dead? Be my trath, you look as milancholic and down-hearted as if he had killedyou!”
“Dear friend, leave me alone. On my return to quarters, you shall know the cause of my melancholy, and why I now desire to part from your pleasant company.”
“Oh, that part I can guess,” rejoined he with a significant laugh; “always a petticoat where there’s shots exchanged. Niver mind, my boy, no saycrets for Charley Gallagher; I’m bad at keepin’ them. Ov coorse, you’re going to meet betther company than mine; but laste you might fall in with worse—an’ by my sowl! from what ye’ve towld me, that same isn’t beyond the bounds of probability—take this little cheeper. I’m a great dog-braker, you know.” Here the speaker handed me a silver call, which he had plucked from his button. “If any thing inconvenient or disagraable should turn up, put that between your lips, an’ Charley Gallagher will be at your side in the mention of Jack Robison’s name. Cupid spade ye with your lady-love. I’ll go an’ kill time over a tumbler ov nagus till ye come.”
So saying, my warm-hearted friend left me to myself.
I ceased to think of him ere he was gone out of sight—even the bloody strife, in which I had been so recently engaged, glided out of my mind. Maümee—her falsehood and her fall—alone occupied my thoughts.
For a long while, I made no doubt of what I had heard. How could I, with proofs so circumstantial?—the testimony of those cognisant of the scandal—of the chief actor in it, whose silent smile spoke stronger than words. That smile of insolent triumph—why had I permitted it to pass without challenge, without rebuke? It was not too late—I should call upon him to speak plainly and point blank—yes or no. If yes, then for a second duel more deadly than the first.
Notwithstanding these resolves to make my rival declare himself, I doubted not the damning truth; I endeavoured to resign myself to its torture.
For a long while was my soul upon the rack—more than an hour. Then, as my blood grew more cool, reflections of a calmer nature entered my mind; and at intervals, I experienced the soothing influence of hope; this especially when I recalled the words of Haj-Ewa, spoken on the preceding night. Surely the maniac had not been mocking me? Surely it was not a dream of her delirious brain? a distortedmirageof memory—the memory of some far-away, long-forgotten scene, by her only remembered? No, no; her tale was not distorted—her thoughts were not delirious—her words were not mockeries!
How sweet it was to think so!
Yes—I began to experience intervals of placid thought: more than placid—pleasant.
Alas! they were evanescent. The memory of those bold meretricious phrases, those smiling innuendoes, dissipated or darkened them, as cumuli darken the sun. “Hehadsucceeded.” She was now his favourite. “Most certainly”—words worse than death. Withal it was a foul testimony on which to build a faith.
I longed for light, that true light—the evidence of the senses—that leaves nought uncertain. I should seek it with rash directness, reckless of the result, till it illumined her whole history, proving the past a disgrace, the future a chaos of utter despair. I longed for light; I longed for the coming of Haj-Ewa.
I knew not what the maniac wanted—something, I supposed, concerning the captive. Since noon, I had little thought of him. The mad queen went everywhere, knew every one; she must know all, understand all—ay, well understand; she, too, had been betrayed.
I repaired to our place of meeting on the preceding night; there I might expect her. I crossed the little ridge among the stems of the palmettoes; it was the direct route to the shadowy side of the tank. I descended the slope, and stood as before under the spreading arms of the live-oak.
Haj-Ewa was before me. A single moonbeam slanting athwart the leaves, shone upon her majestic figure. Under its light the two serpents glittered with a metallic lustre, as though her neck and waist were encircled with precious gems.
“Hinklas! pretty mico! you are come. Gallant mico! where was thine eye and thine arm that thou didst not kill theIste-hulwa?” (Literally bad man—villain.)
“Ah! the hunter of the deer—He was stricken so with fearWhen he stood before the wolf,The gaunt wicked wolf,When he saw the snarling wolf,He trembled so with fear,That unharmed the fierce wolf ran away.
“Ah! the hunter of the deer—He was stricken so with fearWhen he stood before the wolf,The gaunt wicked wolf,When he saw the snarling wolf,He trembled so with fear,That unharmed the fierce wolf ran away.
“Ha, ha, ha! was it not so, brave mico?”
“It was not fear that hindered me, Ewa. Besides, the wolf did not go unscathed.”
“Ho! the wolf has a wounded leg—he will lick himself well again; he will soon be strong as ever.Hulwak! you should have killed him, fair mico, ere he bring the pack upon you.”
“I could not help my ill luck. I am unfortunate every way.”
“Cooree, cooree—no. You shall be happy, young mico; youshallbe happy, friend of the red Seminole. Wait till you see—”
“See what?”
“Patience,chepawnee! To-night under this very tree, you will see what is fair—you will hear what is sweet—and perchance Haj-Ewa will be revenged.”
This last phrase was spoken with an earnest emphasis, and in a tone that shewed a strong feeling of resentment against some one unknown. I could not comprehend the nature of the expected vengeance.
“His son—yes,” continued the maniac, now in soliloquy, “it must be—it must: his eyes, his hair, his form, his gait, hisname;hisson andhers. Oh, Haj-Ewa will have revenge.”
Was I myself the object of this menace? Such a thought entered my mind.
“Good Ewa! of whom are you speaking?”
Roused by my voice, she looked upon me with a bewildered stare, and then broke out into her habitual chant:
“Why did I trust to a pale-faced lover?Ho, ho, ho!” etc.
“Why did I trust to a pale-faced lover?Ho, ho, ho!” etc.
Suddenly stopping, she seemed once more to remember herself, and essayed a reply to my question.
“Whom, young mico? Of him the fair one—the wicked one—theWykomé hulwa(the spirit of evil). See! he comes, he comes! Behold him in the water. Ho, ho! it is he. Up, young mico! up into thy leafy bower; stay till Ewa comes! Hear what you may hear—see what you may see; but, for your life, stir not till I give you the signal. Up, up, up!”
Just as on the preceding night, half lifting me into the live-oak, the maniac glided away amidst the shadows.
I lost no time in getting into my former position, where I sat silent and expecting.
The shadow had grown shorter, but there was still enough to shew me that it was the form of a man. In another moment, it vanished.
Scarcely an instant had elapsed, ere a second was flung upon the water, advancing over the ridge, and as if following the track of the former one, though the two persons did not appear to be in company.
That which followed I could trace in full outline. It was the figure of a woman, one whose upright bearing and free port proved her to be young.
Even the shadow exhibited a certain symmetry of form and gracefulness of motion, incompatible with age. Was it still Haj-Ewa? Had she gone round through the thicket, and was now following the footsteps of the man?
For a moment I fancied so; but I soon perceived that my fancy was astray.
The man advanced under the tree. The same moonbeam, that but a moment before had shone upon Haj-Ewa, now fell upon him, and I saw him with sufficient distinctness; he was the aide-de-camp.
He stopped, took out his watch, held it up to the light, and appeared to be inquiring the hour.
But I heeded him no further. Another face appeared under that silvery ray—false and shining as itself: it was the face that to me seemed the loveliest in the world—the face of Maümee.
Chapter Forty Four.An Eclaircissement.These were the shadows upon the water promised by Haj-Ewa—black shadows upon my heart.Mad queen of the Micosaucs! what have I done to deserve this torture? Thou too my enemy! Had I been thy deadliest foe, thou couldst scarcely have contrived a keener sting for thy vengeance.Face to face stood Maümee and her lover—seduced and seducer. I had no doubt as to the identity of either. The moonbeam fell upon both—no longer with soft silvery light, but gleaming rude and red, like the chandeliers of a bagnio. It may have been but a seeming—the reflection of an inflamed imagination that influenced me from within; but my belief in her innocence was gone—hopelessly gone; the very air seemed tainted with her guilt—the world appeared a chaos of debauchery and ruin.I had no other thought than that I was present at a scene of assignation. How could I think otherwise? No signs of surprise were exhibited by either, as they came together. They met as those who have promised to come—who have often met before.Evidently each expected the other. Though other emotions declared themselves, there was not the slightest sign of novelty in the encounter.For me, it was a terrible crisis. The anguish of a whole life compressed into the space of a single moment could not have been more unendurable. The blood seemed to scald my heart as it gushed through. So acute was the pang, I could scarcely restrain myself from crying aloud.An effort—a stern determined effort—and the throe was over. Firmly bracing my nerves—firmly grasping the branches—I clung to my seat, resolved to know more.That was a fortunate resolution. Had I at that moment given way to the wild impulse of passion, and sought a reckless revenge, I should in all likelihood have carved out for myself a long lifetime of sorrow. Patience proved my guardian angel, and the end was otherwise.Not a word—not a motion—not a breath. What will they say?—what do?My situation was like his of the suspended sword. On second thoughts, the simile is both trite and untrue: the sword had already fallen; it could wound me no more. I was as one paralysed both in body and soul—impervious to further pain.Not a word—not a motion—not a breath. What will they say?—what do?The light is full upon Maümee; I can see her from head to foot. How large she has grown—a woman in all her outlines, perfect, entire. And her loveliness has kept pace with her growth. Larger, she is lovelier than ever. Demon of jealousy! art thou not content with what thou hast already done? Have I not suffered enough? Why hast thou presented her in such witching guise? O that she were scarred, hideous, hag-like—as she shall yet become! Even thus to see her, would be some satisfaction—an anodyne to my chafed soul.But it is not so. Her face is sweetly beautiful—never so beautiful before. Soft and innocent as ever—not a line of guilt can be traced on those placid features—not a gleam of evil in that round, rolling eye! The angels of heaven are beautiful; but they are good. Oh, who could believe in crime concealed under such loveliness as hers?I expected a more meretricious mien. There was a scintillation of cheer in the disappointment.Do not suppose that these reflections occupied time. In a few seconds they passed through my mind, for thought is quicker than the magnetic shock. They passed while I was waiting to hear the first words that, to my surprise, were for some moments unspoken. To my surprise;Icould not have met her in such fashion. My heart would have been upon my tongue, and lips—I see it now. The hot burst of passion is past—the springs tide of love has subsided—such an interview is no longer a novelty—perhaps he grows tired of her, foul libertine that he is! See! they meet with some shyness. Coldness has risen between them—a love quarrel—fool is he as villain—fool not to rush into those arms, and at once reconcile it. Would that his opportunities were mine!—not all the world could restrain me from seeking that sweet embrace.Bitter as were my thoughts, they were less bitter on observing this attitude of the lovers. I fancied it was half-hostile.Not a word—not a motion—not a breath. What will they say;—what do.My suspense came to an end. The aide-de-camp at length found his tongue.“Lovely Maümee, you have kept your promise.”“But you, sir, have not yours? No—I read it in your looks. You have yet done nothing for us?”“Be assured, Maümee, I have not had an opportunity. The general has been so busy, I have had no chance to press the matter upon him. But do not be impatient. I shall be certain to persuade him; and your property shall be restored to you in due time. Tell your mother not to feel uneasy: foryoursake, beautiful Maümee, I shall spare no exertion. Believe me, I am as anxious as yourself; but you must know the stern disposition of my uncle; and, moreover, that he is on the ’most friendly terms with the Ringgold family. In this will lie the main difficulty, but I fear not that I shall be able to surmount it.”“O sir, your words are fine, but they have little worth with us now. We have waited long upon your promise to befriend us. We only wished for an investigation; and you might easily have obtained it ere this. We no longer care for our lands, for greater wrongs make us forget the less. I should not have been here to-night, had we not been in sad grief at the misfortune—I should rather say outrage—that has fallen upon my poor brother. You have professed friendship to our family. I come to seek it now, for now may you give proof of it. Obtain my brother’s freedom, and we shall then believe in the fair words you have so often spoken. Do not say it is impossible; it cannot even be difficult for you who hold so much authority among the white chiefs. My brother may have been rude; but he has committed no crime that should entail severe punishment. A word to the great war-chief, and he would be set free. Go, then, and speak that word.”“Lovely Maümee! you do not know the nature of the errand upon which you send me. Your brother is a prisoner by orders of the agent, and by the act of the commander-in-chief. It is not with us as among your people. I am only a subordinate in rank, and were I to offer the counsel you propose, I should be rebuked—perhaps punished.”“Oh, you fear rebuke for doing an act of justice?—to say naught of your much offered friendship? Good, sir! I have no more to say, except this—we believe you no longer. You need come to our humble dwelling no more.”She was turning away with a scornful smile. How beautiful seemed that scorn!“Stay, Maümee!—fair Maümee, do not part from me thus—doubt not that I will do all in my power—”“Do what I have asked you. Set my brother free—let him return to his home.”“And if I should—”“Well, sir.”“Know, Maümee, that for me to do so would be to risk everything. I might be degraded from my rank—reduced to the condition of a common soldier—disgraced in the eyes of my country—ay, punished, perhaps, by imprisonment worse than that which your brother is likely to endure. All this would I risk by the act.”The girl paused in her step, but made no reply. “And yet all these chances shall I undergo—ay, the danger of death itself—if you, fair Maümee,”—here the speaker waxed passionate and insinuating—“if you will only consent.”“Consent—to what, sir?”“Lovely Maümee, need I tell you? Surely you understand my meaning. You cannot be blind to the love—to the passion—to the deep devotion with which your beauty has inspired me—”“Consent to what, sir?” demanded she, repeating her former words, and in a soft tone, that seemed to promise compliance. “Only to love me, fair Maümee—to become my mistress.” For some moments, there was no reply. The grand woman seemed immobile as a statue. She did not even start on hearing the foul proposal, but, on the contrary, stood as if turned to stone.Her silence had an encouraging effect upon the ardent lover; he appeared to take it for assent. He could not have looked into her eye, or he would there have read an expression that would have hindered him from pressing his suit farther. No—he could not have observed that glance, or he would hardly have made such a mistake.“Only promise it, fair Maümee; your brother shall be free before the morning, and you shall have everything—”“Villain, villain, villain! Ha, ha! ha, ha! Ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!”In all my life, I never heard aught so delightful as that laugh. It was the sweetest sound that ever fell upon my ears. Not all the wedding-bells that ever rang—not all the lutes that ever played—not all the harps and hautboys—the clarions and trumpets—in the world, could have produced such melodious music for me.The moon seemed to pour silver from the sky—the stars had grown bigger and brighter—the breeze became filled with delicious odours, as if a perfumed censer had been spilled from heaven, and the whole scene appeared suddenly transformed into an Elysium.
These were the shadows upon the water promised by Haj-Ewa—black shadows upon my heart.
Mad queen of the Micosaucs! what have I done to deserve this torture? Thou too my enemy! Had I been thy deadliest foe, thou couldst scarcely have contrived a keener sting for thy vengeance.
Face to face stood Maümee and her lover—seduced and seducer. I had no doubt as to the identity of either. The moonbeam fell upon both—no longer with soft silvery light, but gleaming rude and red, like the chandeliers of a bagnio. It may have been but a seeming—the reflection of an inflamed imagination that influenced me from within; but my belief in her innocence was gone—hopelessly gone; the very air seemed tainted with her guilt—the world appeared a chaos of debauchery and ruin.
I had no other thought than that I was present at a scene of assignation. How could I think otherwise? No signs of surprise were exhibited by either, as they came together. They met as those who have promised to come—who have often met before.
Evidently each expected the other. Though other emotions declared themselves, there was not the slightest sign of novelty in the encounter.
For me, it was a terrible crisis. The anguish of a whole life compressed into the space of a single moment could not have been more unendurable. The blood seemed to scald my heart as it gushed through. So acute was the pang, I could scarcely restrain myself from crying aloud.
An effort—a stern determined effort—and the throe was over. Firmly bracing my nerves—firmly grasping the branches—I clung to my seat, resolved to know more.
That was a fortunate resolution. Had I at that moment given way to the wild impulse of passion, and sought a reckless revenge, I should in all likelihood have carved out for myself a long lifetime of sorrow. Patience proved my guardian angel, and the end was otherwise.
Not a word—not a motion—not a breath. What will they say?—what do?
My situation was like his of the suspended sword. On second thoughts, the simile is both trite and untrue: the sword had already fallen; it could wound me no more. I was as one paralysed both in body and soul—impervious to further pain.
Not a word—not a motion—not a breath. What will they say?—what do?
The light is full upon Maümee; I can see her from head to foot. How large she has grown—a woman in all her outlines, perfect, entire. And her loveliness has kept pace with her growth. Larger, she is lovelier than ever. Demon of jealousy! art thou not content with what thou hast already done? Have I not suffered enough? Why hast thou presented her in such witching guise? O that she were scarred, hideous, hag-like—as she shall yet become! Even thus to see her, would be some satisfaction—an anodyne to my chafed soul.
But it is not so. Her face is sweetly beautiful—never so beautiful before. Soft and innocent as ever—not a line of guilt can be traced on those placid features—not a gleam of evil in that round, rolling eye! The angels of heaven are beautiful; but they are good. Oh, who could believe in crime concealed under such loveliness as hers?
I expected a more meretricious mien. There was a scintillation of cheer in the disappointment.
Do not suppose that these reflections occupied time. In a few seconds they passed through my mind, for thought is quicker than the magnetic shock. They passed while I was waiting to hear the first words that, to my surprise, were for some moments unspoken. To my surprise;Icould not have met her in such fashion. My heart would have been upon my tongue, and lips—
I see it now. The hot burst of passion is past—the springs tide of love has subsided—such an interview is no longer a novelty—perhaps he grows tired of her, foul libertine that he is! See! they meet with some shyness. Coldness has risen between them—a love quarrel—fool is he as villain—fool not to rush into those arms, and at once reconcile it. Would that his opportunities were mine!—not all the world could restrain me from seeking that sweet embrace.
Bitter as were my thoughts, they were less bitter on observing this attitude of the lovers. I fancied it was half-hostile.
Not a word—not a motion—not a breath. What will they say;—what do.
My suspense came to an end. The aide-de-camp at length found his tongue.
“Lovely Maümee, you have kept your promise.”
“But you, sir, have not yours? No—I read it in your looks. You have yet done nothing for us?”
“Be assured, Maümee, I have not had an opportunity. The general has been so busy, I have had no chance to press the matter upon him. But do not be impatient. I shall be certain to persuade him; and your property shall be restored to you in due time. Tell your mother not to feel uneasy: foryoursake, beautiful Maümee, I shall spare no exertion. Believe me, I am as anxious as yourself; but you must know the stern disposition of my uncle; and, moreover, that he is on the ’most friendly terms with the Ringgold family. In this will lie the main difficulty, but I fear not that I shall be able to surmount it.”
“O sir, your words are fine, but they have little worth with us now. We have waited long upon your promise to befriend us. We only wished for an investigation; and you might easily have obtained it ere this. We no longer care for our lands, for greater wrongs make us forget the less. I should not have been here to-night, had we not been in sad grief at the misfortune—I should rather say outrage—that has fallen upon my poor brother. You have professed friendship to our family. I come to seek it now, for now may you give proof of it. Obtain my brother’s freedom, and we shall then believe in the fair words you have so often spoken. Do not say it is impossible; it cannot even be difficult for you who hold so much authority among the white chiefs. My brother may have been rude; but he has committed no crime that should entail severe punishment. A word to the great war-chief, and he would be set free. Go, then, and speak that word.”
“Lovely Maümee! you do not know the nature of the errand upon which you send me. Your brother is a prisoner by orders of the agent, and by the act of the commander-in-chief. It is not with us as among your people. I am only a subordinate in rank, and were I to offer the counsel you propose, I should be rebuked—perhaps punished.”
“Oh, you fear rebuke for doing an act of justice?—to say naught of your much offered friendship? Good, sir! I have no more to say, except this—we believe you no longer. You need come to our humble dwelling no more.”
She was turning away with a scornful smile. How beautiful seemed that scorn!
“Stay, Maümee!—fair Maümee, do not part from me thus—doubt not that I will do all in my power—”
“Do what I have asked you. Set my brother free—let him return to his home.”
“And if I should—”
“Well, sir.”
“Know, Maümee, that for me to do so would be to risk everything. I might be degraded from my rank—reduced to the condition of a common soldier—disgraced in the eyes of my country—ay, punished, perhaps, by imprisonment worse than that which your brother is likely to endure. All this would I risk by the act.”
The girl paused in her step, but made no reply. “And yet all these chances shall I undergo—ay, the danger of death itself—if you, fair Maümee,”—here the speaker waxed passionate and insinuating—“if you will only consent.”
“Consent—to what, sir?”
“Lovely Maümee, need I tell you? Surely you understand my meaning. You cannot be blind to the love—to the passion—to the deep devotion with which your beauty has inspired me—”
“Consent to what, sir?” demanded she, repeating her former words, and in a soft tone, that seemed to promise compliance. “Only to love me, fair Maümee—to become my mistress.” For some moments, there was no reply. The grand woman seemed immobile as a statue. She did not even start on hearing the foul proposal, but, on the contrary, stood as if turned to stone.
Her silence had an encouraging effect upon the ardent lover; he appeared to take it for assent. He could not have looked into her eye, or he would there have read an expression that would have hindered him from pressing his suit farther. No—he could not have observed that glance, or he would hardly have made such a mistake.
“Only promise it, fair Maümee; your brother shall be free before the morning, and you shall have everything—”
“Villain, villain, villain! Ha, ha! ha, ha! Ha, ha! ha, ha, ha!”
In all my life, I never heard aught so delightful as that laugh. It was the sweetest sound that ever fell upon my ears. Not all the wedding-bells that ever rang—not all the lutes that ever played—not all the harps and hautboys—the clarions and trumpets—in the world, could have produced such melodious music for me.
The moon seemed to pour silver from the sky—the stars had grown bigger and brighter—the breeze became filled with delicious odours, as if a perfumed censer had been spilled from heaven, and the whole scene appeared suddenly transformed into an Elysium.