Chapter Thirty Eight.The Sleeping Draught.Cris Carrol’s fortitude did not desert him, when he once more found himself alone in his prison.He was not wholly unmoved by the reflection that on the morrow he must die; for it was a death such as even a brave man might not meet bravely, but a lingering death by torture.The hunter knew what this meant.“A bullet ain’t nothin’,” said he to himself, “it’s into yer body afore ye knows it, and if it’s in your vitals there’s an end on it; but to stand up to be prodded with burning sticks, requires philosophy a’most as much as this hyar chile have got. Dog-rot it, it won’t bear thinkin’ on—that it won’t. But I’ll be all-fired eternally if them fellows shall know how it hurts Cris Carrol! So let ’em do their worst, dura ’em!”After this self-consoling soliloquy, he calmly went to work to make himself comfortable, by laying his blanket on the bare ground and improvising a pillow out of some logs that lay within reach.As he handled the billets, a strange desire seized him. It was to knock his guard’s brains out and make a dash for liberty. But a moment’s reflection convinced him that the attempt at escape would be futile, the men outside being doubtless prepared to oppose his exit.A disinclination to shed blood uselessly decided him, and he lay down composedly after lighting his pipe.For some time he ruminated on his condition, puffing curls of smoke into the air, and watching them as they disappeared.Once or twice he heard a scratching noise near the corner of the room, but it ceased almost as soon as he had noticed it.At length, giving way to weariness, he composed himself to sleep, and before long, his loud snoring suggested to his guards that they might relax their vigilance.They accordingly retired outside the door, after having assured themselves that his slumber was genuine.There were still four of them, and they began chattering to each other, for a time forgetting their prisoner.He was at length awakened by a gentle tug at his arm, which had to be repeated several times before it had the effect of arousing him.In an instant he sat up.“Eh? what? By the etarnal—”An admonition of silence checked him, and he surveyed, with an astonished countenance, the cause of his disturbance.In the darkest corner of the hut he perceived an opening, through which the face of a young girl was visible. He started on recognising her.“Hush!” she said in a whisper. “Remember you are watched. Lie down again—listen; but say nothing. Ha! they are coming back!”At these words the speaker withdrew, just in time, as two of the guards next moment re-entered the room.They did not stay long. The heavy snoring which Cris improvised for them disarmed them of suspicion.The moment they were again gone, he turned his eyes towards the opening, and listened.“Do you know me?—answer by a sign.”Cris nodded in the affirmative.“You believe I am desirous to serve you?”To this question he almost nodded his head off.“Listen, then; and be careful to obey my instructions. This opening leads into the next house. The exit from it is through another—unfortunately it is a public room; therefore you cannot escape that way without as much risk as you would by going directly out by the door. Don’t go that way, but by the window. You see that window?”Cris looked up. He had seen the window, certainly, and had already looked at it in every possible light, while considering a means of escape, but had come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t suit.In reply, he shook his head despairingly.His visitor seemed to understand him.“It is too high, perhaps?”Cris intimated by a sign that the difficulty was not in its height.“The bars would prevent you getting out?”The hunter’s head nodded like a mandarin’s.“Is that all? Then I may as well tell you. Hush! some one is coming.”One of the sentinels had thrust his head inside the door; he luckily withdrew it, convinced that all was right.On its disappearance Carrol’s mysterious visitor returned, and resumed the conversation.“You think those bars would hinder your escape?”Another nod was the answer.“You are mistaken.”The backwoodsman, now perfectlyau faitwith his pantomimic part of the dialogue, gave a modest but expressive look of dissent.“I tell you you are mistaken,” continued the young girl, “they are all sawn through. I see you are curious to know who did that?”Cris said “yes,” without speaking a word.“It was I!”“You?” he telegraphed.“Yes; I was once a close prisoner in this very room—not watched as you are, but still a prisoner. I broke a watch to pieces, took out the mainspring, filed a saw with the nail-cleaning blade of a pen-knife, and with that I sawed away the bars, leaving barely enough to hold them together.”Carrol’s look expressed astonishment.“Yes; itwashard work, and it took weeks to accomplish it. I dare say you wonder why I didn’t make my escape. That’s too long a story to tell you now.”The backwoodsman’s look was very eloquent, and his visitor equally quick of comprehension. By that look he asked a question.“No; I’m not a prisoner now,” she answered, “only in name. You shall have the benefit of my labours. But you must do everything cautiously. And first, to get rid of your guards.”“How was that to be done?”It was the captive who asked himself this question.“Here is a bottle,” continued she; “it contains a sleeping draught. When they return, ask them for a drink; they will give it to you in a gourd; manage to pour the contents of this bottle into the gourd, and invite them to drink along with you. They will do so, as they never refuse a condemned captive. In a few minutes the draught will take effect. Then climb to the window, remove the bars without noise, let yourself down softly, and make your way straight into the forest. No thanks, till I see you again!”With these words his visitor vanished, the opening in the wall closed noiselessly, and Cris lay wondering whether he had been sleeping or waking, listening to a soft, delicate voice, or only dreaming that he heard it.The phial in his hand, however, gave token that he had not been dreaming. His visitor was no creature of another world, but one of this mundane sphere.The hunter scratched his head with bewilderment, and mentally reviewed the situation.“Wal, of all the surprisingest things as ever I met, this air the most tremenjous. Bite me to death with gallinippers if ever I thought to have seed sich a thing and not yell right out! And me a lyin’ here when that splendiferous critter war a botherin’ her brain to sarve this old sinner! It’s the most etarnal ’stonishing thing ever heerd on—that’s what it is. Yah! so you’re come agin, air ye?” he continued, as two of his guards re-entered. “Wal, I reckon I’ve got somethin’ as ’ill suit your complaint. Come in, ye devils, you!”The unconscious objects of his apostrophe having entered the room, seated themselves not far from him, chattering with each other. The subject of the conversation was uninteresting to their prisoner, who lay revolving in his mind what was best to be done.The time for putting his plan into execution had at length arrived.His sentinels had ceased conversing, and were with difficulty keeping themselves awake.“Look hyar, red-skins,” he said, addressing them, “have ye sich a thing as a drop of water? I’m most chokin’ wi’ thirst, and I see its no use waiting till you axes me, so I’ll take the trouble off your hands, and axe you.”One of the Indians good-naturedly went outside, returning with a gourd, which he handed to the prisoner.Cris raised it to his lips, and drank; then paused, as if for breath.“By the etarnal!” said he, “if I didn’t think I seed one of your comrades put his head in that thar door. What kin he want?”The men looked in the direction of the door.The contents of the phial were poured into the gourd.When the Indians looked again at their captive, he was apparently enjoying another long draught of water.Not a drop, however, passed his lips.“Ah!” he exclaimed, after his seemingly exhausting imbibation, and with the greatest difficulty suppressing a grimace, “there’s nothing like water to refresh one. It a’most gives a dyin’ man new lease o’ his life. I wonder I never tried it afore. There’s a smack o’ freedom about it that’s worth its weight in gold. Try it yourselves, and don’t stand staring, as if you was agoin’ to swallow me.”The comical expression of their captive’s face, more than the long speech he made to the two men, induced them to oblige him.Putting their lips to the gourd, each took a draught of the water.They did not seem to coincide with him in his opinion of its virtues.The old hunter laughed in his sleeve on perceiving their wry faces.“Don’t like it, eh? Wal, you don’t know what’s good for ye. Poor benighted critters! how should ye?”As he made the remark he fell back upon his log bolster, and again seemed to compose himself to sleep.If the Indians had been somnolent before drinking the water, they were not rendered more wakeful by the indulgence, and it was almost ludicrous to see what useless efforts they made to battle against the potent narcotic.In vain they talked to each other, got up, and paced the room, and endeavoured to stand up without leaning up against the wall.This struggle between sleep and watchfulness at length came to a close.In less than ten minutes after taking the draught, both lay stretched along the floor in a deep death-like slumber.The backwoodsman lost no more time.With an agile motion, he planted his feet in the interstices of the logs, and reached the window.A slight wrenching of the bars showed the skill with which they had been sawn asunder.One after another gave way, and the whole framework was in his hands.He was on the point of dropping it gently, when outside, under the window, a human form appeared.It was that of an Indian!
Cris Carrol’s fortitude did not desert him, when he once more found himself alone in his prison.
He was not wholly unmoved by the reflection that on the morrow he must die; for it was a death such as even a brave man might not meet bravely, but a lingering death by torture.
The hunter knew what this meant.
“A bullet ain’t nothin’,” said he to himself, “it’s into yer body afore ye knows it, and if it’s in your vitals there’s an end on it; but to stand up to be prodded with burning sticks, requires philosophy a’most as much as this hyar chile have got. Dog-rot it, it won’t bear thinkin’ on—that it won’t. But I’ll be all-fired eternally if them fellows shall know how it hurts Cris Carrol! So let ’em do their worst, dura ’em!”
After this self-consoling soliloquy, he calmly went to work to make himself comfortable, by laying his blanket on the bare ground and improvising a pillow out of some logs that lay within reach.
As he handled the billets, a strange desire seized him. It was to knock his guard’s brains out and make a dash for liberty. But a moment’s reflection convinced him that the attempt at escape would be futile, the men outside being doubtless prepared to oppose his exit.
A disinclination to shed blood uselessly decided him, and he lay down composedly after lighting his pipe.
For some time he ruminated on his condition, puffing curls of smoke into the air, and watching them as they disappeared.
Once or twice he heard a scratching noise near the corner of the room, but it ceased almost as soon as he had noticed it.
At length, giving way to weariness, he composed himself to sleep, and before long, his loud snoring suggested to his guards that they might relax their vigilance.
They accordingly retired outside the door, after having assured themselves that his slumber was genuine.
There were still four of them, and they began chattering to each other, for a time forgetting their prisoner.
He was at length awakened by a gentle tug at his arm, which had to be repeated several times before it had the effect of arousing him.
In an instant he sat up.
“Eh? what? By the etarnal—”
An admonition of silence checked him, and he surveyed, with an astonished countenance, the cause of his disturbance.
In the darkest corner of the hut he perceived an opening, through which the face of a young girl was visible. He started on recognising her.
“Hush!” she said in a whisper. “Remember you are watched. Lie down again—listen; but say nothing. Ha! they are coming back!”
At these words the speaker withdrew, just in time, as two of the guards next moment re-entered the room.
They did not stay long. The heavy snoring which Cris improvised for them disarmed them of suspicion.
The moment they were again gone, he turned his eyes towards the opening, and listened.
“Do you know me?—answer by a sign.”
Cris nodded in the affirmative.
“You believe I am desirous to serve you?”
To this question he almost nodded his head off.
“Listen, then; and be careful to obey my instructions. This opening leads into the next house. The exit from it is through another—unfortunately it is a public room; therefore you cannot escape that way without as much risk as you would by going directly out by the door. Don’t go that way, but by the window. You see that window?”
Cris looked up. He had seen the window, certainly, and had already looked at it in every possible light, while considering a means of escape, but had come to the conclusion that it wouldn’t suit.
In reply, he shook his head despairingly.
His visitor seemed to understand him.
“It is too high, perhaps?”
Cris intimated by a sign that the difficulty was not in its height.
“The bars would prevent you getting out?”
The hunter’s head nodded like a mandarin’s.
“Is that all? Then I may as well tell you. Hush! some one is coming.”
One of the sentinels had thrust his head inside the door; he luckily withdrew it, convinced that all was right.
On its disappearance Carrol’s mysterious visitor returned, and resumed the conversation.
“You think those bars would hinder your escape?”
Another nod was the answer.
“You are mistaken.”
The backwoodsman, now perfectlyau faitwith his pantomimic part of the dialogue, gave a modest but expressive look of dissent.
“I tell you you are mistaken,” continued the young girl, “they are all sawn through. I see you are curious to know who did that?”
Cris said “yes,” without speaking a word.
“It was I!”
“You?” he telegraphed.
“Yes; I was once a close prisoner in this very room—not watched as you are, but still a prisoner. I broke a watch to pieces, took out the mainspring, filed a saw with the nail-cleaning blade of a pen-knife, and with that I sawed away the bars, leaving barely enough to hold them together.”
Carrol’s look expressed astonishment.
“Yes; itwashard work, and it took weeks to accomplish it. I dare say you wonder why I didn’t make my escape. That’s too long a story to tell you now.”
The backwoodsman’s look was very eloquent, and his visitor equally quick of comprehension. By that look he asked a question.
“No; I’m not a prisoner now,” she answered, “only in name. You shall have the benefit of my labours. But you must do everything cautiously. And first, to get rid of your guards.”
“How was that to be done?”
It was the captive who asked himself this question.
“Here is a bottle,” continued she; “it contains a sleeping draught. When they return, ask them for a drink; they will give it to you in a gourd; manage to pour the contents of this bottle into the gourd, and invite them to drink along with you. They will do so, as they never refuse a condemned captive. In a few minutes the draught will take effect. Then climb to the window, remove the bars without noise, let yourself down softly, and make your way straight into the forest. No thanks, till I see you again!”
With these words his visitor vanished, the opening in the wall closed noiselessly, and Cris lay wondering whether he had been sleeping or waking, listening to a soft, delicate voice, or only dreaming that he heard it.
The phial in his hand, however, gave token that he had not been dreaming. His visitor was no creature of another world, but one of this mundane sphere.
The hunter scratched his head with bewilderment, and mentally reviewed the situation.
“Wal, of all the surprisingest things as ever I met, this air the most tremenjous. Bite me to death with gallinippers if ever I thought to have seed sich a thing and not yell right out! And me a lyin’ here when that splendiferous critter war a botherin’ her brain to sarve this old sinner! It’s the most etarnal ’stonishing thing ever heerd on—that’s what it is. Yah! so you’re come agin, air ye?” he continued, as two of his guards re-entered. “Wal, I reckon I’ve got somethin’ as ’ill suit your complaint. Come in, ye devils, you!”
The unconscious objects of his apostrophe having entered the room, seated themselves not far from him, chattering with each other. The subject of the conversation was uninteresting to their prisoner, who lay revolving in his mind what was best to be done.
The time for putting his plan into execution had at length arrived.
His sentinels had ceased conversing, and were with difficulty keeping themselves awake.
“Look hyar, red-skins,” he said, addressing them, “have ye sich a thing as a drop of water? I’m most chokin’ wi’ thirst, and I see its no use waiting till you axes me, so I’ll take the trouble off your hands, and axe you.”
One of the Indians good-naturedly went outside, returning with a gourd, which he handed to the prisoner.
Cris raised it to his lips, and drank; then paused, as if for breath.
“By the etarnal!” said he, “if I didn’t think I seed one of your comrades put his head in that thar door. What kin he want?”
The men looked in the direction of the door.
The contents of the phial were poured into the gourd.
When the Indians looked again at their captive, he was apparently enjoying another long draught of water.
Not a drop, however, passed his lips.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, after his seemingly exhausting imbibation, and with the greatest difficulty suppressing a grimace, “there’s nothing like water to refresh one. It a’most gives a dyin’ man new lease o’ his life. I wonder I never tried it afore. There’s a smack o’ freedom about it that’s worth its weight in gold. Try it yourselves, and don’t stand staring, as if you was agoin’ to swallow me.”
The comical expression of their captive’s face, more than the long speech he made to the two men, induced them to oblige him.
Putting their lips to the gourd, each took a draught of the water.
They did not seem to coincide with him in his opinion of its virtues.
The old hunter laughed in his sleeve on perceiving their wry faces.
“Don’t like it, eh? Wal, you don’t know what’s good for ye. Poor benighted critters! how should ye?”
As he made the remark he fell back upon his log bolster, and again seemed to compose himself to sleep.
If the Indians had been somnolent before drinking the water, they were not rendered more wakeful by the indulgence, and it was almost ludicrous to see what useless efforts they made to battle against the potent narcotic.
In vain they talked to each other, got up, and paced the room, and endeavoured to stand up without leaning up against the wall.
This struggle between sleep and watchfulness at length came to a close.
In less than ten minutes after taking the draught, both lay stretched along the floor in a deep death-like slumber.
The backwoodsman lost no more time.
With an agile motion, he planted his feet in the interstices of the logs, and reached the window.
A slight wrenching of the bars showed the skill with which they had been sawn asunder.
One after another gave way, and the whole framework was in his hands.
He was on the point of dropping it gently, when outside, under the window, a human form appeared.
It was that of an Indian!
Chapter Thirty Nine.An Old Acquaintance.On seeing the Indian, Cris Carrol felt himself in a dilemma.But he did not pause long before taking action.He saw that the man was not watching him, but seemed to have his eyes fixed upon the windows of the adjoining habitation.Quietly pulling in the iron framework which was beginning to feel heavy, Cris deposited it without noise in the interior of the room and again clambered up to the window. Before doing so, however, he stole his knife from one of the sleeping sentinels.The Indian outside had still maintained his attitude.When Cris looked forth again, he saw him with his eyes fixed on the same spot.What was to be done?The only thing that suggested itself to the hunter was precisely what he did do.He crept through the window.So quietly, that ere the individual below was aware of his presence, he had seized him by the throat and forced him to the ground.A surprise awaited him when he had accomplished this feat. The Indian’s face was revealed, and, to Carrol’s surprise, no less than his joy, for not having plunged the knife into his heart, he recognised it.“Nelatu!”“Carrol!”“Hush! or you’ll alarm all the red-skins about the place.”“What are you doing here?”“I’ve just dropped out o’ that thar window,” he paid, pointing to the opening above.“How came you to go in there?”“I didn’t go in of my own will, you may bet high on that. I war brung.”“Who brought you?”“Some o’ yur own Injuns.”“A prisoner?”“That’s about the size o’ it. I shouldn’t have been one much longer.”“What do you mean?”“Why, that to-morrow I’d have been as dead as a man could be, with forty or fifty fellows playing blue-blazes on his carcase.”“Ha! they have decreed on burning you?”“That’s it, lad, and consarn me if I ain’t glad to be out hyar in the open air a tellin’ it you, ’stead of in there a thinkin’ on it.”“Who condemned you?”“Wal, names hev a kind o’ slipped my memory, but they wur warriors and braves of yur enlightened community.”“Why did you not send for me?”“I thought of that, but they told me you war gone, and wouldn’t be back in time for the ceremony.”“How did you get out here? Who opened the window?”“That war done by a angel.”“An angel?—what do you mean?”“Jist this; that at one of the corners of that thar eternal hole, a angel appeared and showed me the road to liberty.”“Who was it?”“Wal, it air no use keepin’ it from you—”“Speak! who was it?”“I’ll tell you, but first listen a spell to somethin’ else. Nelatu, lad, I once did you a sarvice.”“You did! I shall never forget it!”“Durn it, it warn’t for that I made mention on’t. It war only this—look me in the face, and tell me on the word of a man you mean square with me. Do that an’ I’ll put my trust in ye, as I’m now puttin’ my life in your hands.”“Upon an Indian warrior’s word, I am your friend!”“You air, Nelatu? Then dog-gorn me if I doubt you. Your hand!”They exchanged a friendly grasp.“It is more nor my life—it am the good name and actions of the most splendiferous, angeliferous critter the sun ever set eyes on! It air—”“Alice Rody!”The hunter showed some surprise as Nelatu uttered the name.“Yes, it war that same gal; but how on airth did you come for to guess it so straight?”“Because that one name is never absent from my thoughts.”The hunter uttered a strange exclamation.“Ho-ho!” he muttered to himself, “the wind sits in that quarter, do it? Poor lad, I’m fear’d thar ain’t no chance for him.”“I fear it,” said Nelatu, overhearing the muttered remark; “but, come!—what she has commenced, I will accomplish. At all risks I shall assist you in regaining your liberty.”“Wal, I’ll be glad to get it.”“Then, follow me!”The Indian rapidly crossed the open space at the back of the house, and led the way to the edge of the forest.The released captive strode silently after.They paused under a grove of live oaks, in the shadow of which Carrol perceived a horse.“It is yours,” said Nelatu, “follow the straight path, and you are free.”“Nelatu,” said the backwoodsman, “you’ve done me a great sarvice. I’m goin’ to give you a bit of advice in return for it—”“Give up the angeliferous critter that’s your prisoner; send her back to her own people, and forget her!”“If I could forget her, you mean?”“Wal, I don’t know much myself about them thar things; only my advice is—Give her up! You’ll be a deal happier,” he added, suddenly waxing impassioned. “That ere gal am as much above either you or me, or the likes of us, as the genooine angels air above all mortals. Therefor’ give her up, lad—give her up!”Again pressing Nelatu’s hand in his, the old hunter climbed into the saddle, gave a kick to the horse, and rode off a free man.“Kim up, ye Seminole critter!” said he to the animal he bestrode, “an’ take me once more to the open savannas; for, durn me! if this world arn’t gettin’ mixed up so, thet it’s hard for a poor ignorant feller like me to know whether them that call ’emselves civilised air more to be thought on than them air savages, orwisey wersey.”The question was one that has puzzled clearer brains than those of Cris Carrol.
On seeing the Indian, Cris Carrol felt himself in a dilemma.
But he did not pause long before taking action.
He saw that the man was not watching him, but seemed to have his eyes fixed upon the windows of the adjoining habitation.
Quietly pulling in the iron framework which was beginning to feel heavy, Cris deposited it without noise in the interior of the room and again clambered up to the window. Before doing so, however, he stole his knife from one of the sleeping sentinels.
The Indian outside had still maintained his attitude.
When Cris looked forth again, he saw him with his eyes fixed on the same spot.
What was to be done?
The only thing that suggested itself to the hunter was precisely what he did do.
He crept through the window.
So quietly, that ere the individual below was aware of his presence, he had seized him by the throat and forced him to the ground.
A surprise awaited him when he had accomplished this feat. The Indian’s face was revealed, and, to Carrol’s surprise, no less than his joy, for not having plunged the knife into his heart, he recognised it.
“Nelatu!”
“Carrol!”
“Hush! or you’ll alarm all the red-skins about the place.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve just dropped out o’ that thar window,” he paid, pointing to the opening above.
“How came you to go in there?”
“I didn’t go in of my own will, you may bet high on that. I war brung.”
“Who brought you?”
“Some o’ yur own Injuns.”
“A prisoner?”
“That’s about the size o’ it. I shouldn’t have been one much longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, that to-morrow I’d have been as dead as a man could be, with forty or fifty fellows playing blue-blazes on his carcase.”
“Ha! they have decreed on burning you?”
“That’s it, lad, and consarn me if I ain’t glad to be out hyar in the open air a tellin’ it you, ’stead of in there a thinkin’ on it.”
“Who condemned you?”
“Wal, names hev a kind o’ slipped my memory, but they wur warriors and braves of yur enlightened community.”
“Why did you not send for me?”
“I thought of that, but they told me you war gone, and wouldn’t be back in time for the ceremony.”
“How did you get out here? Who opened the window?”
“That war done by a angel.”
“An angel?—what do you mean?”
“Jist this; that at one of the corners of that thar eternal hole, a angel appeared and showed me the road to liberty.”
“Who was it?”
“Wal, it air no use keepin’ it from you—”
“Speak! who was it?”
“I’ll tell you, but first listen a spell to somethin’ else. Nelatu, lad, I once did you a sarvice.”
“You did! I shall never forget it!”
“Durn it, it warn’t for that I made mention on’t. It war only this—look me in the face, and tell me on the word of a man you mean square with me. Do that an’ I’ll put my trust in ye, as I’m now puttin’ my life in your hands.”
“Upon an Indian warrior’s word, I am your friend!”
“You air, Nelatu? Then dog-gorn me if I doubt you. Your hand!”
They exchanged a friendly grasp.
“It is more nor my life—it am the good name and actions of the most splendiferous, angeliferous critter the sun ever set eyes on! It air—”
“Alice Rody!”
The hunter showed some surprise as Nelatu uttered the name.
“Yes, it war that same gal; but how on airth did you come for to guess it so straight?”
“Because that one name is never absent from my thoughts.”
The hunter uttered a strange exclamation.
“Ho-ho!” he muttered to himself, “the wind sits in that quarter, do it? Poor lad, I’m fear’d thar ain’t no chance for him.”
“I fear it,” said Nelatu, overhearing the muttered remark; “but, come!—what she has commenced, I will accomplish. At all risks I shall assist you in regaining your liberty.”
“Wal, I’ll be glad to get it.”
“Then, follow me!”
The Indian rapidly crossed the open space at the back of the house, and led the way to the edge of the forest.
The released captive strode silently after.
They paused under a grove of live oaks, in the shadow of which Carrol perceived a horse.
“It is yours,” said Nelatu, “follow the straight path, and you are free.”
“Nelatu,” said the backwoodsman, “you’ve done me a great sarvice. I’m goin’ to give you a bit of advice in return for it—”
“Give up the angeliferous critter that’s your prisoner; send her back to her own people, and forget her!”
“If I could forget her, you mean?”
“Wal, I don’t know much myself about them thar things; only my advice is—Give her up! You’ll be a deal happier,” he added, suddenly waxing impassioned. “That ere gal am as much above either you or me, or the likes of us, as the genooine angels air above all mortals. Therefor’ give her up, lad—give her up!”
Again pressing Nelatu’s hand in his, the old hunter climbed into the saddle, gave a kick to the horse, and rode off a free man.
“Kim up, ye Seminole critter!” said he to the animal he bestrode, “an’ take me once more to the open savannas; for, durn me! if this world arn’t gettin’ mixed up so, thet it’s hard for a poor ignorant feller like me to know whether them that call ’emselves civilised air more to be thought on than them air savages, orwisey wersey.”
The question was one that has puzzled clearer brains than those of Cris Carrol.
Chapter Forty.The Tale of an Indian Chief.As the old hunter has ridden out of our sight for ever, let us return to the Indian town, where Alice Rody was so strangely domiciled.Her people had buried the ill-fated Sansuta near the old fort.The wild flowers she had loved so well had already blossomed over her grave.Wacora and Nelatu had both been present—both much affected.The events of the contest had called them away immediately afterwards. Wacora remained absent, but his cousin had made a stolen visit to the town, as shown by the incidents already related.The search for the escaped captive was carried on for some time with vigour, but was at length abandoned.Meanwhile, the other captive’s life passed without incident. The aid she had given the backwoodsman had afforded her the greatest pleasure.She had been informed of his capture immediately after his condemnation, and was resolved to help him in his escape.She did not know of Nelatu’s presence near the scene, nor of his well-timed assistance.The Indian youth had ridden many miles that evening, merely to stand and gaze at her window.To feel that he was near her seemed a happiness to him.He departed without even seeing her.Weeks had elapsed since the Indian maiden had been laid to rest within the old fort.Alice often visited the spot.And there Wacora, who had once, more returned to the town again, saw her.She was resting on the same stone where Sansuta’s head had rested on her bosom.On perceiving the chief’s approach she rose to her feet, as if to quit the spot.“Does my coming drive you away?” he asked.“Not that; but it is growing late, and I must return to my prison.”“Your prison?”“Is it not my prison?”“It is no more your prison than you are a prisoner. You have long been free.”There was a mournful sadness in Alice Rody’s speech which touched the heart of the Indian chief.“Freedom is a boon only to those who can enjoy it,” she said, after a pause.“And are you unhappy?” asked Wacora.“Can you ask that question?—you who have done so much—” She paused; her generous nature hesitated to inflict pain.He concluded her speech for her.“I have done so much to make you unhappy. You are right. I have been an instrument in the hands of Fate, and you owe your misery to me. But I am only an instrument, not the original cause. My will had no voice in my actions, and but one motive prompted me. That was Duty.”“Duty?” she asked, a smile curling her lip.“Yes, duty! I could prove it to you had you the desire to hear me.”She resumed her seat, and said, quietly—“I will hear you.”“There was an Indian chief, the son of a Spanish woman. His father was a Seminole. Both are dead. He was reared amongst his father’s people, and learned from them all that Indian youths are taught. Schools then existed amongst the Seminoles. The white missionaries had established them, and were still at their heads. They had both the ability and the desire to teach. From them Wacora learned all that the pale-faced children are taught. His mind was of his mother’s race; his heart inclined to that of his father.”“But why this difference?” she asked.“Because the more he knew the more was he convinced of the cruel oppression that had been suffered in all ages. History was a tissue of it. Geography marked its progress. Education only proved that civilisation was spread at the expense of honour and of right. This is what the schools taught him.”“That is but one side of the question.”“You are right, so he resolved to make himself familiar with the other. The story of the past might be applicable to the events of the present. Believing this, he left the schools, and sought the savannah and the forest. What did he find there? Nothing but the repetition of the past he had read of in books, aggravated by the lawlessness and rapacity of the present. The red man was ignorant. But did the pale-faces seek to educate him? No! They sought and still seek to keep him ignorant, because, in his ignorance, lies their advantage.”“Was that all the fault of our race?” Alice asked, as she noticed the enthusiastic flush upon the speaker’s face.“Not all. That were to argue falsely. The red man’s vices grew greater as the chances of correcting them were denied him. His instinct prompted him to retaliation, for by this he sought to check oppression. ’Twas a vain effort. He found it so; and was forced to practise cruelty. So the quarrel progressed till to-day the Indian warrior sees in every white man only an enemy.”“But now? Surely you are not so?”“I am the Indian chief I have attempted to describe. Take that for your answer.”The young girl was silent.“If my heart bleeds for suffering, it is my mother’s nature pleading within me. I check it, because it would be unworthy of a warrior, and the leader of warriors. The storm has arisen—I am carried along with it!”As he uttered the last words his form seemed to dilate, while his listener stood wondering at it spell-bound.After a pause, he continued in a tone more subdued, but still full of feeling.“If I have caused you unhappiness, think of me as the involuntary instrument. My uncle was beloved by all his tribe—by all our race. His injuries were ours; it was ours to avenge them. And for her”—his voice trembled as he pointed to Sansuta’s grave—“shewas his only hope and joy upon earth.”Alice Rody’s tears fell in torrents over the last resting-place of the Indian maiden. Wacora observed them, and, with a delicacy of feeling, was about to withdraw from her presence, when she stayed him with a motion of her hand.For some time neither uttered a word. Alice at length spoke, through sobs which she vainly strove to check or conceal.“Forgive me,” said she, “for I have done you a great wrong. Much that was dark and terrible appears now just and natural. I cannot say that I am happier, but I am less troubled than before.”He would have kissed her hand, but, with a slight shudder, she drew back.“No, no; do not touch me! Leave me to myself. I shall be more composed by-and-bye.”He obeyed, without saying a word; leaving her alone.For a long time she sat in the same place, a prey to thoughts she scarce understood.At length she rose, to all appearance more composed, and retracing the forest path with slow, sad steps, she re-entered the Indian town.
As the old hunter has ridden out of our sight for ever, let us return to the Indian town, where Alice Rody was so strangely domiciled.
Her people had buried the ill-fated Sansuta near the old fort.
The wild flowers she had loved so well had already blossomed over her grave.
Wacora and Nelatu had both been present—both much affected.
The events of the contest had called them away immediately afterwards. Wacora remained absent, but his cousin had made a stolen visit to the town, as shown by the incidents already related.
The search for the escaped captive was carried on for some time with vigour, but was at length abandoned.
Meanwhile, the other captive’s life passed without incident. The aid she had given the backwoodsman had afforded her the greatest pleasure.
She had been informed of his capture immediately after his condemnation, and was resolved to help him in his escape.
She did not know of Nelatu’s presence near the scene, nor of his well-timed assistance.
The Indian youth had ridden many miles that evening, merely to stand and gaze at her window.
To feel that he was near her seemed a happiness to him.
He departed without even seeing her.
Weeks had elapsed since the Indian maiden had been laid to rest within the old fort.
Alice often visited the spot.
And there Wacora, who had once, more returned to the town again, saw her.
She was resting on the same stone where Sansuta’s head had rested on her bosom.
On perceiving the chief’s approach she rose to her feet, as if to quit the spot.
“Does my coming drive you away?” he asked.
“Not that; but it is growing late, and I must return to my prison.”
“Your prison?”
“Is it not my prison?”
“It is no more your prison than you are a prisoner. You have long been free.”
There was a mournful sadness in Alice Rody’s speech which touched the heart of the Indian chief.
“Freedom is a boon only to those who can enjoy it,” she said, after a pause.
“And are you unhappy?” asked Wacora.
“Can you ask that question?—you who have done so much—” She paused; her generous nature hesitated to inflict pain.
He concluded her speech for her.
“I have done so much to make you unhappy. You are right. I have been an instrument in the hands of Fate, and you owe your misery to me. But I am only an instrument, not the original cause. My will had no voice in my actions, and but one motive prompted me. That was Duty.”
“Duty?” she asked, a smile curling her lip.
“Yes, duty! I could prove it to you had you the desire to hear me.”
She resumed her seat, and said, quietly—
“I will hear you.”
“There was an Indian chief, the son of a Spanish woman. His father was a Seminole. Both are dead. He was reared amongst his father’s people, and learned from them all that Indian youths are taught. Schools then existed amongst the Seminoles. The white missionaries had established them, and were still at their heads. They had both the ability and the desire to teach. From them Wacora learned all that the pale-faced children are taught. His mind was of his mother’s race; his heart inclined to that of his father.”
“But why this difference?” she asked.
“Because the more he knew the more was he convinced of the cruel oppression that had been suffered in all ages. History was a tissue of it. Geography marked its progress. Education only proved that civilisation was spread at the expense of honour and of right. This is what the schools taught him.”
“That is but one side of the question.”
“You are right, so he resolved to make himself familiar with the other. The story of the past might be applicable to the events of the present. Believing this, he left the schools, and sought the savannah and the forest. What did he find there? Nothing but the repetition of the past he had read of in books, aggravated by the lawlessness and rapacity of the present. The red man was ignorant. But did the pale-faces seek to educate him? No! They sought and still seek to keep him ignorant, because, in his ignorance, lies their advantage.”
“Was that all the fault of our race?” Alice asked, as she noticed the enthusiastic flush upon the speaker’s face.
“Not all. That were to argue falsely. The red man’s vices grew greater as the chances of correcting them were denied him. His instinct prompted him to retaliation, for by this he sought to check oppression. ’Twas a vain effort. He found it so; and was forced to practise cruelty. So the quarrel progressed till to-day the Indian warrior sees in every white man only an enemy.”
“But now? Surely you are not so?”
“I am the Indian chief I have attempted to describe. Take that for your answer.”
The young girl was silent.
“If my heart bleeds for suffering, it is my mother’s nature pleading within me. I check it, because it would be unworthy of a warrior, and the leader of warriors. The storm has arisen—I am carried along with it!”
As he uttered the last words his form seemed to dilate, while his listener stood wondering at it spell-bound.
After a pause, he continued in a tone more subdued, but still full of feeling.
“If I have caused you unhappiness, think of me as the involuntary instrument. My uncle was beloved by all his tribe—by all our race. His injuries were ours; it was ours to avenge them. And for her”—his voice trembled as he pointed to Sansuta’s grave—“shewas his only hope and joy upon earth.”
Alice Rody’s tears fell in torrents over the last resting-place of the Indian maiden. Wacora observed them, and, with a delicacy of feeling, was about to withdraw from her presence, when she stayed him with a motion of her hand.
For some time neither uttered a word. Alice at length spoke, through sobs which she vainly strove to check or conceal.
“Forgive me,” said she, “for I have done you a great wrong. Much that was dark and terrible appears now just and natural. I cannot say that I am happier, but I am less troubled than before.”
He would have kissed her hand, but, with a slight shudder, she drew back.
“No, no; do not touch me! Leave me to myself. I shall be more composed by-and-bye.”
He obeyed, without saying a word; leaving her alone.
For a long time she sat in the same place, a prey to thoughts she scarce understood.
At length she rose, to all appearance more composed, and retracing the forest path with slow, sad steps, she re-entered the Indian town.
Chapter Forty One.A Treacherous Bridge.There was one among the Indians who viewed their fair captive with no great favour.It was Maracota.His devotion to Oluski had been so blindly true that, in his narrow-minded memory of the old chief’s wrongs, he had become bloodthirsty and remorseless. Naturally of a revengeful disposition, he saw, in the leniency of both Wacora and Nelatu towards the pale-faced maiden, too much of forgiveness.This stirred his evil passions to their depth, and he sought for an opportunity to do her an injury.With a shrewd guess at the truth, he looked upon Cris Carrol’s escape as another evidence of that toleration which ill consorted with his sanguinary hatred of the white race.He dared not take open measures, but insidiously strove to turn the people of the tribe against their white captive, as well as Wacora.His success was not commensurate with his wishes. They admired their chief too much to believe anything to his prejudice, and Maracota became himself looked upon as a restless agitator—a subject more zealous than loyal.He saw, accordingly, that any injury to the captive must be accomplished by his own agency; the more so, as he had already endeavoured to excite a feeling of jealousy in Nelatu’s mind, of which she and Wacora were the objects. The generous youth not only refused belief, but angrily reproved the slanderer, for daring to couple his cousin’s name with an act so unworthy!When a person resolves upon mischief it is astonishing how many opportunities present themselves.Alice, although unsuspicious of the enmity of which she was the object, avoided Maracota. She did so from a different motive. She knew that it was he who had fired the fatal shot at her brother, and could not help regarding the act with abhorrence. His sister, how could she?And, as his sister, how could she look upon his executioner without repugnance—more than repugnance—with horror?The exigencies of the war had kept Maracota away from the town, and for long periods; but the same causes that brought Wacora back, also controlled his return.He felt that now, if ever, was the time to carry out his schemes of malignity.He accordingly watched her every movement; amongst others, the many lonely visits she paid to the ruined fort.There was the opportunity he wanted, if he could only find the means to avail himself of it.In a community of red men, where everything is reduced, even in times of a temporary peace, to dull routine, it was not difficult to devise a plan of revenge. But it must be unnoticed, or go unpunished, for he had a wholesome dread of Wacora’s displeasure, and was not disposed to incur it.Some days had elapsed since the interview described between the chief and his captive, during which time they had seen nothing of each other.Wacora, with great delicacy, had avoided her, and she had kept herself within the dwelling assigned to her, afraid to meet him, yet pondering deeply over what he had said.In spite of a natural prejudice against the Indian race, she was startled and wonder-stricken at the nobility of thought and rare talent he had exhibited. She did not doubt but that a portion, at least, of his argument was based on false reasoning, but she was not subtle enough, or perhaps indisposed, to detect the erroneous argument. We are very apt to acknowledge the truth of what we admire, whilst admitting its errors.Alice Rody was in this predicament.She had learned to respect the Indian chief, and her respect was tinged with admiration of his good qualities.This mental ratiocination had occupied her during the days of her seclusion.She endeavoured to divert her mind to other subjects, and to this end determined to pay another visit to the old fort. She was prompted to it by a thought of having too long forgotten the Indian maiden who slept within the ruins.It was a glorious morning as she set forth for a walk to the place.The way was through a belt of timbered land leading to a creek, spanned by a rude wooden bridge. On the other side lay the ruin.The wood was passed in safety, and she reached the water’s edge. To her amazement she found the creek greatly swollen; this often happened after heavy rains, though she had never before seen it in that condition.She proceeded along the causeway leading to the bridge, that seemed to offer a safe means of crossing.She paused to contemplate the current, bearing upon its bosom the torn trunks of trees caught in its rapid course.In another moment she was upon the bridge, and had got midway over it, when a tremulous motion of the planks caused her to hesitate. As she stood still the motion ceased, and smiling at her fears she again proceeded.Not far, however. Ere she had made three steps forward, to her horror the motion re-commenced with greater violence.She saw it was too late to retreat, and sped onward, the planks swaying fearfully towards the water.Believing it best to proceed, she took courage for a fresh effort, and kept on towards the other side. It was a fatal resolution.Just as she had prepared for her last spring the planks gave way with a creaking sound, and she was precipitated into the stream.Her presence of mind was gone, and in an instant she was submerged beneath the seething current of the flood.She rose again, gave utterance to a shriek, and was again swallowed up, her wail of agony being uttered in the water.At that moment a face that expressed fiendish delight appeared through the bushes, on the bank; nor did it vanish until assured that all was over, and Alice Rody had sunk below the surface, never more to return to it alive.Then, and not till then, the form emerged from out the underwood, and scrambling to the rude pier from which the planks had parted, stood surveying the scene.It was Maracota!“Good!” cried he. “So perish all who would make the red man forgive the injuries of his race. She was the child of a villain—the sister of a fiend!”He stooped down and examined the broken fragments of the bridge.“Maracota’s axe has done the deed well,” said he, continuing his soliloquy, “and he has nothing to fear. Her death will be attributed to accident. It was a great thought, and one that Oluski’s spirit will approve. Maracota was his favourite warrior, and to please his shade has he done this deed, and will do more. Death to the pale-faces—death to their women and children! Death and extermination to the accursed race!”The vengeful warrior rose from his stooping position, cast one hurried glance upon the turbulent stream, and once more entering the underwood, disappeared from the spot.
There was one among the Indians who viewed their fair captive with no great favour.
It was Maracota.
His devotion to Oluski had been so blindly true that, in his narrow-minded memory of the old chief’s wrongs, he had become bloodthirsty and remorseless. Naturally of a revengeful disposition, he saw, in the leniency of both Wacora and Nelatu towards the pale-faced maiden, too much of forgiveness.
This stirred his evil passions to their depth, and he sought for an opportunity to do her an injury.
With a shrewd guess at the truth, he looked upon Cris Carrol’s escape as another evidence of that toleration which ill consorted with his sanguinary hatred of the white race.
He dared not take open measures, but insidiously strove to turn the people of the tribe against their white captive, as well as Wacora.
His success was not commensurate with his wishes. They admired their chief too much to believe anything to his prejudice, and Maracota became himself looked upon as a restless agitator—a subject more zealous than loyal.
He saw, accordingly, that any injury to the captive must be accomplished by his own agency; the more so, as he had already endeavoured to excite a feeling of jealousy in Nelatu’s mind, of which she and Wacora were the objects. The generous youth not only refused belief, but angrily reproved the slanderer, for daring to couple his cousin’s name with an act so unworthy!
When a person resolves upon mischief it is astonishing how many opportunities present themselves.
Alice, although unsuspicious of the enmity of which she was the object, avoided Maracota. She did so from a different motive. She knew that it was he who had fired the fatal shot at her brother, and could not help regarding the act with abhorrence. His sister, how could she?
And, as his sister, how could she look upon his executioner without repugnance—more than repugnance—with horror?
The exigencies of the war had kept Maracota away from the town, and for long periods; but the same causes that brought Wacora back, also controlled his return.
He felt that now, if ever, was the time to carry out his schemes of malignity.
He accordingly watched her every movement; amongst others, the many lonely visits she paid to the ruined fort.
There was the opportunity he wanted, if he could only find the means to avail himself of it.
In a community of red men, where everything is reduced, even in times of a temporary peace, to dull routine, it was not difficult to devise a plan of revenge. But it must be unnoticed, or go unpunished, for he had a wholesome dread of Wacora’s displeasure, and was not disposed to incur it.
Some days had elapsed since the interview described between the chief and his captive, during which time they had seen nothing of each other.
Wacora, with great delicacy, had avoided her, and she had kept herself within the dwelling assigned to her, afraid to meet him, yet pondering deeply over what he had said.
In spite of a natural prejudice against the Indian race, she was startled and wonder-stricken at the nobility of thought and rare talent he had exhibited. She did not doubt but that a portion, at least, of his argument was based on false reasoning, but she was not subtle enough, or perhaps indisposed, to detect the erroneous argument. We are very apt to acknowledge the truth of what we admire, whilst admitting its errors.
Alice Rody was in this predicament.
She had learned to respect the Indian chief, and her respect was tinged with admiration of his good qualities.
This mental ratiocination had occupied her during the days of her seclusion.
She endeavoured to divert her mind to other subjects, and to this end determined to pay another visit to the old fort. She was prompted to it by a thought of having too long forgotten the Indian maiden who slept within the ruins.
It was a glorious morning as she set forth for a walk to the place.
The way was through a belt of timbered land leading to a creek, spanned by a rude wooden bridge. On the other side lay the ruin.
The wood was passed in safety, and she reached the water’s edge. To her amazement she found the creek greatly swollen; this often happened after heavy rains, though she had never before seen it in that condition.
She proceeded along the causeway leading to the bridge, that seemed to offer a safe means of crossing.
She paused to contemplate the current, bearing upon its bosom the torn trunks of trees caught in its rapid course.
In another moment she was upon the bridge, and had got midway over it, when a tremulous motion of the planks caused her to hesitate. As she stood still the motion ceased, and smiling at her fears she again proceeded.
Not far, however. Ere she had made three steps forward, to her horror the motion re-commenced with greater violence.
She saw it was too late to retreat, and sped onward, the planks swaying fearfully towards the water.
Believing it best to proceed, she took courage for a fresh effort, and kept on towards the other side. It was a fatal resolution.
Just as she had prepared for her last spring the planks gave way with a creaking sound, and she was precipitated into the stream.
Her presence of mind was gone, and in an instant she was submerged beneath the seething current of the flood.
She rose again, gave utterance to a shriek, and was again swallowed up, her wail of agony being uttered in the water.
At that moment a face that expressed fiendish delight appeared through the bushes, on the bank; nor did it vanish until assured that all was over, and Alice Rody had sunk below the surface, never more to return to it alive.
Then, and not till then, the form emerged from out the underwood, and scrambling to the rude pier from which the planks had parted, stood surveying the scene.
It was Maracota!
“Good!” cried he. “So perish all who would make the red man forgive the injuries of his race. She was the child of a villain—the sister of a fiend!”
He stooped down and examined the broken fragments of the bridge.
“Maracota’s axe has done the deed well,” said he, continuing his soliloquy, “and he has nothing to fear. Her death will be attributed to accident. It was a great thought, and one that Oluski’s spirit will approve. Maracota was his favourite warrior, and to please his shade has he done this deed, and will do more. Death to the pale-faces—death to their women and children! Death and extermination to the accursed race!”
The vengeful warrior rose from his stooping position, cast one hurried glance upon the turbulent stream, and once more entering the underwood, disappeared from the spot.
Chapter Forty Two.A Soliloquy.Wacora came from the council chamber, where the warriors had assembled, and passed over to the house where dwelt his white captive.This was no unusual thing for him when he deemed himself safe from her observation. Upon the day in question, however, he had resolved to see her.The time had come when active measures were about to be taken by the United States Government in order to “suppress” (such was the term used) the Indians in Florida, and although none could know at that moment how difficult the undertaking would prove, all were alive to the fact that the work was about to commence in earnest.Information of this had reached the young Seminole chief; and he saw the necessity of removing his tribe from their present residence.Hence the council—hence, also, his visit to Alice Rody.He had determined to lay the facts fully before her, in order that she might name the time of return to her own people.Thus reflecting, he walked on towards the house tenanted by his captive.On arriving at the place he found she was not there; but some children playing near told him she had gone into the woods, and pointed in the direction she had taken.The young chief hesitated about following her. He was unwilling to thrust himself into her presence at a time she had, perhaps, devoted to self communion and repose.Turning in another direction, he wandered for some time purposelessly, taking no note of the locality, until he had reached the belt of the woods which Alice had herself traversed on her road to the old ruin. Wacora, however, entered it at some distance farther off from the skirts of the town.Once under the shadow of the trees he abated his pace, which, up to this time, had been rapid. Now walking with slow step, and abstracted air, he finally stopped and leant against a huge live oak, his eyes wandering afar over the sylvan scene.“Here,” he soliloquised in thought, “here, away from men and their doings, alone is there peace! How my heart sickens at the thought that human ambitions and human vanities should so pervert man’s highest mission—peace—turning the world into scenes of strife and bloodshed! I, an Indian savage, as white men call me, would gladly lay down this day and for ever the rifle and the knife; would willingly bury the war hatchet, and abandon this sanguinary contest!“Could I do so with honour?” he asked, after a pause of reflection. “No! To the end I must now proceed. I see the end with a prophetic eye; but I must go on as I’ve begun, even if my tribe with all our people should be swept from the earth! Fool that I’ve been to covet the leadership of a forlorn hope!”At the end of this soliloquy he stamped the ground with fury.Petty dissensions had arisen among the people he deemed worthy of the highest form of liberty. By this his temper had been chafed—his hopes suddenly discouraged. He was but partaking of the enthusiast’s fate, finding the real so unlike the ideal. It is the penalty usually paid by intelligence when it seeks to reform or better the condition of fallen humanity.“And she,” he continued, in his heart’s bitterness, “she can only think of me as a vain savage; vain of the slight superiority education appears to give me over others of my race. I might as well aspire to make my home among the stars as in her bosom. She is just as distant, or as unlikely to be mine.”In the mood in which the Indian was at that moment, the whole universe seemed leagued against him.Bitterly he lamented the fate that had given him grand inspirations, while denying him their enjoyment.As he stood beneath the spreading branches of the live oak a double shadow seemed to have fallen upon him—that of his own thoughts, and the tree thickly festooned with its mosses. Both were of sombre hue.He took no heed of the time, and might have stood nursing his bitter thoughts still longer, but for a sound that suddenly startled him from his reverie.It was a shriek that came ringing through the trees as if of one in great distress.The voice Wacora heard was a woman’s.Lover-like, he knew it to be that of Alice Rody in peril.Without hesitating an instant he rushed along the path in the direction from which it appeared to come.In that direction lay the stream.His instinct warned him that the danger was from the water. He remembered the rain and storm just past. It would be followed by a freshet. Alice Rody might have been caught by it, and was in danger of drowning.He made these reflections while rushing through the underwood, careless of the thorns that at every step penetrated his skin, covering his garments with blood.His demeanour had become suddenly changed. The sombre shadow on his brow had given place to an air of the wildest excitement. His white captive, she who had made him a captive, was in some strange peril.He listened as he ran. The swishing of the branches, as he broke through them, hindered him from hearing. No sound reached his ears; but he saw what caused him a strange surprise. It was the form of a man, who, like himself, was making his way through the thicket, only in a different direction. Instead of towards the creek the man was going from it, skulking off as if desirous to shun observation.For all this Wacora recognised him. He saw it was Maracota.The young chief did not stay to inquire what the warrior was doing there, or why he should be retreating from the stream? He did not even summon the latter to stop. His thoughts were all absorbed by the shriek he had heard, and the danger it denoted. He felt certain it had come from the creek, and if it was the cry of one in the water, there was no time to be lost.And none was lost—not a moment—for in less than sixty seconds after hearing it he stood upon the bank of the stream.As he had anticipated, it was swollen to a flood, its turbid waters carrying upon their whirling surface trunks and torn branches of trees, bunches of reeds and grass uprooted by the rush of the current.He did not stand to gaze idly upon these. The bridge was above him. The cry had come from there. He saw that it was in ruins. All was explained!But where was she who had given utterance to that fearful shriek?He hurried along the edge of the stream, scanning its current from bank to bank, hastily examining every branch and bunch borne upon its bosom.A disc of whitish colour came before his eyes. There was something in the water, carried along rapidly. It was the drapery of a woman’s dress, and a woman’s form was within it!The young chief stayed not for further scrutiny; but plunging into the flood, and swimming a few strokes, he threw his arms around it.And he knew that in his arms he held Alice Rody! In a few seconds after her form lay dripping upon the bank, apparently lifeless!
Wacora came from the council chamber, where the warriors had assembled, and passed over to the house where dwelt his white captive.
This was no unusual thing for him when he deemed himself safe from her observation. Upon the day in question, however, he had resolved to see her.
The time had come when active measures were about to be taken by the United States Government in order to “suppress” (such was the term used) the Indians in Florida, and although none could know at that moment how difficult the undertaking would prove, all were alive to the fact that the work was about to commence in earnest.
Information of this had reached the young Seminole chief; and he saw the necessity of removing his tribe from their present residence.
Hence the council—hence, also, his visit to Alice Rody.
He had determined to lay the facts fully before her, in order that she might name the time of return to her own people.
Thus reflecting, he walked on towards the house tenanted by his captive.
On arriving at the place he found she was not there; but some children playing near told him she had gone into the woods, and pointed in the direction she had taken.
The young chief hesitated about following her. He was unwilling to thrust himself into her presence at a time she had, perhaps, devoted to self communion and repose.
Turning in another direction, he wandered for some time purposelessly, taking no note of the locality, until he had reached the belt of the woods which Alice had herself traversed on her road to the old ruin. Wacora, however, entered it at some distance farther off from the skirts of the town.
Once under the shadow of the trees he abated his pace, which, up to this time, had been rapid. Now walking with slow step, and abstracted air, he finally stopped and leant against a huge live oak, his eyes wandering afar over the sylvan scene.
“Here,” he soliloquised in thought, “here, away from men and their doings, alone is there peace! How my heart sickens at the thought that human ambitions and human vanities should so pervert man’s highest mission—peace—turning the world into scenes of strife and bloodshed! I, an Indian savage, as white men call me, would gladly lay down this day and for ever the rifle and the knife; would willingly bury the war hatchet, and abandon this sanguinary contest!
“Could I do so with honour?” he asked, after a pause of reflection. “No! To the end I must now proceed. I see the end with a prophetic eye; but I must go on as I’ve begun, even if my tribe with all our people should be swept from the earth! Fool that I’ve been to covet the leadership of a forlorn hope!”
At the end of this soliloquy he stamped the ground with fury.
Petty dissensions had arisen among the people he deemed worthy of the highest form of liberty. By this his temper had been chafed—his hopes suddenly discouraged. He was but partaking of the enthusiast’s fate, finding the real so unlike the ideal. It is the penalty usually paid by intelligence when it seeks to reform or better the condition of fallen humanity.
“And she,” he continued, in his heart’s bitterness, “she can only think of me as a vain savage; vain of the slight superiority education appears to give me over others of my race. I might as well aspire to make my home among the stars as in her bosom. She is just as distant, or as unlikely to be mine.”
In the mood in which the Indian was at that moment, the whole universe seemed leagued against him.
Bitterly he lamented the fate that had given him grand inspirations, while denying him their enjoyment.
As he stood beneath the spreading branches of the live oak a double shadow seemed to have fallen upon him—that of his own thoughts, and the tree thickly festooned with its mosses. Both were of sombre hue.
He took no heed of the time, and might have stood nursing his bitter thoughts still longer, but for a sound that suddenly startled him from his reverie.
It was a shriek that came ringing through the trees as if of one in great distress.
The voice Wacora heard was a woman’s.
Lover-like, he knew it to be that of Alice Rody in peril.
Without hesitating an instant he rushed along the path in the direction from which it appeared to come.
In that direction lay the stream.
His instinct warned him that the danger was from the water. He remembered the rain and storm just past. It would be followed by a freshet. Alice Rody might have been caught by it, and was in danger of drowning.
He made these reflections while rushing through the underwood, careless of the thorns that at every step penetrated his skin, covering his garments with blood.
His demeanour had become suddenly changed. The sombre shadow on his brow had given place to an air of the wildest excitement. His white captive, she who had made him a captive, was in some strange peril.
He listened as he ran. The swishing of the branches, as he broke through them, hindered him from hearing. No sound reached his ears; but he saw what caused him a strange surprise. It was the form of a man, who, like himself, was making his way through the thicket, only in a different direction. Instead of towards the creek the man was going from it, skulking off as if desirous to shun observation.
For all this Wacora recognised him. He saw it was Maracota.
The young chief did not stay to inquire what the warrior was doing there, or why he should be retreating from the stream? He did not even summon the latter to stop. His thoughts were all absorbed by the shriek he had heard, and the danger it denoted. He felt certain it had come from the creek, and if it was the cry of one in the water, there was no time to be lost.
And none was lost—not a moment—for in less than sixty seconds after hearing it he stood upon the bank of the stream.
As he had anticipated, it was swollen to a flood, its turbid waters carrying upon their whirling surface trunks and torn branches of trees, bunches of reeds and grass uprooted by the rush of the current.
He did not stand to gaze idly upon these. The bridge was above him. The cry had come from there. He saw that it was in ruins. All was explained!
But where was she who had given utterance to that fearful shriek?
He hurried along the edge of the stream, scanning its current from bank to bank, hastily examining every branch and bunch borne upon its bosom.
A disc of whitish colour came before his eyes. There was something in the water, carried along rapidly. It was the drapery of a woman’s dress, and a woman’s form was within it!
The young chief stayed not for further scrutiny; but plunging into the flood, and swimming a few strokes, he threw his arms around it.
And he knew that in his arms he held Alice Rody! In a few seconds after her form lay dripping upon the bank, apparently lifeless!
Chapter Forty Three.Saved! Saved!Wacora had saved his white captive. She still lived!The struggle between life and death had been long and doubtful, but life at length triumphed.Por days had she lingered upon the verge of existence, powerless to move from her couch; scarce able to speak. It was some time before she could shape words to thank her deliverer, though she knew who it was.She had been told it was Wacora.The young chief had been unremitting in his attentions, and showed great solicitude for her recovery. He found time, amidst the warlike preparations constantly going on, to make frequent calls at her dwelling, and make anxious inquiry about her progress.The nurses who attended upon her did not fail to note his anxiety.Nelatu had been absent and did not return to the town until she was convalescent.He was grieved to the heart on hearing what had happened.Wacora, suspecting that Maracota was the guilty one, sought him in every direction, but the vengeful warrior was nowhere to be found.He had fled from the presence of his indignant chief.It was not until long after that his fate became known.He had been captured in his flight by some of the settlers, and shot; thus dying by the hands of the enemies he so hated.Several weeks elapsed, and no active movement had, as yet, been made by the government troops. Wacora’s tribe still continued to reside in their town undisturbed.His captive continued to recover, and, along with her restored strength, came a change over the spirit of her existence. She seemed transformed into a different being.The past had vanished like a dream. Only dimly did she remember her residence at Tampa Bay, her father, the conflict on the hill, the massacre, her brother’s sad fate, all seemed to have faded from her memory, until they appeared as things that had never been, or of which she had no personal knowledge, but had only heard of them long, long ago.It is true they still had a shadowy existence in her mind, but entirely disassociated with the events of her life, since she had been a captive among the Indians. Nor was there much to regret in this impaired recollection, for both the events and personages had been among the miseries of her life.Of her present she had a more pleasurable appreciation. She was living a new life, and thinking new thoughts.Nelatu and Wacora both strove in a thousand kind ways to render her contented and happy.They had no great luxuries to offer her, but such as they had were bestowed with true delicacy.Strange to say, that in this common solicitude there was not a spark of jealousy between the two cousins.Nelatu’s nature was generosity itself; and self-sacrifice appeared to him as if it was his duty or fate!Still, while he basked in the sunshine of the young girl’s beauty, he had not the courage to imagine to himself that she could ever belong to another. Not to him might her love be given, but surely not to another! He could not think of that.True that at times he fancied he could perceive a look bestowed on Wacora such as she never vouchsafed to him—a tremor in her voice when speaking to his cousin, which had never betrayed itself in her discourse with himself.But he might be mistaken. Might? He was certain of it. If she did not love him, at any rate he could not think that she loved Wacora.Thus did the Indian youth beguile himself!Innocent as a child, he knew little of the heart of woman.That look—that tremor of the voice—should have told him that she loved Wacora.Yes; the end had come, and love had conquered.The white maiden was in love with the young Indian chief!Wacora and his captive—now more than ever his captive—were seated within the ruined fort near Sansuta’s grave.“You are pleased once more to be here?” he asked.“I am. During my illness I promised myself if ever I recovered that my first visit should be to this spot.”“And yet it was in paying such a visit that you nearly lost your life.”“The life you saved.”“’Twas a happy chance. I cannot tell what led me to the forest on that occasion.”“What were you doing there?” she asked.“Like the blind mortal that I am, I was blaming myself, and my fate, too, when I should have been blessing my fortune.”“For what?”“For conducting me to the spot where I heard you cry.”“What fortune were you blaming?”“That which made me unworthy.”“Unworthy of what?”He did not immediately answer her, but the look he gave her caused her to turn her eyes to the ground.“Do you really wish to know of what I think myself unworthy?”She smiled as she replied, “If you betray no confidence in telling me.”“None; none but my own.”“Then, tell me if you like.”Was it the faint tremor in her voice that emboldened him to speak?“Unworthy ofyou!” was his answer.“Of me?” she said, her face averted from his.“Of you, and you only. But why should I withhold further confidence? You have given me courage to speak; have I also your leave?”She made no answer to the last question, but her look was eloquent of assent.“I thought on that day,” he continued, “that I was accursed by man and heaven—that I, an Indian savage, was not accounted worthy to indulge in thoughts of love that had sprung up within my heart, like a pure flower, only to be blighted by the prejudices of race; that all my adoration for the fair and excellent, must be kept down by the accident of birth; and that whilst nurturing a holy passion, I must crush it out and stifle it for ever.”“But now?” Her voice was low and tremulous.“Now—all rests upon one word. Upon that word depends my happiness or misery now and for ever.”“And what is it?”“Do not ask it from me. It must come from your eyes—from your lips—from your heart!”There was an eloquence that spoke the answer without a word being uttered.It was the eloquence of love!In another instant the lips of the white maiden touched those of her Indian lover.From their rapturous embrace they were startled by a sound. It was a groan!It came from the other side of Sansuta’s grave, behind which there was a clump of bushes.Wacora rushed towards the spot, while Alice kept her place, transfixed to it by a terrible presentiment.The young chief uttered an exclamation of horror, as he looked in among the bushes.His cousin was lying beneath them, stretched out—dead! a dagger, which his right hand still clutched, sheathed in his heart!With his last groan, and his heart’s blood, the generous youth had yielded up his love with his life.L’Envoi.The Seminole war continued for eight years.Eight years of bloodshed and horror, in which the white man and the Indian struggled for the supremacy.The whites fought for conquest, the Indians to retain possession of their own.On both sides were acts of cruelty—terrible episodes illustrating thelex talionis.As in all such contests, the pale-faces were the victors, and the red men were in time subdued.Such of the Seminoles as survived the war were allotted lands beyond the Mississippi; and, far distant from their native home, were commanded to be content and happy.They had no alternative but to submit to their adverse fate, and in several detachments they were transported to their new homes.In one of the migrating bands, who passed through New Orleans, bound west of the Mississippi river, was a young chief who attracted great notice by his commanding presence no less than by a companion seen constantly by his side—a white woman!She was of great beauty, and those who saw her naturally made enquiry about her name, parentage, and station, as also the name of the young chief.The Indians who were asked simply made answer that the chief was Wacora, and that she by his side was his wife, known among them as—“The White Squaw.”
Wacora had saved his white captive. She still lived!
The struggle between life and death had been long and doubtful, but life at length triumphed.
Por days had she lingered upon the verge of existence, powerless to move from her couch; scarce able to speak. It was some time before she could shape words to thank her deliverer, though she knew who it was.
She had been told it was Wacora.
The young chief had been unremitting in his attentions, and showed great solicitude for her recovery. He found time, amidst the warlike preparations constantly going on, to make frequent calls at her dwelling, and make anxious inquiry about her progress.
The nurses who attended upon her did not fail to note his anxiety.
Nelatu had been absent and did not return to the town until she was convalescent.
He was grieved to the heart on hearing what had happened.
Wacora, suspecting that Maracota was the guilty one, sought him in every direction, but the vengeful warrior was nowhere to be found.
He had fled from the presence of his indignant chief.
It was not until long after that his fate became known.
He had been captured in his flight by some of the settlers, and shot; thus dying by the hands of the enemies he so hated.
Several weeks elapsed, and no active movement had, as yet, been made by the government troops. Wacora’s tribe still continued to reside in their town undisturbed.
His captive continued to recover, and, along with her restored strength, came a change over the spirit of her existence. She seemed transformed into a different being.
The past had vanished like a dream. Only dimly did she remember her residence at Tampa Bay, her father, the conflict on the hill, the massacre, her brother’s sad fate, all seemed to have faded from her memory, until they appeared as things that had never been, or of which she had no personal knowledge, but had only heard of them long, long ago.
It is true they still had a shadowy existence in her mind, but entirely disassociated with the events of her life, since she had been a captive among the Indians. Nor was there much to regret in this impaired recollection, for both the events and personages had been among the miseries of her life.
Of her present she had a more pleasurable appreciation. She was living a new life, and thinking new thoughts.
Nelatu and Wacora both strove in a thousand kind ways to render her contented and happy.
They had no great luxuries to offer her, but such as they had were bestowed with true delicacy.
Strange to say, that in this common solicitude there was not a spark of jealousy between the two cousins.
Nelatu’s nature was generosity itself; and self-sacrifice appeared to him as if it was his duty or fate!
Still, while he basked in the sunshine of the young girl’s beauty, he had not the courage to imagine to himself that she could ever belong to another. Not to him might her love be given, but surely not to another! He could not think of that.
True that at times he fancied he could perceive a look bestowed on Wacora such as she never vouchsafed to him—a tremor in her voice when speaking to his cousin, which had never betrayed itself in her discourse with himself.
But he might be mistaken. Might? He was certain of it. If she did not love him, at any rate he could not think that she loved Wacora.
Thus did the Indian youth beguile himself!
Innocent as a child, he knew little of the heart of woman.
That look—that tremor of the voice—should have told him that she loved Wacora.
Yes; the end had come, and love had conquered.
The white maiden was in love with the young Indian chief!
Wacora and his captive—now more than ever his captive—were seated within the ruined fort near Sansuta’s grave.
“You are pleased once more to be here?” he asked.
“I am. During my illness I promised myself if ever I recovered that my first visit should be to this spot.”
“And yet it was in paying such a visit that you nearly lost your life.”
“The life you saved.”
“’Twas a happy chance. I cannot tell what led me to the forest on that occasion.”
“What were you doing there?” she asked.
“Like the blind mortal that I am, I was blaming myself, and my fate, too, when I should have been blessing my fortune.”
“For what?”
“For conducting me to the spot where I heard you cry.”
“What fortune were you blaming?”
“That which made me unworthy.”
“Unworthy of what?”
He did not immediately answer her, but the look he gave her caused her to turn her eyes to the ground.
“Do you really wish to know of what I think myself unworthy?”
She smiled as she replied, “If you betray no confidence in telling me.”
“None; none but my own.”
“Then, tell me if you like.”
Was it the faint tremor in her voice that emboldened him to speak?
“Unworthy ofyou!” was his answer.
“Of me?” she said, her face averted from his.
“Of you, and you only. But why should I withhold further confidence? You have given me courage to speak; have I also your leave?”
She made no answer to the last question, but her look was eloquent of assent.
“I thought on that day,” he continued, “that I was accursed by man and heaven—that I, an Indian savage, was not accounted worthy to indulge in thoughts of love that had sprung up within my heart, like a pure flower, only to be blighted by the prejudices of race; that all my adoration for the fair and excellent, must be kept down by the accident of birth; and that whilst nurturing a holy passion, I must crush it out and stifle it for ever.”
“But now?” Her voice was low and tremulous.
“Now—all rests upon one word. Upon that word depends my happiness or misery now and for ever.”
“And what is it?”
“Do not ask it from me. It must come from your eyes—from your lips—from your heart!”
There was an eloquence that spoke the answer without a word being uttered.
It was the eloquence of love!
In another instant the lips of the white maiden touched those of her Indian lover.
From their rapturous embrace they were startled by a sound. It was a groan!
It came from the other side of Sansuta’s grave, behind which there was a clump of bushes.
Wacora rushed towards the spot, while Alice kept her place, transfixed to it by a terrible presentiment.
The young chief uttered an exclamation of horror, as he looked in among the bushes.
His cousin was lying beneath them, stretched out—dead! a dagger, which his right hand still clutched, sheathed in his heart!
With his last groan, and his heart’s blood, the generous youth had yielded up his love with his life.
The Seminole war continued for eight years.
Eight years of bloodshed and horror, in which the white man and the Indian struggled for the supremacy.
The whites fought for conquest, the Indians to retain possession of their own.
On both sides were acts of cruelty—terrible episodes illustrating thelex talionis.
As in all such contests, the pale-faces were the victors, and the red men were in time subdued.
Such of the Seminoles as survived the war were allotted lands beyond the Mississippi; and, far distant from their native home, were commanded to be content and happy.
They had no alternative but to submit to their adverse fate, and in several detachments they were transported to their new homes.
In one of the migrating bands, who passed through New Orleans, bound west of the Mississippi river, was a young chief who attracted great notice by his commanding presence no less than by a companion seen constantly by his side—a white woman!
She was of great beauty, and those who saw her naturally made enquiry about her name, parentage, and station, as also the name of the young chief.
The Indians who were asked simply made answer that the chief was Wacora, and that she by his side was his wife, known among them as—
“The White Squaw.”