Майн Рид
Osceola the Seminole: or, The Red Fawn of the Flower Land
Chapter Sixty Two
A Knock on the Head
Excepting the memory of one short hour, Fort King had for me no pleasant reminiscences. There had been some new arrivals in my absence, but none of them worthy of companionship. They only rendered quarters more crowded, and accommodation more difficult to obtain. The sutlers and the blacklegs were rapidly making their fortunes; and these, with the quartermaster, the commissary19, and the “beef-contractor,” appeared to be the only prosperous men about the place.
The “beau” was still chief aide-de-camp, gaily caparisoned as ever; but of him I had almost ceased to think.
It was not long before I was ordered upon duty – almost the moment after my arrival – and that, as usual, of a disagreeable kind. Before I had time to obtain a moment’s rest after the long ride – even before I could wash the road-dust from my skin – I was summoned to the head-quarters of the commander-in-chief.
What could he want with me, in such hot haste? Was it about the duels? Were these old scores going to be reckoned up?
Not without some apprehension did I betake myself into the presence of the general.
It proved however, to be nothing concerning the past; though, when I learned the duty I was to perform, I half regretted that it was not a reprimand.
I found the agent closeted with the commander-in-chief. They had designed another interview with Omatla and “Black Dirt.” I was merely wanted as an interpreter.
The object of this fresh interview with the chiefs was stated in my hearing. It was to arrange a plan for concerted action between the troops and the friendly Indians, who were to act as our allies against their own countrymen; the latter – as was now known by certain information – being collected in large force in the “Cove of the Ouithlacoochee.” Their actual position was still unknown; but that, it was confidently hoped, would be discovered by the aid of the friendly chiefs, and their spies, who were constantly on the run.
The meeting had been already pre-arranged. The chiefs – who, as already stated, had gone to Fort Brooke, and were there living under protection of the garrison – were to make a secret journey, and meet the agent and general at an appointed place – the old ground, the hommock by the pond.
The meeting had been fixed for that very night – as soon as it should be dark enough to hide the approach of both tempters and traitors.
It was dark enough almost the moment the sun went down – for the moon was in her third quarter, and would not be in the sky until after sunset.
Shortly after twilight, therefore, we three proceeded to the spot – the general, the agent, and the interpreter, just as we had done on the former occasion.
The chiefs were not there, and this caused a little surprise. By the noted punctuality with which an Indian keeps his assignation, it was expected they would have been on the ground, for the hour appointed had arrived.
“What is detaining them? What can be detaining them?” mutually inquired the commissioner and general.
Scarcely an instant passed till the answer came. It came from afar, and in a singular utterance; but it could be no other than a reply to the question – so both my companions conjectured.
Borne upon the night-breeze was the sound of strife – the sharp cracking of rifles and pistols; and distinctly heard above all, the shrill Yo-ho-ehee.
The sounds were distant – away amid the far woods; but they were sufficiently distinct to admit of the interpretation, that a life-and-death struggle was going on between two parties of men.
It could be no feint, no false alarm to draw the soldiers from the fort, or terrify the sentinel on his post. There was an earnestness in the wild treble of those shrill cries, that convinced the listener that human blood was being spilled.
My companions were busy with conjectures. I saw that neither possessed a high degree of courage, for that is not necessary to become a general. In my warlike experience, I have seen more than one hiding behind a tree or piece of a wall. One, indeed, who was afterwards elected the chief of twenty millions of people, I have seen skulking in a ditch to screen himself from a stray shot, while his lost brigade, half a mile in the advance, was gallantly fighting under the guidance of a sub-lieutenant.
But why should I speak of these things here? The world is full of such heroes.
“It is they, by – ,” exclaimed the commissioner. “They have been waylaid; they are attacked by the others; that rascal Powell for a thousand!”
“It is extremely probable,” replied the other, who seemed to have a somewhat steadier nerve, and spoke more coolly. “Yes, it must be. There are no troops in that direction; no whites either – not a man. It must therefore be an affair among the Indians themselves; and what else than attack upon the friendly chiefs? You are right, Thompson; it is as you say.”
“If so, general, it will be of no use our remaining here. If they have waylaid Omatla, they will of course have superior numbers, and he must fall. We need not expect him.”
“No; he is not likely to come, neither he nor Lusta. As you say, it is idle for us to remain here. I think we may as well return to the fort.”
There was a moment’s hesitation, during which I fancied both generals were debating in their own minds whether it would be graceful thus to give up their errand and purpose.
“If they should come,” – continued the soldier.
“General,” said I, taking the liberty to interrupt him, “if you desire it, I will remain upon the ground for a while, and see. If they should come,” I added, in continuation of the broken sentence, “I can proceed to the fort, and give you notice.”
I could not have made a proposition more agreeable to the two. It was instantly accepted, and the brace of official heroes moved away, leaving me to myself.
It was not long ere I had cause to regret my generous rashness. My late companions could scarcely have reached the fort when the sounds of the strife suddenly ceased, and I heard the caha-queené– the Seminole shout of triumph. I was still listening to its wild intonations, when half-a-dozen men – dark-bodied men – rushed out of the bushes, and surrounded me where I stood.
Despite the poor light the stars afforded, I could see shining blades, guns, pistols, and tomahawks. The weapons were too near my eyes to be mistaken for the fire-flies that had been glittering around my head, besides, the clink of steel was in my ears.
My assailants made no outcry, perhaps because they were too near the fort; and my own shouts were soon suppressed by a blow that levelled me to the earth, depriving me as well of consciousness as of speech.
Note 1. In the United States army, these two offices are quite distinct. A “commissary” caters only for the inner man; a quartermaster’s duty is to shelter, clothe, arm, and equip. A wise regulation.
Chapter Sixty Three
An Indian Executioner
After a short spell of obliviousness, I recovered my senses. I perceived that the Indians were still around me, but no longer in the menacing attitude in which I had seen them before being struck down; on the contrary, they appeared to be treating me with kindness. One of them held my head upon his knee, while another was endeavouring to staunch the blood that was running freely from a wound in my temples. The others stood around regarding me with interest, and apparently anxious about my recovery.
Their behaviour caused me surprise, for I had no other thought than that they had intended to kill me; indeed, as I sank under the stroke of the tomahawk, my senses had gone out, under the impression that I was killed. Such a reflection is not uncommon to those whom a blow has suddenly deprived of consciousness.
My surprise was of an agreeable character. I felt that I still lived – that I was but little hurt; and not likely to receive any further damage from those who surrounded me.
They were speaking to one another in low tones, pronouncing the prognosis of my wound, and apparently gratified that they had not killed me.
“We have spilled your blood, but it is not dangerous,” said one, addressing himself to me in his native tongue. “It was I who gave the blow. Hulwak! it was dark. Friend of the Rising Sun! we did not know you. We thought you were the yatika-clucco (the ‘great speaker’ – the commissioner). It is his blood we intended to spill. We expected to find him here; he has been here: where gone?”
I pointed in the direction of the fort.
“Hulwak!” exclaimed several in a breath, and in a tone that betokened disappointment; and then turning aside, they conversed with each other in a low voice.
“Fear not,” said the first speaker, again standing before me, “friend of the Rising Sun! we will not do further harm to you; but you must go with us to the chiefs. They are not far off. Come!”
I was once more upon my feet, and perhaps by a desperate effort might have escaped. The attempt, however, might have cost me a second knock-down – perhaps my life. Moreover, the courtesy of my captors at once set my mind at ease. Go where they might, I felt that I had nothing to fear from them; and, without hesitation, I consented to accompany them.
My captors, throwing themselves into single file, and assigning me a position in their midst, at once started off through the woods. For some time we walked rapidly, the path taken by the leader of the party being easily followed, even in the darkness, by those behind. I observed that we were going in the direction whence had been heard the sounds of the conflict, that had long since ceased to vibrate upon the air. Of whatever nature had been the struggle, it was evidently brought to a close, and even the victors no longer uttered the caha-queené.
We had advanced about a mile when the moon arose; and the woods becoming more open, I could see my captors more distinctly. I recognised the features of one or two of them, from having seen them at the council. They were warriors of the Micosauc tribe, the followers of Osceola. From this I conjectured that he was one of the chiefs before whom I was being conducted.
My conjecture proved correct. We had not gone much further, when the path led into an opening in the woods, in the midst of which a large body of Indians, about a hundred in all, were grouped together. A little apart was a smaller group – the chiefs and head warriors. In their midst I observed Osceola.
The ground exhibited a singular and sanguinary spectacle. Dead bodies were lying about, gashed with wounds still fresh and bleeding. Some of the dead lay upon their backs, their unclosed eyes glaring ghastly upon the moon, all in the attitudes in which they had fallen. The scalping-knife had done its work, as the whitish patch upon the crowns, laced with seams of crimson red, shewed the skulls divested of their hirsute covering. Men were strolling about with the fresh scalps in their hands, or elevated upon the muzzles of their guns.
There was no mystery in what I saw; I knew its meaning well. The men who had fallen were of the traitor tribes – the followers of Lusta Hajo and Omatla.
According to the arrangement with the commissioner, the chiefs had left Fort Brooke, accompanied by a chosen band of their retainers. Their intention had become known to the patriots – their movements had been watched – they had been attacked on the way; and, after a short struggle, overpowered. Most of them had fallen in the melée – a few, with the chief Lusta Hajo, had contrived to escape; while still another few – among whom was Omatla himself – had been taken prisoners during the conflict, and were yet alive. They had been rescued from death only to suffer it in a more ceremonial shape.
I saw the captives where they stood, close at hand, and fast bound to some trees. Among them I recognised their leader, by the grace of Commissioner Thompson, “king of the Seminole nation.”
By those around, his majesty was now regarded with but slight deference. Many a willing regicide stood near him, and would have taken his life without further ceremony. But these were restrained by the chiefs, who opposed the violent proceeding, and who had come to the determination to give Omatla a trial, according to the laws and customs of their nation.
As we arrived upon the ground, this trial was going on. The chiefs were in council.
One of my captors reported our arrival. I noticed a murmur of disappointment among the chiefs as he finished making his announcement. They were disappointed: I was not the captive they had been expecting.
No notice was taken of me; and I was left free to loiter about, and watch their proceedings, if I pleased.
The council soon performed its duty. The treason of Omatla was too well-known to require much canvassing; and, of course, he was found guilty, and condemned to expiate the crime with his life.
The sentence was pronounced in the hearing of all present. The traitor must die.
A question arose – who was to be his executioner?
There were many who would have volunteered for the office – for to take the life of a traitor, according to Indian philosophy, is esteemed an act of honour. There would be no difficulty in procuring an executioner.
Many actually did volunteer; but the services of these were declined by the council. This was a matter to be decided by vote.
The vote was immediately taken. All knew of the vow made by Osceola. His followers were desirous he should keep it; and on this account, he was unanimously elected to do the deed. He accepted the office.
Knife in hand, Osceola approached the captive, now cowering in his bonds. All gathered around to witness the fatal stab. Moved by an impulse I could not resist, I drew near with the rest.
We stood in breathless silence, expecting every moment to see the knife plunged into the heart of the criminal.
We saw the arm upraised, and the blow given, but there was no wound – no blood! The blow had descended upon the thongs that bound the captive, and Omatla stood forth free from his fastenings!
There was a murmur of disapprobation. What could Osceola mean? Did he design that Omatla should escape – the traitor condemned by the council – by all?
But it was soon perceived he had no such intention – far different was his design.
“Omatla!” said he, looking his adversary sternly in the face, “you were once esteemed a brave man, honoured by your tribe – by the whole Seminole nation. The white men have corrupted you – they have made you a renegade to your country and your cause; for all that, you shall not die the death of a dog. I will kill, but not murder you. My heart revolts to slay a man who is helpless and unarmed. It shall be a fair combat between us, and men shall see that the right triumphs. Give him back his weapons! Let him defend himself, if he can.”
The unexpected proposal was received with some disapprobation. There were many who, indignant at Omatla’s treason, and still wild with the excitement produced by the late conflict, would have butchered him in his bonds. But all saw that Osceola was determined to act as he had proposed; and no opposition was offered.
One of the warriors, stepping forward, handed his weapons to the condemned chief – only his tomahawk and knife, for so Osceola was himself armed.
This done, by a sort of tacit understanding, the crowd drew back, and the two combatants stood alone in the centre.
The struggle was brief as bloody. Almost at the first blow, Osceola struck the hatchet from his antagonist’s hand, and with another stroke, rapidly following, felled Omatla to the earth.
For a moment the victor was seen bending over his fallen adversary, with his long knife unsheathed, and glittering in the moonlight.
When he rose erect, the steel had lost its sheen – it was dimmed with crimson blood.
Osceola had kept his oath. He had driven his blade through the heart of the traitor – Omatla had ceased to live.
White men afterwards pronounced this deed an assassination – a murder. It was not so, any more than the death of Charles, of Caligula, of Tarquin – of a hundred other tyrants, who have oppressed or betrayed their country.
Public opinion upon such matters is not honest; it takes its colour from the cant of the times, changing like the hues of the chameleon. Sheer hypocrisy, shameful inconsistency! He only is a murderer who kills from a murderer’s motive. Osceola was not of this class.
My situation was altogether singular. As yet, the chiefs had taken no notice of my presence; and notwithstanding the courtesy which had been extended to me by those who conducted me thither, I was not without some apprehensions as to my safety. It might please the council, excited as they were with what had just transpired, and now actually at war with our people, to condemn me to a fate similar to that which had befallen Omatla. I stood waiting their pleasure therefore in anything but a comfortable frame of mind.
It was not long before I was relieved from my apprehensions. As soon as the affair with Omatla was ended, Osceola approached, and in a friendly manner stretched out his hand, which I was only too happy to receive in friendship.
He expressed regret that I had been wounded and made captive by his men – explained the mistake; and then calling one of his followers, ordered him to guide me back to the fort.
I had no desire to remain longer than I could help upon such tragic ground; and, bidding the chief adieu, I followed my conductor along the path.
Near the pond, the Indian left me; and, without encountering any further adventures, I re-entered the gates of the fort.
Chapter Sixty Four
A Banquet with a Bad Ending
As by duty bound, I delivered a report of the scene I had involuntarily been witness to. It produced a lively excitement within the fort, and an expedition was instantly ordered forth, with myself to act as guide.
A bit of sheer folly. The search proved bootless, as any one might have prophesied. Of course, we found the place, and the bodies of those who had fallen – upon which the wolves had already been ravening – but we discovered no living Indians – not even the path by which they had retreated!
The expedition consisted of several hundred men – in fact, the whole garrison of the fort. Had we gone out with a smaller force, in all probability, we should have seen something of the enemy.
The death of Omatla was the most serious incident that had yet occurred; at all events, the most important in its bearings. By the whites, Omatla had been constituted king; by killing, the Indians shewed their contempt for the authority that had crowned him, as well as their determination to resist all interference of the kind. Omatla had been directly under the protection of the white chiefs: this had been guaranteed to him by promise as by treaty; and therefore the taking his life was a blow struck against his patrons. The government would now be under the necessity of avenging his death.
But the incident had its most important bearings upon the Indians, especially upon Omatla’s own people. Terrified by the example, and dreading lest similar retribution might be extended to themselves, many of Omatla’s tribe – sub-chiefs and warriors – forsook their alliance, and enrolled themselves in the ranks of the patriots. Other clans that had hitherto remained undecided, acting under similar motives, now declared their allegiance to the national will, and took up arms without further hesitation.
The death of Omatla, besides being an act of stern justice, was a stroke of fine policy on the part of the hostile Indians. It proved the genius of him who had conceived and carried it into execution.
Omatla was the first victim of Osceola’s vow of vengeance. Soon after appeared the second. It was not long before the tragedy of the traitor’s death was eclipsed by another, far more thrilling and significant. One of the chief actors in this drama disappears from the stage.
On our arrival at the fort, it was found that the commissariat was rapidly running short. No provision had been made for so large a body of troops, and no supplies could possibly reach Fort King for a long period of time. We were to be the victims of the usual improvidence exhibited by governments not accustomed to warlike operations. Rations were stinted to the verge of starvation; and the prospect before us began to look very like starvation itself.
In this emergency, the commander-in-chief performed an act of great patriotism. Independent of his military command, General Clinch was a citizen of Florida – a proprietor and planter upon a large scale. His fine plantation lay at a short distance from Fort King. His crop of maize, covering nearly a hundred acres, was just ripening; and this, without more ado, was rationed out to the army.
Instead of bringing the commissariat to the troops, the reverse plan was adopted; and the troops were marched upon their food – which had yet to be gathered before being eaten.
Four-fifths of the little army were thus withdrawn from the fort, leaving rather a weak garrison; while a new stockade was extemporised on the general’s plantation, under the title of “Fort Drane.”
There were slanderous people who insinuated that in this curious matter the good old general was moved by other motives than those of mere patriotism. There was some talk about “Uncle Sam” – well-known as a solvent and liberal paymaster – being called upon to give a good price for the general’s corn; besides, so long as an army bivouacked upon his plantation, no danger need be apprehended from the Indian incendiaries. Perhaps these insinuations were but the conceits of camp satire.
I was not among those transferred to the new station; I was not a favourite with the commander-in-chief, and no longer upon his staff. My duties kept me at Fort King, where the commissioner also remained.
The days passed tamely enough – whole weeks of them. An occasional visit to Camp Drane was a relief to the monotony of garrison-life, but this was a rare occurrence. The fort had been shorn of its strength, and was too weak for us to go much beyond its walls. It was well-known that the Indians were in arms. Traces of their presence had been observed near the post; and a hunting excursion, or even a romantic saunter in the neighbouring woods – the usual resources of a frontier station – could not have been made without some peril.
During this period I observed that the commissioner was very careful in his outgoings and incomings. He rarely passed outside the stockade, and never beyond the line of sentries. Whenever he looked in the direction of the woods, or over the distant savanna, a shadow of distrust appeared to overspread his features, as though he was troubled with an apprehension of danger. This was after the death of the traitor chief. He had heard of Osceola’s vow to kill Omatla; perhaps he had also heard that the oath extended to himself; perhaps he was under the influence of a presentiment.
Christmas came round. At this season, wherever they may be found – whether amid the icy bergs of the north, or on the hot plains of the tropic – on board ship, within the walls of a fortress – ay, even in a prison – Christians incline to merry-making. The frontier post is no exception to the general rule; and Fort King was a continued scene of festivities. The soldiers were released from duty – alone the sentinels were kept to their posts; and, with such fare as could be procured, backed by liberal rations of “Monongahela,” the week passed cheerily enough.
A “sutler” in the American army is generally a thriving adventurer – with the officers liberal both of cash and credit – and, on festive occasions, not unfrequently their associate and boon companion. Such was he, the sutler, at Fort King.
On one of the festal days, he had provided a sumptuous dinner – no one about the fort so capable – to which the officers were invited – the commissioner himself being the honoured guest.
The banquet was set out in the sutler’s own house, which, as already mentioned, stood outside the stockade, several hundred yards off, and near to the edge of the woods.
The dinner was over, and most of the officers had returned within the fort, where – as it was now getting near night – it was intended the smoking and wine-drinking should be carried on.
The commissioner, with half a dozen others – officers and civilian visitors – still lingered to enjoy another glass under the hospitable roof where they had eaten their dinner.
I was among those who went back within the fort.
We had scarcely settled down in our seats, when we were startled by a volley of sharp cracks, which the ear well knew to be the reports of rifles. At the same instant was heard that wild intonation, easily distinguishable from the shouting of civilised men – the war-cry of the Indians!
We needed no messenger to inform us what the noises meant: the enemy was upon the ground, and had made an attack – we fancied upon the fort itself.
We rushed into the open air, each arming himself as best he could.
Once outside, we saw that the fort was not assailed; but upon looking over the stockade, we perceived that the house of the sutler was surrounded by a crowd of savages, plumed and painted in full fighting costume. They were in quick motion, rushing from point to point, brandishing their weapons, and yelling the Yo-ho-ehee.
Straggling shots were still heard as the fatal gun was pointed at some victim endeavouring to escape. The gates of the fort were standing wide open, and soldiers, who had been strolling outside, now rushed through, uttering shouts of terror as they passed in.
The sutler’s house was at too great a distance for the range of musketry. Some shots were discharged by the sentries and others who chanced to be armed, but the bullets fell short.
The artillerists ran to their guns; but on reaching these, it was found that the stables – a row of heavy log-houses – stood directly in the range of the sutler’s house – thus sheltering the enemy from the aim of the gunners.
All at once the shouting ceased, and the crowd of dusky warriors was observed moving off towards the woods.
In a few seconds they had disappeared among the trees – vanishing, as if by magic, from our sight.
He who commanded at the fort – an officer slow of resolve – now mustered the garrison, and ventured a sortie. It extended only to the house of the sutler, where a halt was made, while we contemplated the horrid scene.
The sutler himself, two young officers, several soldiers and civilians, lay upon the floor dead, each with many wounds.
Conspicuous above all was the corpse of the commissioner. He was lying upon his back, his face covered with gore, and his uniform torn and bloody. Sixteen bullets had been fired into his body; and a wound more terrible than all was observed over the left breast. It was the gash made by a knife, whose blade had passed through his heart.
I could have guessed who gave that wound, even without the living testimony that was offered on the spot. A negress – the cook – who had concealed herself behind a piece of furniture, now came forth from her hiding-place. She had been witness of all. She was acquainted with the person of Osceola. It was he who had conducted the tragedy; he had been the last to leave the scene; and before taking his departure, the negress had observed him give that final stab – no doubt in satisfaction of the deadly vow he had made.
After some consultation, a pursuit was determined upon, and carried out with considerable caution; but, as before, it proved fruitless: as before, even the track by which the enemy had retreated could not be discovered!
