Майн Рид
Osceola the Seminole: or, The Red Fawn of the Flower Land
Chapter Seventy One
Mysterious Disappearance of an Army
The two divisions of the army now came together, and after a rapid council had been held between the commanders, continued scouring the field in search of our enemy. Hours were spent in the search; but not an Indian foe could be found!
Osceola had performed a piece of strategy unheard of in the annals of war. He had carried an army of 1,600 men from between two others of nearly equal numbers, who had completely enfiladed him, without leaving a man upon the ground – ay, without leaving a trace of his retreat. That host of Indian warriors, so lately observed in full battle-array, had all at once broken up into a thousand fragments, and, as if by magic, had melted out of sight.
The enemy was gone, we knew not whither; and the disappointed generals once more marched their forces back to Fort King.
The “dispersion,” as it was termed, of the Indian army, was of course chronicled as another “victory.” It was a victory, however, that killed poor old Gaines – at least his military fame – and he was only too glad to retire from the command he had been so eager to obtain.
A third general now took the field as commander-in-chief – an officer of more notoriety than either of his predecessors – Scott. A lucky wound received in the old British wars, seniority of rank, a good deal of political buffoonery, but above all a free translation of the French “system of tactics,” with the assumption of being their author, had kept General Scott conspicuously before the American public for a period of twenty years20. He who could contrive such a system of military manoeuvring could not be otherwise than a great soldier; so reasoned his countrymen.
Of course wonderful things were expected from the new commander-in-chief, and great deeds were promised. He would deal with the savages in a different way from that adopted by his predecessors; he would soon put an end to the contemptible war.
There was much rejoicing at the appointment; and preparations were made for a campaign on a far more extensive scale than had fallen to the lot of either of the chiefs who preceded him. The army was doubled – almost trebled – the commissariat amply provided for, before the great general would consent to set foot upon the field.
He arrived at length, and the army was put in motion.
I am not going to detail the incidents of this campaign; there were none of sufficient importance to be chronicled, much less of sufficient interest to be narrated. It consisted simply of a series of harassing marches, conducted with all the pomp and regularity of a parade review. The army was formed into three divisions, somewhat bombastically styled “right wing,” “left wing,” and “centre.” Thus formed, they were to approach the “Cove of the Ouithlacoochee” – again that fatal Cove – from three different directions, Fort King, Fort Brooke, and the Saint John’s. On arriving on the edge of the great swamp, each was to fire minute-guns as signals for the others, and then all three were to advance in converging lines towards the heart of the Seminole fastness.
The absurd manoeuvre was carried out, and ended as might have been expected, in complete failure. During the march, no man saw the face of a red Indian. A few of their camps were discovered, but nothing more. The cunning warriors had heard the signal guns, and well understood their significance. With such a hint of the position of their enemy, they had but little difficulty in making their retreat between the “wings.”
Perhaps the most singular, if not the most important, incident occurring in Scott’s campaign was one which came very near costing me my life. If not worthy of being given in detail, it merits mention as a curious case of “abandonment.”
While marching for the “Cove” with his centre wing, the idea occurred to our great commander to leave behind him, upon the banks of the Amazura, what he termed a “post of observation.” This consisted of a detachment of forty men – mostly our Suwanee volunteers, with their proportion of officers, myself among the number.
We were ordered to fortify ourselves on the spot, and stay there until we should be relieved from our duty, which was somewhat indefinitely understood even by him who was placed in command of us. After giving these orders, the general, at the head of his “central wing,” marched off, leaving us to our fate.
Our little band was sensibly alive to the perilous position in which we were thus placed, and we at once set about making the best of it. We felled trees, built a blockhouse, dug a well, and surrounded both with a strong stockade.
Fortunately we were not discovered by the enemy for nearly a week after the departure of the army, else we should most certainly have been destroyed to a man. The Indians, in all probability, had followed the “centre wing,” and thus for a time were carried out of our neighbourhood.
On the sixth day, however, they made their appearance, and summoned us to surrender.
We refused, and fought them – again, and again, at intervals, during a period of fifty days!
Several of our men were killed or wounded; and among the former, the gallant chief of our devoted band, Holloman, who fell from a shot fired through the interstices of the stockade.
Provisions had been left with us to serve us for two weeks; they were eked out to last for seven! For thirty days we subsisted upon raw corn and water, with a few handfuls of acorns, which we contrived to gather from the trees growing within the inclosure.
In this way we held out for a period of fifty days, and still no commander-in-chief – no army came to relieve us. During all that gloomy siege, we never heard word of either; no white face ever showed itself to our anxious eyes, that gazed constantly outward. We believed ourselves abandoned – forgotten.
And such in reality was the fact – General Scott, in his eagerness to get away from Florida, had quite forgotten to relieve the “post of observation;” and others believing that we had long since perished, made no effort to send a rescue.
Death from hunger stared us in the face, until at length the brave old hunter, Hickman, found his way through the lines of our besiegers, and communicated our situation to our “friends at home.”
His tale produced a strong excitement, and a force was dispatched to our relief, that succeeded in dispersing our enemies, and setting us free from our blockhouse prison.
Thus terminated “Scott’s campaign,” and with it his command in Florida. The whole affair was a burlesque, and Scott was only saved from ridicule and the disgrace of a speedy recall, by a lucky accident, that fell in his favour. Orders had already reached him to take control of another, “Indian war” – the “Creek” – that was just breaking out in the States of the southwest; and this afforded the discomfited general a well-timed excuse for retiring from the “Flowery Land.”
Florida was destined to prove to American generals a land of melancholy remembrances. No less than seven of them were successively beaten at the game of Indian warfare by the Seminoles and their wily chieftains. It is not my purpose to detail the history of their failures and mishaps. From the disappearance of General Scott, I was myself no longer with the main army. My destiny conducted me through the more romantic by-ways of the campaign – the paths of la petite guerre– and of these only am I enabled to write. Adieu, then, to the grand historic.
Chapter Seventy Two
The Condition of Black Jake
We had escaped from the blockhouse in boats, down the river to its mouth, and by sea to Saint Marks. Thence the volunteers scattered to their homes – their term of service having expired. They went as they listed; journeying alone, or in straggling squads of three and four together.
One of these groups consisted of old Hickman the hunter, a companion of like kidney, myself, and my ever faithful henchman.
Jake was no longer the “Black Jake” of yore. A sad change had come over his external aspect. His cheek-bones stood prominently out, while the cheeks themselves had fallen in; his eyeballs had retreated far within their sockets, and the neglected wool stood out over his temples in a thick frizzled shock. His skin had lost its fine ebon polish, and showed distinct traces of corrugation. Wherever “scratched” by his now elongated finger-nails, a whitish dandruffy surface was exhibited.
The poor fellow had fared badly in the blockhouse; and three weeks of positive famine had played sad havoc with his outward man.
Starvation, however, but little affected his spirits. Throughout all, he had preserved his jovial mood, and his light humour often roused me from my despondency. While gnawing the corn cob, and washing down the dry maize with a gourd of cold water, he would indulge in rapturous visions of “hominy and hog-meat,” to be devoured whenever it should please fate to let him return to the “ole plantayshun.” Such delightful prospects of future enjoyment enabled him the better to endure the pinching present – for anticipation has its joys. Now that we were free, and actually heading homewards; now that his visions were certain soon to become realities, Jake’s jovialty could no longer be kept within bounds; his tongue was constantly in motion; his mouth ever open with the double tier of “ivories” displayed in a continuous smile; while his skin seemed to be rapidly recovering its dark oily lustre.
Jake was the soul of our party, as we trudged wearily along; and his gay jokes affected even the staid old hunters, at intervals eliciting from both loud peals of laughter. – For myself I scarcely shared their mirth – only now and then, when the sallies of my follower proved irresistible. There was a gloom over my spirit, which I could not comprehend.
It should have been otherwise. I should have felt happy at the prospect of returning home – of once more beholding those who were dear – but it was not so.
It had been so on my first getting free from our blockhouse prison; but this was only the natural reaction, consequent upon escape from what appeared almost certain death. My joy had been short-lived: it was past and gone; and now that I was nearing my native home, dark shadows came over my soul; a presentiment was upon me that all was not well.
I could in no way account for this feeling, for I had heard no evil tidings. In truth, I had heard nothing of home or of friends for a period of nearly two months. During our long siege, no communication had ever reached us; and at Saint Marks we met but slight news from the settlements of the Suwanee. We were returning in ignorance of all that had transpired there during our absence – if aught had transpired worthy of being known.
This ignorance itself might have produced uncertainty, doubt, even apprehension; but it was not the sole cause of my presentiment. Its origin was different. Perhaps the recollection of my abrupt departure – the unsettled state in which I had left the affairs of our family – the parting scene, now vividly recalled – remembrances of Ringgold – reflections upon the wicked designs of this wily villain – all these may have contributed to form the apprehensions under which I was suffering. Two months was a long period; many events could happen within two months, even in the narrow circle of one’s own family. Long since it had been reported that I had perished at the hands of the Indian foe; I was believed to be dead, at home, wherever I was known; and the belief might have led to ill results. Was my sister still true to her word, so emphatically pronounced in that hour of parting? Was I returning home to find her still my loved sister? Still single and free? or had she yielded to maternal solicitation, and become the wife of the vile caitiff after all?
With such conjectures occupying my thoughts, no wonder I was not in a mood for merriment. My companions noticed my dejection, and in their rude but kind way, rallied me as we rode along. They failed, however, to make me cheerful like themselves. I could not cast the load from my heart. Try as I would, the presentiment lay heavy upon me, that all was not well.
Alas, alas! the presentiment proved true – no, not true, but worse – worse than my worst apprehensions – worse even than that I had most feared.
The news that awaited me was not of marriage, but of death – the death of my mother – and worse than death – horrid doubt of my sister’s fate. Before reaching home, a messenger met me – one who told an appalling tale.
The Indians had attacked the settlement, or rather my own plantation – for their foray had gone no further: my poor mother had fallen under their savage knives; my uncle too: and my sister? She had been carried off!
I stayed to hear no more; but, driving the spurs into my jaded horse, galloped forward like one suddenly smitten with madness.
Chapter Seventy Three
A Bad Spectacle
My rate of speed soon brought me within the boundaries of the plantation; and, without pausing to breathe my horse, I galloped on, taking the path that led most directly to the house. It was not the main road, but a wood-path here and there closed up with “bars.” My horse was a spirited animal, and easily leaped over them.
I met a man coming from the direction of the house – a white man – a neighbour. He made motions as if to speak – no doubt, of the calamity. I did not stop to listen. I had heard enough. My eyes alone wanted satisfaction.
I knew every turn of the path. I knew the points where I should first come in sight of the house.
I reached it, and looked forwards. Father of mercy! there was no house to be seen!
Half-bewildered, I reined up my horse. I strained my eyes over the landscape – in vain – no house.
Had I taken the wrong road, or was I looking in the wrong direction? No – no. There stood the giant tulip-tree, that marked the embouchure of the path. There stretched the savanna; beyond it the home-fields of indigo and maize; beyond these the dark wood-knoll of the hommock; but beyond this last there was nothing – nothing I could recognise.
The whole landscape appeared to have undergone a change. The gay white walls – the green jalousies– the cheerful aspect of home, that from that same spot had so often greeted me, returning hungry and wearied from the hunt – were no longer to be seen. The sheds, the negro-cabins, the offices, even the palings had disappeared. From their steads I beheld thick volumes of smoke ascending to the sky, and rolling over the sun till his disc was red. The heavens were frowning upon me.
From what I had already learned, the spectacle was easy of comprehension. It caused no new emotion either of surprise or pain. I was not capable of suffering more.
Again putting my horse to his speed, I galloped across the fields towards the scene of desolation.
As I neared the spot, I could perceive the forms of men moving about through the smoke. There appeared to be fifty or a hundred of them. Their motions did not betoken excitement. Only a few were moving at all, and these with a leisurely gait, that told they were not in action. The rest stood in groups, in lounging attitudes, evidently mere spectators of the conflagration. They were making no attempt to extinguish the flames, which I now observed mingling with the smoke. A few were rushing to and fro – most of them on horseback – apparently in the endeavour to catch some horses and cattle, that, having escaped from the burnt inclosure, were galloping over the fields, neighing and lowing.
One might have fancied that the men around the fire were those who had caused it; and for a moment such an idea was in my mind. The messenger had said that the foray had just taken place – that very morning at daybreak. It was all I had heard, as I hurried away.
It was yet early – scarcely an hour after sunrise – for we had been travelling by night to avoid the hot hours. Were the savages still upon the ground? Were those men Indians? In the lurid light, amidst the smoke, chasing the cattle – as if with the intention of driving them off – the conjecture was probable enough.
But the report said they had gone away: how else could the details have been known? – the murder of my mother, the rape of my poor sister? With the savages still upon the ground, how had these facts been ascertained?
Perhaps they had gone, and returned again to collect the booty, and fire the buildings? For an instant such fancies were before my mind.
They had no influence in checking my speed. I never thought of tightening the rein – my bridle arm was not free; with both hands I was grasping the ready rifle.
Vengeance had made me mad. Even had I been certain that the dark forms before me were those of the murderers, I was determined to dash forwards into their midst, and perish upon the body of a savage.
I was not alone. The black was at my heels; and close behind, I could hear the clattering hoofs of the hunters’ horses.
We galloped up to the selvidge of the smoke. The deception was at an end. They were not Indians or enemies, but friends who stood around, and who hailed our approach neither with words nor shouts, but with the ominous silence of sympathy.
I pulled up by the fire, and dismounted from my horse: men gathered around me with looks of deep meaning. They were speechless – no one uttered a word. All saw that it was a tale that needed no telling.
I was myself the first to speak. In a voice so husky as scarcely to be heard, I inquired: “Where?”
The interrogatory was understood – it was anticipated. One had already taken me by the hand, and was leading me gently around the fire. He said nothing, but pointed towards the hommock. Unresistingly I walked by his side.
As we neared the pond, I observed a larger group than any I had yet seen. They were standing in a ring, with their faces turned inwards, and their eyes bent upon the earth. I knew she was there.
At our approach, the men looked up, and suddenly the ring opened – both sides mechanically drawing back. He who had my hand conducted me silently onwards, till I stood in their midst. I looked upon the corpse of my mother.
Beside it was the dead body of my uncle, and beyond, the bodies of several black men – faithful slaves, who had fallen in defence of their master and mistress.
My poor mother! – shot – stabbed —scalped. Even in death had she been defeatured!
Though I had anticipated it, the spectacle shocked me.
My poor mother! Those glassy eyes would never smile upon me again – those pale lips would neither chide nor cheer me more.
I could control my emotions no longer. I burst into tears; and falling upon the earth, flung my arms around the corpse, and kissed the cold mute lips of her who had given me birth.
Chapter Seventy Four
To the Trail
My grief was profound – even to misery. The remembrance of occasional moments of coldness on the part of my mother – the remembrance more especially of the last parting scene – rendered my anguish acute. Had we but parted in affection – in the friendly confidence of former years – my loss would have been easier to endure. But no; her last words to me were spoken in reproach – almost in anger – and it was the memory of these that now so keenly embittered my thoughts. I would have given the world could she have heard but one word – to know how freely I forgave her.
My poor mother! all was forgiven. Her faults were few and venial. I remembered them not. Ambition was her only sin – among those of her station, almost universal – but I remembered it no more. I remembered only her many virtues – only that she was my mother. Never until that moment had I known how dearly I loved her.
It was no time to indulge in grief. Where was my sister?
I sprang to my feet, as I gave wild utterance to the interrogatory.
It was answered only by signs. Those around me pointed to the forest. I understood the signs – the savages had borne her away.
Up to this hour I had felt no hostility towards the red men; on the contrary, my sentiments had an opposite inclination. If not friendship for them, I had felt something akin to it. I was conscious of the many wrongs they had endured, and were now enduring at the hands of our people. I knew that in the end they would be conquered, and must submit. I had felt sympathy for their unfortunate condition.
It was gone. The sight of my murdered mother produced an instantaneous change in my feelings; and sympathy for the savage was supplanted by fierce hostility. Her blood called aloud for vengeance, and my heart was eager to obey the summons.
As I rose to my feet, I registered vows of revenge.
I stood not alone. Old Hickman and his fellow-hunter were at my back, and fifty others joined their voices in a promise to aid me in the pursuit.
Black Jake was among the loudest who clamoured for retribution. He too had sustained his loss. Viola was nowhere to be found – she had been carried off with the other domestics. Some may have gone voluntarily, but all were absent – all who were not dead. The plantation and its people had no longer an existence. I was homeless as well as motherless.
There was no time to be wasted in idle sorrowing; immediate action was required, and determined upon. The people had come to the ground armed and ready, and a few minutes sufficed to prepare for the pursuit.
A fresh horse was procured for myself; others for the companions of my late journey; and after snatching a breakfast hastily prepared, we mounted, and struck off upon the trail of the savages.
It was easily followed, for the murderers had been mounted, and their horses’ tracks betrayed them.
They had gone some distance up the river before crossing, and then swam their horses over to the Indian side. Without hesitation, we did the same.
The place I remembered well. I had crossed there before – two months before – while tracking the steed of Osceola. It was the path that had been taken by the young chief. The coincidence produced upon me a certain impression; and not without pain did I observe it.
It led to reflection. There was time, as the trail was in places less conspicuous, and the finding it delayed our advance. It led to inquiry.
Had any one seen the savages? – or noted to what band they belonged? Who was their leader?
Yes. All these questions were answered in the affirmative. Two men, lying concealed by the road, had seen the Indians passing away – had seen their captives, too; my sister – Viola – with other girls of the plantation. These were on horseback, each clasped in the arms of a savage. The blacks travelled afoot. They were not bound. They appeared to go willingly. The Indians were “Redsticks” —led by Osceola.
Such was the belief of those around me, founded upon the report of the men who had lain in ambush.
It is difficult to describe the impression produced upon me. It was painful in the extreme. I endeavoured not to believe the report. I resolved not to give it credence, until I should have further confirmation of its truthfulness.
Osceola! O heavens! Surely he would not have done this deed? It could not have been he?
The men might have been mistaken. It was before daylight the savages had been seen. The darkness might have deceived them. Every feat performed by the Indians – every foray made – was put down to the credit of Osceola. Osceola was everywhere. Surely he had not been there?
Who were the two men – the witnesses? Not without surprise did I listen to the answer. They were Spence and Williams!
To my surprise, too, I now learned that they were among the party who followed me – volunteers to aid me in obtaining revenge for my wrongs!
Strange, I thought; but stranger still that Arens Ringgold was not there. He had been present at the scene of the conflagration; and, as I was told, among the loudest in his threats of vengeance. But he had returned home; at all events he was not one of the band of pursuers.
I called Spence and Williams, and questioned them closely. They adhered to their statement. They admitted that it was dark when they had seen the Indians returning from the massacre. They could not tell for certain whether they were the warriors of the “Redstick” tribe, or those of the “Long Swamp.” They believed them to be the former. As to who was their leader, they had no doubt whatever. It was Osceola who led them. They knew him by the three ostrich feathers in his head-dress, which rendered him conspicuous among his followers.
These fellows spoke positively. What interest could they have in deceiving me? What could it matter to them, whether the chief of the murderous band was Osceola, Coa Hajo, or Onopa himself?
Their words produced conviction – combined with other circumstances, deep, painful conviction. The murderer of my mother – he who had fired my home, and borne my sister into a cruel captivity – could be no other than Osceola.
All memory of our past friendship died upon the instant. My heart burned with hostility and hate, for him it had once so ardently admired.
