He made light of the danger.
The soldiers, he said, knew better than to be out after night, and for that part of the country through which we would travel by daylight, no troops ever strayed into it. Besides, there had been no scouting of late — the weather was too hot for the work. If we met any party they would be of his own people. From them, of course, we had nothing to fear. Since the war began he had often travelled most of the same route alone. He appeared satisfied there was no danger.
For my part, I was not satisfied. I knew that the path we were following would pass within a few miles of Fort King. I remembered the escape of Ringgold’s crew. They were likely enough to have ridden straight to the fort, and communicated an account of the planter’s death, garnished by a tale of their own brave attack upon the Indian camp. Among the authorities, Ringgold was no common man; a party might be organised to proceed to the camp. We were on the very road to meet them.
Another circumstance I thought of — the mysterious disappearance of the mulatto, as was supposed, in company with these men. It was enough to create suspicion. I mentioned my suspicion to the chief:
"No fear," said he, in reply, "my trackers will be after them — they will bring me word in time — but no," he added, hesitatingly, and for a moment appearing thoughtful; "they may not get up with them before the night falls, and then — you speak true, Randolph — I have acted imprudently. I should not care for these foolish fellows — but the mulatto — that is different — he knows all the paths, and if it should be that he is turning traitor — if it — Well! we are astart now, and we must go on. You have nothing to fear — and as for me — Osceola never yet turned his back upon danger, and will not now. Nay, will you believe me, Randolph, I rather seek it than otherwise?"
"Seek danger?"
"Ay — death — death!"
"Speak low — do not let them hear you talk thus."
"Ah! yes," he added, lowering his tone, and speaking in a half soliloquy, "in truth, I long for its coming."
The words were spoken with a serious emphasis that left no room to doubt of their earnestness.
Some deep melancholy had settled upon his spirit and preyed upon it continually. What could be its cause?
I could remain silent no longer. Friendship, not curiosity, incited me. I put the inquiry.
"You have observed it, then? But not since we set out — not since you made that friendly offer? Ah! Randolph, you have rendered me happy. It was she alone that made the prospect of death so gloomy."
"Why speak you of death?"
"Because it is near."
"Not to you?"
"Yes — to me. The presentiment is upon me that I have not long to live."
"Nonsense, Powell."
"Friend, it is true — I have had my death warning."
"Come, Osceola! This is unlike — unworthy of you. Surely you are above such vulgar fancies. I will not believe you can entertain them."
"Think you I speak of supernatural signs? Of the screech of the war-bird, or the hooting of the midnight owl? Of omens in the air, the earth, or the water? No — no. I am above such shallow superstitions. For all that, I know I must soon die. It was wrong of me to call my death warning a presentiment — it is a physical fact that announces my approaching end — it is here."
As he said this, he raised his hand, pointing with his fingers as if to indicate the chest.
I understood his melancholy meaning.
"I would rather," he continued, after a pause, "rather it had been my fate to fall upon the field of battle. True, death is not alluring in any shape, but that appears to me most preferable. I would choose it rather than linger on. Nay, I have chosen it. Ten times have I thus challenged death — gone half-way to meet it; but like a coward, or a coy bride, it refuses to meet me."
There was something almost unearthly in the laugh that accompanied these last words — a strange simile — a strange man!
I could scarce make an effort to cheer him. In fact, he needed no cheering: he seemed happier than before. Had it not been so, my poor speech, assuring him of his robust looks, would have been words thrown away. He knew they were but the false utterances of friendship.
I even suspected it myself. I had already noticed the pallid skin — the attenuated fingers — the glazed and sunken eye. This, then, was the canker that was prostrating that noble spirit — the cause of his deep melancholy. I had assigned to it one far different.
The future of his sister had been the heaviest load upon his heart. He told me so as we moved onward.
I need not repeat the promises I then made to him. It was not necessary they should be vows: my own happiness would hinder me from breaking them.
Chapter Ninety Six
Osceola’s Fate — Conclusion
We were seated near the edge of the little opening where we had encamped, a pretty parterre, fragrant with the perfume of a thousand flowers. The moon was shedding down a flood of silvery light, and objects around appeared almost as distinct as by day. The leaves of the tall palms — the waxen flowers of the magnolias — the yellow blossoms of the zanthoxylon trees could all be distinguished in the clear moonbeams.
The four of us were seated together, brothers and sisters, conversing freely, as in the olden times, and the scene vividly recalled those times to all of us. But the memory now produced only sad reflections, as it suggested thoughts of the future. Perhaps we four should never thus meet again. Gazing upon the doomed form before me, I had no heart for reminiscences of joy.
We had passed Fort King in safety — had encountered no white face — strange I should fear to meet men of my own race — and no longer had we any apprehension of danger, either from ambush or open attack.
The Indian guards, with black Jake in their midst, were near the centre of the glade, grouped by a fire, and cooking their suppers. So secure did the chieftain feel that he had not even placed a sentinel on the path. He appeared indifferent to danger.
The night was waning late, and we were about retiring to the tents, which the men had pitched for us, when a singular noise reach us from the woods. To my ears it sounded like the surging of water — as of heavy rain, or the sough of distant rapids.
Osceola interpreted it otherwise. It was the continuous "whistling" of leaves, caused by numerous bodies passing through the bushes, either of men, or animals.
We instantly rose to our feet, and stood listening.
The noise continued, but now we could hear the snapping of dead branches, and the metallic clink of weapons.
It was too late to retreat. The noise came from every ride. A circle of armed men were closing around the glade.
I looked towards Osceola. I expected to see him rush to his rifle that lay near. To my surprise he did not stir.
His few followers were already on the alert, and had hastened to his side to receive his orders. Their words and gestures declared their determination to die in his defence.
In reply to their hurried speeches, the chieftain made a sign that appeared to astonish them. The butts of their guns suddenly dropped to the ground, and the warriors stood in listless attitudes, as if they had given up the intention of using them.
"It is too late," said Osceola in a calm voice, "too late! we are completely surrounded. Innocent blood might be spilled, and mine is the only life they are in search of. Let them come on — they are welcome to it now. Farewell, sister! Randolph, farewell! — farewell, Virg —."
The plaintive screams of Maümee — of Virginia — my own bursting, and no longer silent grief, drowned the voice that was uttering those wild adieus.