Osceola the Seminole: or, The Red Fawn of the Flower Land

Chapter Ninety One

The Black Plumes

We journeyed throughout the whole night. The burnt woods were left behind, and having crossed a savanna, we rode for several hours through a forest of giant oaks, palms, and magnolias. I knew this by the fragrance of the magnolia blossoms, that, after the fetid atmosphere that we had been breathing, smelt sweet and refreshing. Just as day was breaking, we arrived at an opening in the woods, where our captors halted.

The opening was of small extent – a few acres only – bounded on all sides by a thick forest of palms, magnolias, and live-oaks. Their foliage drooped to the ground, so that the glade appeared encompassed by a vast wall of green, through which no outlet was discernible.

Through the grey light, I perceived the outlines of an encampment. There were two or three tents with horses picketed around them, and human forms, some of them upright and moving about, others recumbent upon the grass, singly, or in clusters, as if sleeping together for mutual warmth. A large fire was burning in the midst, and around it were men and women, seated and standing.

Within the limits of this camp we had been carried, but no time was left us for observation. The moment we halted, we were dragged roughly from our horses, and flung prostrate upon the grass. We were next turned upon our backs. Thongs were tied around our waists and ancles, our arms and limbs drawn out to their full extent, and we were staked firmly to the ground, like hides spread out for drying. Of course, in this attitude, we could see no more of the camp – nor the trees – nor the earth itself – only the blue heavens above us.

Under any circumstances, the position would have been painful, but my wounded arm rendered it excruciating.

Our arrival had set the camp in motion. Men came out to meet us, and women stooped over us, as we lay on our backs. There were Indian squaws among them, but, to my surprise, I noticed that most of them were of African race – mulattoes, samboes, and negresses!

For some time they stood over, jeering and taunting us. They even proceeded to inflict torture – they spit on us, pulled out handfuls of our hair by the roots, and stuck sharp thorns into our skin, all the while yelling with a fiendish delight, and jabbering an unintelligible patois, that appeared a mixture of Spanish and Yamassee.

My fellow-captive fared as badly as myself. The homogenous colour of his skin elicited no sympathy from these female fiends. Black and white were alike the victims of their hellish spite.

Part of their jargon I was able to comprehend, aided by a slight acquaintance with the Spanish tongue, I made out what was intended to be done with us – we were to be tortured.

We had been brought to the camp to be tortured. We were to be the victims of a grand spectacle, and these infernal hags were exulting in the prospect of the sport our sufferings should afford them. For this only had, we been captured, instead of being killed.

Into whose hound hands had we fallen? Were they human beings? Were they Indians? Could they be Seminoles, whose behaviour to their captives hitherto, had repelled every insinuation of torture?

A shout arose as if in answer to my questions. The voices of all around were mingled in the cry, but the words were the same:

“Mulato-mico! mulato-mico! viva, mulato-mico!”

The trampling of many hoofs announced the arrival of a band. They were the warriors who had been engaged in the fight – who had conquered and made us captive. Only half a dozen guards had been with us on the night-march, and had reached the camp at daybreak. The new comers were the main body, who had stayed upon the field to complete the despoliation of their fallen foes. I could not see them, though they were near, for I heard their horses trampling around.

I lay listening to that significant shout:

“Mulato-mico! viva, mulato-mico!”

To me the words were full of terrible import. The phrase “Mulato-mico” was not new to me, and I heard it with a feeling of dread. But it was scarce possible to increase apprehensions already excited to the full. A hard fate was before me. The presence of the fiend himself could not make it more certain.

My fellow-victim shared my thoughts. We were near, and could converse. On comparing our conjectures, we found that they coincided.

But the point was soon settled beyond conjecture. A harsh voice sounded in our ears, issuing an abrupt order, that scattered the women away; a heavy footstep was heard behind – the speaker was approaching.

In another instant his shadow fell upon my face; and the man himself stood within the limited circle of my vision.

Despite the pigment that disguised his natural complexion – despite the beaded shirt, the sash, the embroidered leggins – despite the three black plumes, that waved over his brow, I easily identified the man. He was no Indian, but a mulatto – “yellow Jake” himself.

Chapter Ninety Two

Buried Alive

I had expected the man. The cry “Mulato-mico,” and afterwards his voice – still well remembered – had warned me of his coming. I expected to gaze upon him with dread; strange it may seem, but such was not the case. On the contrary, I beheld him, with a feeling akin to joy. Joy at the sight of those three blade plumes that nodded above his scowling temples.

For a moment I marked not his angry frowns, nor the wicked triumph that sparkled in his eye. The ostrich feathers were alone the objects of my regard – the cynosure of my thoughts. Their presence upon the crest of the “mulatto king” elucidated a world of mystery – foul suspicion was plucked from out my bosom – the preserver of my life – the hero of my heart’s admiration was still true – Osceola was true!

In the momentary exultation of this thought, I almost forgot the gloom of my situation; but soon the voice of the mulatto once more roused me to a consciousness of its peril.

“Carajo!” cried he, in a tone of malignant triumph. “Al fin venganza! (At last vengeance!) – Both, too, white and black – master and slave – my young tyrant and my rival! ha! ha! ha!

“Me tie to tree,” continued he, after a burst of hoarse laughter. “Me burn, eh? burn ’live? Your turn come now – trees plenty here; but no, me teach you better plan. Corrambo, si! far better plan. Tie to tree, captive sometime ’scape, ha! ha! ha! Before burn, me show you sight. Ho, there!” he shouted, motioning to some of the bystanders to come near. “Untie hands – raise ’em up – both faces turn to camp —basta! basta! that do. Now white rascal – Black rascal look! – what see yonder?”

As he issued these orders, several of his creatures pulled up the stakes that had picketed down our arms, and raised us into a sitting posture, our bodies slewed round, till our faces bore full upon the camp. It was broad daylight – the sun shining brightly in the heavens. Under such a light every object in the camp was distinctly visible – the tents – the horses – the motley crowd of human occupants. We regarded not these. On two forms alone our eyes rested – they were my sister and Viola.

They were close together, as I had seen them once before – Viola seated with her head drooping, while that of Virginia rested in her lap. The hair of both was hanging in dishevelled masses – the black tresses of the maid mingling with the golden locks of her mistress. They were surrounded by guards, and appeared unconscious of our presence. But one was dispatched to warn them.

As the messenger reached them, we saw them both start, and look inquiringly abroad. In another instant their eyes were upon us. A thrilling scream announced that we were recognised. They cried out together. I heard my sister’s voice pronouncing my name. I called to her in return. I saw her spring to her feet, toss her arms wildly above her head, and attempt to rush towards me. I saw the guards taking hold of her, and rudely dragging her back. Oh, it was a painful sight! death itself could not have been so hard to endure. But we were allowed to look upon them no longer. Suddenly jerked upon our backs, our wrists were once more staked down, and we lay in our former recumbent attitudes.

Painful as were our reflections, we were not allowed to indulge in them alone. The monster continued to stand over us, taunting us with spiteful words, and, worse than all, gross allusions to my sister and Viola. Oh, it was horrible to bear! Molten lead poured into our ears could scarce have tortured us more.

It was almost a relief when he desisted from speech, and we saw him commence making preparations for our torture. We knew that the hour was nigh; for he had himself said so, as he issued the orders to his fellows. Some horrible mode of death had been promised, but what it was we were yet in ignorance.

Not long did we remain so. Several men were seen approaching the spot, with spades and pickaxes in their hands. They were negroes – old field-hands – and knew how to use such implements.

They stopped near us, and commenced digging the ground. O God! were we to be buried alive?

This was the conjecture that first suggested itself. If true, it was terrible enough; but it was not true. We were designed to undergo a still more horrible fate!

Silently, and with the solemn air of grave-diggers, the men worked on. The mulatto stood over directing them. He was in high glee, occasionally calling to us in mockery, and boasting how skillfully he should perform the office of executioner.

The women and savage warriors clustered around, laughing at his sallies, or contributing their quota of grotesque wit, at which they uttered yells of demoniac laughter. We might easily have fancied ourselves in the infernal regions, in the middle of a crowd of jibbering fiends, who stood grinning down upon us, as if they drew delight from our anguish.

We noticed that few of the men were Seminoles. Indians there were; but these were of dark complexion, nearly black. They were of the tribe of Yamassees – a race conquered by the Seminoles, and partially engrafted into their nation. But most of those we saw were black negroes, samboes, and mulattoes, descendants of Spanish maroons, or “runaways” from the American plantations. There were many of the latter; for I could hear English spoken among them. No doubt there were some of my own slaves mixing with the motley crew, though none of them came near, and I could only note the faces of those who stood over me.

In about half an hour the diggers had finished their work. Our stakes were drawn, and we were dragged forwards to the spot where they had been engaged.

As soon as I was raised up, I bent my eyes upon the camp; but my sister was no longer there. Viola, too, was gone. They had been taken either inside the tents or back among the bushes.

I was glad they were not there: they would be spared this pang of a horrid spectacle; though it was not likely that from any such motive the monster had removed them.

Two dark holes yawned before us, deeply dug into the earth. They were not graves; or if so, it was not intended our bodies should be placed vertically in them.

If their shape was peculiar, so too was the purpose for which they were made.

We were soon to become acquainted with it.

We were conduced to the edge of the cavities, seized by the shoulders, and each of us plunged into the one that was nearest. They proved just deep enough to bring our throats on a level with the surface, while standing erect. The loose earth was then shovelled in, and kneaded firmly around us. More was added, until our shoulders were covered up, and only our heads appeared above ground.

The position was ludicrous enough; and we might have laughed ourselves, but that we were standing in our graves. From the fiendish spectators it drew yells of laughter. What next? Was this to be the end of their proceedings? Were we to be thus left to perish, miserably, and by inches? Hunger and thirst would in time terminate our existence; but, oh, the long hours of anguish that must be endured! Whole days of misery we must suffer before the spark of life should forsake us – whole days of horror and – Ha! they had not yet done with us!

No: a death like that we had been fancying appeared too easy to the monster who directed them. The resources of his hatred were far from being exhausted: he had still other, and far keener, torture in store for us.

“Carajo! good!” cried he, as he stood admiring his contrivance; “better than tie to tree – good fix, eh! No fear ’scape —Carrai, no. Bring fire!”

Bring fire! It was to be fire, then, the extreme instrument of torture. We heard the word – that word of fearful sound. We were to die by fire!

Our terror had arrived at its height. It rose no higher when we saw fagots carried up to the spot, and built in a ring around our heads. It rose no higher when we saw the torch applied, and the dry wood catching the flame. It rose no higher as the blaze grew red, and redder, and we felt its angry glow upon our skulls, soon to be calcined like the sticks themselves.

No; we could suffer no more. Our agony had reached the acme of endurance, and we longed for death to relieve us. If another pang had been possible, there was cause for it in those screams now proceeding from the opposite edge of the camp. Even in that dread hour, we could recognise the voices of my sister and Viola. The unmerciful monster had brought them out again to witness the execution. We saw them not; but their wild plaints proved that they were spectators of the horrid scene.

Hotter and hotter grew the fire, and nearer licked the flames. I heard my hair crisping and singing at the fiery contact.

Objects swam dizzily before my eyes. The trees tottered and reeled, the earth whirled round. My skull ached as if it would soon split; my brain was drying up; my senses were fast forsaking me.

Chapter Ninety Three

Devils or Angels

Was I enduring the tortures of the future world? Were these its fiends that grinned and jibbered around me? See! they scatter and fall back! Some one approaches who can command them. Pluto himself? No; it is a woman – a woman here? – is it Proserpine? If a woman, surely she will have mercy upon me! Vain hope! There is no mercy in hell. Oh, my brain! Horror! horror!

There are women – these are women – they look not fiends! No, they are angels! Would they were angels of mercy!

But they are. See! one interferes with the fire. With her foot she dashes it back, scattering the fagots in furious haste. Who is she? If I were alive, I would call her Haj-Ewa; but dead, it must be her spirit below.

But there is another. Ha! another, younger and fairer. If they be angels, this must be the loveliest in heaven. It is the spirit of Maümee!

How comes she in this horrid place among fiends? It is not the abode for her. She was guilty of do crime that should send her here.

Where am I? Have I been dreaming? I was on fire just now – only my brain it was that was burning; my body was cold enough – where am I?

Who are you, that stand over me, pouring coolness upon my head? Are you not Haj-Ewa, the mad queen?

Whose soft fingers are those I feel playing upon my temples? Oh – the exquisite pleasure imparted by their touch! Bend down, that I may look upon your face, and thank you – “Maümee! Maümee!”

Then I am not dead. I live. I am saved!

It was Haj-Ewa, and not her spirit. It was Maümee herself – whose beautiful, brilliant eyes were looking into mine. No wonder I had believed it to be an angel.

“Carajo!” sounded a voice, that appeared hoarse with rage. “Remove those women! – pile back the fires. Away, mad queen! – go back to your tribe! these my captives – your chief no claim —Carrambo! – you not interfere; pile back the fires!”

“Yamassees!” cried Haj-Ewa, advancing towards the Indians; “Obey him not! or dread the wrath of Wykomé! His spirit will be angry, and follow you in vengeance. Wherever you go the chitta mico will be on your path, and its rattle in your ears. Hulwak! It will bite your heel as you wander in the woods. Speak I not truth, thou king of the Serpents?”

As she uttered the interrogatory, she raised the rattlesnake in her hands, holding it so that it might be distinctly seen by those whom she addressed. The reptile hissed, accompanying the sibilation with a sharp “skirr” of its tail. Who could doubt that it was an answer in the affirmative?

Not the Yamassees, who stood awe-bound and trembling in the presence of the mighty sorceress.

“And you, black runaways and renegades,” she continued to the negro allies – “you who have no god, and fear not Wykomé – dare to rebuild the fires – dare to lift one fagot – and you shall take the place of your captives. A greater than yon yellow monster, your chief, will soon be on the ground. Hinklas! Ho! yonder the Rising Sun! he comes – he comes!”

As she ceased speaking, the hoof-strokes of a horse echoed through the glade, and a hundred voices simultaneously raised the shout: “Osceola! Osceola!” That cry was grateful to my ears. Though already rescued, I had begun to fear it might prove only a short relief. Our delivery from death was still far from certain – our advocates were but weak women. The mulatto king, in the midst of his fierce satellites, would scarce have yielded to their demands. Alike disregarded would have been their entreaties. The fire would have been re-kindled, and the execution carried out to its end.

In all probability this would have been the event, had not Osceola in good time arrived upon the ground.

His appearance, and the sound of his voice, at once reassured me. Under his protection we had nothing more to fear, and a soft voice whispered in my ear that he came as our deliverer.

His errand was soon made manifest. Drawing bridle, he halted near the middle of the camp, directly in front of us. I saw him dismount from his fine black horse – like himself, splendidly caparisoned – and handing the reins to a bystander, he came walking towards us. His port was superb – his costume brilliantly picturesque; and once more, I beheld those three ostrich-plumes – the real ones; that had played such a part in my suspicious fancy.

When near the spot, he stopped, and gazed inquiringly towards us. He might have smiled at our absurd situation, but his countenance betrayed no signs of levity. On the contrary, it was serious and sympathetic. I fancied it was sad.

For some moments he stood in a fixed attitude, without saying a word. His eyes wandered from one to the other – my fellow-victim and myself; as if endeavouring to distinguish us. No easy task. Smoke, sweat and ashes, must have rendered us extremely alike, and both difficult of identification.

At this moment, Maümee glided up to him, whispered a word in his ear, and returning again, knelt over me, and chafed my temples with her soft hands.

With the exception of the young chief himself, no one heard what his sister had said; but upon him her words appeared to produce an instantaneous effect. A change passed over his countenance. The look of sadness gave place to one of furious wrath; and turning suddenly to the yellow king, he hissed out the word “Fiend!”

For some seconds he spoke no more, but stood gazing upon the mulatto, as though he would annihilate him by his look. The latter quailed under the conquering glance, and trembled like a leaf, but made no answer.

“Fiend and villain!” continued Osceola, without changing either tone or attitude. “Is this the way you have carried out my orders? Are these the captives I commanded you to take? Vile runaway of a slave! who authorised you to inflict the fiery torture? Who taught you? Not the Seminoles, whose name you have adopted and disgraced. By the spirit of Wykomé! but that I have sworn never to torture a foe, I should place you where these now stand, and burn your body to ashes! From my sight – begone! No – stay where you are. On second thoughts, I may need you.” And with this odd ending to his speech, the young chief turned upon his heel, and came walking towards us.

The mulatto did not vouchsafe a reply, though his looks were full of vengeance. Once, during the flagellation, I thought I noticed him turn his eyes towards his ferocious followers, as if to invoke their interference.

But these knew that Osceola was not alone. As he came up, the trampling of a large troop had been heard, and it was evident that his warriors were in the woods not far distant. A single yo-ho-ehee, in the well-known voice of their chief, would bring them upon the ground before its echoes had died.

The yellow king seemed himself to be aware of their proximity. Hence it was that he replied not. A word at that minute might have proved his last; and with a sulky frown upon his face, he remained silent.

“Release them!” said Osceola, addressing the ci-devant diggers; “and be careful how you handle your spades.”

“Randolph!” he continued, bending over me; “I fear I have scarce been in time. I was for off when I heard of this, and have ridden hard. You have been wounded – are you ill hurt?”

I attempted to express my gratitude, and assure him I was not much injured; but my voice was so freak and hoarse as to be hardly intelligible. It grew stronger, however, as those fair fingers administered the refreshing draught, and we were soon conversing freely.

Both of us were quickly “unearthed,” and with free limbs stood once more upon the open ground. My first thoughts were to rush towards my sister, when, to my surprise, I was restrained by the chief.

“Patience,” said he; “not yet, not yet – Maümee will go and assure her of your safety. See! she knows it already! Go, Maümee! Tell Miss Randolph, her brother is safe! and will come presently. But she must remain where she is, only for a little while. Go, sister, and cheer her.”

Turning to me, he added in a whisper; “She has been placed there for a purpose – you shall see. Come with me – I shall show you a spectacle that may astonish you – there is not a moment to be lost; I hear the signal from my spies. A minute more, and we are too late – come! come!”

Without opposing a word, I hastened after the chief, who walked rapidly towards the nearest edge of the woods.

He entered the timber, but went no farther. When fairly under cover of the thick foliage, he stopped, turned round, and stood facing towards the camp.

Obedient to a sign, I imitated his example.

Chapter Ninety Four

The End of Arens Ringgold

I had not the slightest idea of the chief’s intention, or what was the nature of the spectacle I had been promised. Somewhat impatient, I questioned him.

“A new way of winning a mistress,” said he, with a smile.

“But who is the lover? – who to be the mistress?” I inquired.

“Patience, Randolph, and you shall see. Oh! it is a rare experiment – a most cunning plot, and would be laughable were it not for the tragedy mixed up with it. You shall see. But for a faithful friend, I should not have known of it, and would not have been here to witness it. For my presence and your life, as it now appears – more still, perhaps, the safety of your sister – you are indebted to Haj-Ewa.”

“Noble woman!”

“Hist! they are near – I hear the tread of hoofs. One – two – three. It must be they – yes – yonder. See!”

I looked in the direction pointed out, a small party of horsemen – half a dozen in all – was seen emerging from the timber, and riding with a brush into the open ground. As soon as they were fairly uncovered, they spurred their horses to a gallop, and with loud yells dashed rapidly into the midst of the camp. On reaching this point they fired their pieces – apparently into the air – and then continuing their shouts, rode on.

I saw that they were white men, and this surprised me, but what astonished me still more, was that I knew them. At least I knew their faces, and recognised the men as some of the most worthless scamps of our own settlement.

A third surprise awaited me, on looking more narrowly at their leader. Him I knew well. Again it was Arens Ringgold.

I had not time to recover from the third surprise, when still a fourth was before me. The men of the camp – both negroes and Yamassees – appeared terrified at this puny attack, and scattering off, hid themselves in the bushes. They yelled loudly enough, and some fired their guns as they retreated; but, like the attacking party, their shots appeared directed into the air! Mystery of mysteries! what could it mean?