The White Squaw

That was the last thought that crossed Warren Rody’s mind.

The next moment he was a corpse.

A bullet had pierced his brain!

It came from Maracota’s gun, who had arrived upon the ground at the moment of Nelatu’s fall.

Before either of the two Indians could speak a word, a piercing cry echoed in upon their ears; a girl came gliding through the bushes, and flung herself prostrate over the body.

It was Sansuta!

The air was filled with her lamentations as she kissed the cold forehead of Warren Rody, and with a thousand endearing terms endeavoured to recall him to life.

Nelatu approached and gently raised her from the ground.

He was about to address her, but he started back in horror.

Her wild, starting eyes, with that unmeaning smile upon her lips, told the sad tale.

Her reason had departed.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Struggle in the Stockade

On that same night the Indians, led by Wacora, stormed the stockade upon the hill.

The combat proved long and desperate, but the place was at length taken.

Bravely as the settlers fought, they had a foe to deal with implacable and determined.

As fast as the red warriors fell in the attack, others took their places, and from out the darkness legions seemed to rise to avenge the deaths of their fallen comrades.

The white women loaded the rifles, stood by their brothers and husbands assisting them in the fearful strife.

But valour availed not; the settlers were doomed.

Never had Elias Rody been seen to greater advantage.

He seemed ubiquitous, cheering and inspiring the men around him.

Many who had condemned him till then gave him credit for his bravery.

He seemed to bear a charmed life, and was seen where-ever bullets whistled, unharmed and undaunted!

All his hopes on earth were centred in successfully maintaining himself; and that strong physical courage which he undoubtedly possessed, stimulated by his frightful responsibility, made him for the moment heroic.

His daughter, the gentle Alice, showed herself equally brave.

She took under her care the wounded men – she who, at any other time, would have fainted at the sight of blood – bound up the ghastly wounds, and stood on that dreadful night by more than one death-bed, calm and courageous, upheld by the sustaining idea.

But what availed courage and devotion against numbers?

The stockade was at length carried, and, after it, the house, which was instantly given to the flames.

A horrible carnage ensued amongst those who, unable to fly, were left to the besiegers’ fury.

The worst passions were displayed in their worst forms, and helplessness pleaded in vain to hearts steeled with revenge.

The moon’s rays lighted up a fearful scene.

Corpses of Indians and settlers, with their wives and children strewed the ground of the enclosure!

The glare of the burning house added to the horror of the sight.

Some few of the colonists fled across the country, pursued by their relentless foes.

Though a small number escaped with life, many perished in their flight.

With revengeful cries the Indians sought for Elias Rody, but failed to find him.

Had he, too, escaped?

It seemed so, for nowhere could his body be discovered among the slain.

His daughter had also disappeared.

But half of their revenge seemed accomplished, and Wacora felt that, with Rody alive, his uncle’s death was not yet avenged.

In vain did he send warrior after warrior in search of the missing man.

All returned with the same answer.

The white chief was not to be found!

Enraged at being thus baffled in his revenge, Wacora called his straggling forces together, and returned with them to the Indian camp.

After their departure there was profound stillness within the stockade, more awful from contrast with the battle there so late raging.

The dead were left to repose in peace.

For a long time this stillness continued unbroken.

Then from afar sounds began to be heard, gradually drawing nearer and nearer.

It was the howling of the gaunt Florida wolves as they scented a rich repast.

Ere long they could be seen skulking through the enclosure, and quarrelling over the corpses upon the plain. Above them, with shadowy wings, the vultures hovered, waiting to come in for their share of the spoil.

The moon sank in the sky, and drew a pall over the dreadful sight.

At intervals a flickering tongue of flame shooting up from the expiring embers of the burnt house, imparted a weird aspect to the scene, lighting it up, only to display its ghastly horrors.

Where was Elias Rody?

He had proved deceitful to the last.

Wacora and his warriors had sought him everywhere, but had failed to find him.

For all that he was near.

In the last attack made by the red men, he had been wounded – not severely, but sufficiently to make him feel faint and giddy. He knew that he could no longer hope for success, and determined, if possible, to save his own life while there was a chance.

Amidst the smoke and confusion he found no difficulty in withdrawing from the combat. Remembering a species of cellar he had caused to be dug in the rear of the house, he staggered towards it, and reached it unobserved.

He paused before entering. A thought of Alice arrested him – the thought of the hopelessness of saving her, and tottering forward, half-blinded by his own blood, he descended the steps of the cellar, at the bottom of which he fell insensible to the floor.

The yells of the victorious Indians, the glare of the burning mansion, the shrieks of the wounded, and the agonising wail of defenceless women and children as they committed their souls to Heaven, Elias Rody, though the cause of all this, heard nothing.

Beneath his own burning house, miraculously sheltered by some huge timbers which had fallen over the excavation, he lay for a long time insensible to thought as to feeling.

When he at length recovered consciousness, and crawled forth from his concealment, the sun had risen, lighting up the ruined pile.

He shuddered at the sight.

He suffered a thousand deaths in the contemplation of the horrors his mad selfishness had caused.

Bitter remorse, stronger than his shattered physical frame could endure, gnawed at his heart. But it was selfish remorse for all that.

Here was vengeance for Oluski, had the chief only been alive to witness it.

Too weak to get away from the spot, Rody groaned in the bitterness of his spirit.

“Ten thousand times may I be accursed for all this! Fool – blind, infatuated fool – that I have been. Every aspiration might have been gratified, every hope fulfilled, had not my impatience blinded me against caution. May the fiend of darkness overtake these red – ”

How long this tirade of blasphemous repentance of his villainy might have lasted it is impossible to say. It was stopped, however, by a physical pain, and with a faint voice, he cried —

“Water! water!”

Blood there was in plenty around him, but not one drop of water.

Others had yelled for it through the long, dreadful night, as agonisingly as he, but had been answered by the same solemn silence. They had died in their agony. Why should not he?

“Well, then, let death come! The full accumulation of mortal torment has fallen on myself; it cannot be greater?”

Wrong in this, as in everything else.

See! Skulking along the brow of the hill, stooping over and examining corpse after corpse, with a look of demoniac joy upon his hideous features, something in human shape, and yet scarce a man, appears.

Horror of horrors! he is robbing the dead.

Rody saw him not, for he had again fainted.

With a harsh voice, rivalling the vulture’s croak, the skulker continued his hideous task.

“Ha! ha! ha!” chuckled he to himself, “there am nice pickings after all for dis chile, boaf from de bodies of white man and de red. Bress de chances what set ’em agin’ each oder! Oh, but de ole nigger am glad – so glad! But where am he? – where am he? If dis chile don’t find him, why den his work ain’t more den half done!”

Diligently did Crookleg, for it was he, continue to search, turning over dead bodies, snatching some bauble from their breasts, and so passing to others, as if still unsatisfied.

For whom was he seeking?

As he proceeded in his work, a voice that came from among a heap of ruins, was heard feebly calling for “water!”

The negro started on hearing it, sending forth a shout of triumph.

He had recognised it as the voice of Elias Rody, the man for whom he had been searching.

As the latter recovered consciousness, he saw a hideous face close to his own, that caused him to start up, at the same time uttering a cry of horror.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

An Exulting Fiend

“I has found you, has I?”

“Crookleg!”

“Yes, it am Crookleg.”

“A drop of water, for the love of God; a drop of water!”

“If de whole place war a lake, dis chile wouldn’t sprinkle you parched lips with a drop out ob it.”

“What do you mean, Crookleg?”

“Ha! the time I been waitin’ for has come at last. It hab been long, but it am come! Do you know war you son Warren am?”

“Thank heaven! away from this, and in safety.”

“Ha! ha! ha! Safe; yes, he am safe enough wid a big bullet through his brain!”

Elias Rody, with an effort, raised himself into a sitting posture, and glared upon the speaker.

“Dead!”

“Yes, dead; and it war me dat bro’t him to it. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Who are you? Has hell let loose its fiends to mock me?”

“Perhaps it have. Who am I? Don’t you know me yet, Rody —Massa Rody?”

“No, devil! I know you not. My son dead – oh, God! what have I done to deserve all this?”

“What hab you done? What hab you not done? You had done ebery ting that de black heart ob a white man do, and de day of recknin’ am come at last. So you don’t know me, don’t you?”

“Away, fiend, and let me die in peace!”

“In peace – no; you shall die as you hab made oders live – in pain! When you can’t hear dis nigga’s voice plainly, he’ll hiss it in at your ear, so it may reach your infernal soul, in de last minutes of you life!”

“Who – who are you?”

“I am Reuben, de son of Esther.”

“Esther!”

“Yes, Esther, your father’s slave. You was de cause ob her death. Do you know me now?”

Rody groaned.

“Dey call me Crookleg, kase I was lame. Who made me lame?”

Still no answer.

“It war you dat put de ball in my leg for sport, when you war a boy, and I war de same. I have been close to you for years, but you didn’t know me. I war too mean – too much below de notice of a proud gentleman like you. But I hab a good memory, and de oath I’d taken to be even wid ye, am kept. My mother war a slave, but she war my mother for all dat, an’ if I war a black man I war still a human bein’, although you and de likes of you didn’t think so. Do you know me now?”

Rody uttered not a word.

“When I war forced to limp away from your father’s plantation, I war but a boy, but de boy had de same hate for de cruel massa dat de lame nigga hab now for Elias Rody. Days and years hab passed since den, but de hate war kept hot as ever; and I’se happy now when I knows dat de dyin’ planter am at de mercy of de mean slave. Don’t be skear’d, I wouldn’t lift dis hand to help you eider die or live. All I’se a going to do is to sit hyar an’ watch ober you till you am cold and stiff. Every flutter you wicked soul makes to get free from you ugly body, will be a joy to me!”

“Oh, devil!” exclaimed the wounded man, in the depth of his agony.

“Debbil! Yes, I is a debbil, and you has made me one!”

The negro, as he said this, knelt down by Rody’s side and thrust his face close up to that of the dying man, while a demoniac joy lit up his horrid features.

And he continued to gaze upon his victim until the grey shadow of dissolution stole over his countenance, the senses wandered, and the once bright eyes were becoming dimmed with the film of death.

At last a scream burst from the lips of the dying man, followed by words of piteous appeal.

“Ha – help – water – water! My soul’s on fire! Devils – demons! Away – away! Let me go! Unloose your burning hands from my heart! Unloose – ah, horror!”

The cries ceased.

Elias Rody was dead!

Remorselessly did the negro glare upon his expiring enemy as he uttered these last frantic speeches, and when, at last, the spirit had passed away, he bounded to his feet and began to exult over his now unconscious victim.

At this moment another personage appeared upon the scene.

At some little distance from the spot a man, leaning upon his rifle, stood taking a survey of the smoking ruins.

He had been for some time ignorant that any living being but himself was upon the hill.

His attention was now called to Crookleg, who, assured of his enemy’s death, could no longer restrain his immense joy, but was giving vent to it in cries and fantastic caperings.

“Ho, ho – dead! It am ’plendid sport to de ole nigga! Only to tink dat dis poor ole lame darkey hab been de cause ob a war ’tween de whites and de red-skins! Ha, ha, ha! it am most too good to be beliebed! But it am true – it am true!”

As the monstrous creature concluded the speech he was seen to spring suddenly into the air and fall flat upon his face – a corpse!

A long hunting-knife had penetrated his back!

“There, ye black hound! If you have been the cause of one war, you’ll never have a hand in another. I swore not to fight agin my own blood, nor to take part agin the red-skins, but black blood don’t count in my bargain!”

Saying this, Cris Carrol drew his blade from the negro’s body and coolly sauntered away from the spot.

Chapter Thirty.

Robbed of his Revenge

Wacora, after reaching the camp, dismissed his warriors, and entered his tent alone.

The remainder of that night he passed in meditation.

Was it the influence of the white blood flowing in his veins that made him think of the slaughter he had directed and taken part in?

Strange inconsistency of nature.

The heroic chief, still decked in the war paint of his father’s race, as he reviewed the events of the past few hours, could not restrain himself from shuddering.

His mother’s spirit seemed to hover around him; her eyes sad and reproachful; her heart heavy.

“They were the people of my race, and so of yours, that you have immolated on the throne of your vengeance.”

So seemed it to say!

His head sank upon his breast. He sighed heavily.

Long he continued in his gloomy abstraction; his thoughts deeper than plummet ever sounded.

The weary hours of night crept slowly past, and yet he stirred not.

Fears and forebodings filled his warrior’s heart.

“I have done all for the best,” muttered he to himself. “Witness it, thou Great Spirit; all for the best. For the future of my father’s race I have closed my heart to pity. It was not for present vengeance alone that I urged on the wild people to the slaughter. It was that they might then begin the great work of regeneration, assured in their strength, and conscious of their invincibility.”

Like all high-strung natures, Wacora was subject to fits of despondency.

With want of action this had come upon him. The excitement over, gloomy doubt had succeeded to bright hope.

The sun was high in the heavens ere he could bestir himself, and shake off such thoughts. He at length made the effort, and emerged from his tent to consult with the warriors of his tribe.

As he stepped forth, he perceived Maracota slowly approaching.

In an instant the slumbering passion of hate was awakened; he saw in the young Indian’s eye that he had news to communicate.

Speak! have you found him?

“Yes, he is found.”

“I mean Warren Rody. Make no error, Maracota – tell me, is it Warren Rody you have found?”

“He has been found.”

“Then all is well. Quick! bring him to me. Let me look upon this dog of a pale-face!”

Maracota made no answer, but stood silent.

“Do you hear me? Bring the dog before me. My eyes hunger for a sight of his craven countenance – I would see his white-livered face of fear – watch his trembling frame as he stands in my presence!”

Still Maracota did not speak.

“By the Great Spirit, Maracota, why do you not go for him? Why do you not answer me?”

“Maracota dreads your anger.”

“You an Indian warrior, and afraid. What do you mean?”

“That I have disobeyed your commands – ”

“Ha! wretch! I understand. You found him, but he escaped.”

“Not that – ”

“What is it then? Speak, did he defy you? Was he too powerful? Then summon our warriors, and if it cost the life of every Indian in Florida I swear he shall be captured. Answer me or I shall do you mischief.”

“Maracota deserves punishment.”

The young chief, now fully aroused to anger, cast a significant look at his subordinate; he could scarce refrain from striking him to the ground, and it was with an effort that he resumed speech —

“No more mystery. Speak! where is he?”

“Dead.”

Wacora made a bound towards the speaker, as he cried, “Did you kill him?”

“I did.”

Maracota fearlessly stood to await the stroke of the upraised tomahawk.

It fell, but not on the Indian’s skull.

Wacora flung his weapon on the grass.

“Wretch!” he cried, “you have robbed me of my revenge. May the arm that took that man’s life hang palsied by your side for ever! May – oh, curse you – curse you!”

Maracota’s head fell upon his breast. He dared not meet his chief’s angry glance – more dreaded than the blow of his hatchet.

For some moments there was silence; whilst Wacora paced to and fro like a tiger in its cage.

Chapter Thirty One.

A Sad Spectacle

After a time the enraged chief, pausing in his steps, stood by the side of the silent warrior.

“Tell me how it happened,” he said, apparently becoming calmer. “Tell me all.”

Maracota related the circumstances as they had happened.

“It was to save Nelatu’s life that you fired upon the monster?”

“It was.”

“And he – where is Nelatu?”

“He is close by. See, they come this way.”

As Wacora looked in the direction indicated, he perceived his two cousins approaching.

The beautiful maiden, now wan and sad, seemed absorbed in the contemplation of some wild flowers which she held in her hand. There were others wreathed in her hair.

In this manner had she been conducted to the camp.

Nelatu turned to his sister, put his arm in hers, and was about to lead her off, when a man rushed into the presence of the chief, crying out as he approached —

“Good news! The body of the white chief, Rody, has been found, and – ”

The warning gesture had been lost upon the impatient speaker.

It was too late now, Sansuta had heard the fated name.

Casting from her the flowers she had been trifling with, she uttered shriek upon shriek, running wildly and beseechingly, backwards and forwards, from her brother to her cousin, who both stood spell-bound with surprise and grief.

“Where have you hid him? Give him to me. You shall not kill him; no – no – no! I say you shall not hurt him! Warren! Warren! ’tis Sansuta calls. Murderers! He never injured you. Take nay life – not his! Warren! Warren! Oh, do not keep him from me. See, that is his blood upon your hands – his eyes are closed in death! It is you, wretches, that have murdered him. No, no – stand back – I would not have you touch me whilst your hands are red with his blood. Back! back! I will find him! – No, you shall kill me first! – I will find Warren Rody! Help, help! save me from his murderers!”

With renewed screams of agony that struck horror into the listeners’ hearts, the girl, eluding their grasp, darted away into the forest.

At a signal from Wacora, Nelatu started in pursuit.

“May the lightnings blast all who have brought about this! Fool that I was just now to feel pity for the pale-faces; nothing that revenge can accomplish will make up for this. Here I swear to take vengeance far more terrible – vengeance to which that of last night shall be but a mockery!”

With these words the young chief hastened away from the spot, followed by Maracota and the messenger.

Chapter Thirty Two.

“Spare Her! Spare Her!”

The opportunity of this vengeance was already close at hand.

Within the space enclosed by the Indian tents, under guard of some warriors, stood a group of pale-face prisoners.

It consisted of several men, and among them a young girl.

Wacora stopped on perceiving the group.

His features were illumined with a savage joy.

One of the chiefs, advancing, reported their having been captured while attempting to escape through the adjoining forest.

“What’s to be done with them?” he asked.

“They shall die by torture!”

“The girl?”

“She, too, shall die. Who is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Turning to Maracota, he propounded a similar question.

Maracota was equally ignorant of the person of the captive.

The chief ordered her to be brought before him.

With an undaunted step, although evidently suffering from debility and sorrow, the girl allowed herself to be led along.

Once in Wacora’s presence, with a modest courage, she gazed into his face.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Your prisoner.”

“When where you captured?”

“About two hours ago.”

“You were trying to escape?”

“I was.”

“Your companions – who are they?”

“I know nothing of them, except that they are people belonging to the settlement. They were kind to me, and endeavoured to help me in my escape.”

“You know your doom?”

She answered, sadly —

“I expect no mercy.”

Wacora, struck with this reply, felt an interest in the courageous girl, which he could not account for.

“You have been taught to think of the red man as a remorseless savage?”

“Not as remorseless, only as revengeful.”

“Then you acknowledge that we have just cause for revengeful feelings?”

“I did not say so.”

“But you implied it.”

“All men have enemies. The truly great are the only ones who can forego revenge.”

“But savages must act according to their instincts.”

“Savages – yes. But men who know right from wrong should act by their judgment.”

“If I spared your life, you would still consider me a savage.”

“My life is nothing to me. All those I loved are now dead.”

“Your mother?”

“She died when I was a child.”

“Your father?”

“Was killed last night.”

Wacora seemed lost in thought as he said, half aside —

“So young, and yet with no fear of death!”

The young girl overheard the muttered soliloquy, and made answer to it —

“To the unhappy death is welcome.”

“Unhappy?”

“I have told you that all I love are dead?”

“Yet death is terrible.”

“Your name?”

“Alice Rody.”

With a cry of fiendish delight, Wacora grasped the maiden’s arm.

“You, the daughter of that accursed man – the daughter of that demon in human form! Then, by the Great Spirit above us! by the ashes of my ancestors, you shall die! My own hand shall inflict the blow.”

As he uttered these words, he drew a knife from his belt, and was on the point of sheathing it in her heart, when his arm was seized, and a voice full of agony vibrated in his ear —

“Spare her! – oh! spare her. Take my life instead.”

“Nelatu!”

“Yes, Nelatu; your cousin, your slave, if you will – only spare her life!”

“You forget her name.”

“No, no; I know it but too well.”

“You forget that her father has been the accursed cause of all this misery?”

“No; I remember that too.”

“Then you are insane thus to beg for her life. She must die!”

“I am not insane. Oh! Wacora, on my knees I implore you to spare her!”

“Rise, Nelatu; the son of Oluski should not bend his knee to man. At your intercession, her life shall be spared!”

Nelatu rose from the ground.

“You are indeed our chief, Wacora. Your heart is open and generous.”

“Stay, yet, before you mistake me. I give you her life, but ‘an eye for an eye!’ She shall suffer what Sansuta has suffered; spare her life, but not her honour.”