Chapter Thirty Nine. The Signature of Osceola
Up to this moment the young chief had scarcely spoken; only when Charles Omatla took hold of the pen he had hissed out the word traitor.
He had not remained all the time in the same attitude, neither had his countenance shown him indifferent to what was passing. There was no constraint either in his gestures or looks – no air of affected stoicism – for this was not his character. He had laughed at the wit of Jumper, and applauded the patriotism of Abram and the others, as heartily as he had frowned disapproval of the conduct of the traitors.
It was now his turn to declare himself, and he stood, with modest mien, in the expectation of being asked. All the others had been appealed to by name – for the names of all were well-known to the agent and his interpreters.
I need hardly state that at this crisis silence was on tiptoe. Throughout the ranks of the soldiery – throughout the crowd of warriors – everywhere – there was a moment of breathless expectancy, as if every individual upon the ground was imbued with the presentiment of a scene.
For my part I felt satisfied that an explosion was about to take place; and, like the rest, I stood spell-bound with expectation.
The commissioner broke the silence with the words:
“At last we have come to you, Powell. Before proceeding further, let me ask – Are you acknowledged as a chief?”
There was insult in the tone, the manner, the words. It was direct and intended, as the countenance of the speaker clearly showed. There was malice in his eye – malice mingled with the confidence of prospective triumph.
The interrogation was irrelevant, superfluous. Thompson knew well that Powell was a chief – a sub-chief, it is true, but still a chief – a war-chief of the Redsticks, the most warlike tribe of the nation. The question was put for mere provocation. The agent tempted an outburst of that temper that all knew to be none of the gentlest.
Strange to say, the insult failed in its effect, or it seemed so. They who expected an angry answer were doomed to disappointment. Osceola made no reply. Only a peculiar smile was observed upon his features. It was not of anger, nor yet of scorn: it was rather a smile of silent, lordly contempt – the look which a gentleman would bestow upon a blackguard who is abusing him. Those who witnessed it were left under the impression that the young chief regarded his insulter as beneath the dignity of a reply, and the insult too gross, as it really was, to be answered. Such impression had I, in common with others around me.
Osceola’s look, might have silenced the commissioner, or, at least, have caused him to have changed his tactics, had he been at all sensitive to derision. But no – the vulgar soul of the plebeian official was closed against shame, as against justice; and without regarding the repulse, he pressed on with his plan.
“I ask, are you a chief?” continued he, repeating the interrogatory in a still more insulting tone. “Have you the right to sign?”
This time his questions were answered, and by a dozen voices at once. Chieftains in the ring, and warriors who stood behind it; shouted in reply:
“The Rising Sun? – a chief! He is a chief. He has the right to sign.”
“Why call his right in question?” inquired Jumper, with a sneering laugh. “Time enough when he wishes to exercise it. He is not likely to do that now.”
“But I am,” said Osceola, addressing himself to the orator, and speaking with marked emphasis. “I have the right to sign —I shall sign.”
It is difficult to describe the effect produced by this unexpected avowal. The entire audience – white men as well as red men – was taken by surprise; and for some moments there was a vibratory movement throughout the assembly, accompanied by a confused murmur of voices. Exclamations were heard on all sides – cries of varied import, according to the political bias of those who uttered them. All, however, betokened astonishment; with some, in tones of joy; with others, in the accents of chagrin or anger. Was it Osceola who had spoken? Had they heard aright? Was the “Rising Sun” so soon to sink behind the clouds? After all that had transpired – after all he had promised – was he going to turn traitor?
Such questions passed rapidly among the hostile chiefs and warriors; while those of the opposite party could scarcely conceal their delight. All knew that the signing of Osceola would end the affair; and the removal become a matter of coarse. The Omatlas would have nothing more to fear; the hostile warriors, who had sworn it might still resist; but there was no leader among them who could bind the patriots together as Osceola had done. With this defection the spirit of resistance would become a feeble thing; the patriots might despair.
Jumper, Cloud, Coa Hajo, and Abram, Arpiucki and the dwarf, seemed all equally stricken with astonishment. Osceola – he on whom they had reposed their fullest confidence – the bold designer of the opposition – the open foe to all who had hitherto advocated the removal – he, the pure patriot in whom all had believed – whom all had trusted, was now going to desert them – now, in the eleventh hour, when his defection would be fatal to their cause.
“He has been bribed,” said they. “His patriotism has been all a sham: his resistance a cheat. He has been bought by the agent! He has been acting for him all along. Holy-waugus! Iste-hulwa-stchay. (bad man – villain). ’Tis a treason blacker than Omatla’s!”
Thus muttered the chiefs to one another, at the same time eyeing Osceola with the fierce look of tigers.
With regard to Powell’s defection, I did not myself know what to make of it. He had declared his resolution to sign the treaty; what more was needed? That he was ready to do so was evident from his attitude; he seemed only to wait for the agent to invite him.
As to the commissioner being a party to this intention, I knew he was nothing of the kind. Any one who looked in his face, at that moment, would have acquitted him of all privity to the act. He was evidently as much astonished by Osceola’s declaration as any one upon the ground, or even more so; in fact, he seemed bewildered by the unexpected avowal; so much so, that it was some time before he could make rejoinder.
He at length stammered out:
“Very well, Osceola! Step forward here, and sign then.”
Thompson’s tone was changed; he spoke soothingly. A new prospect was before him. Osceola would sign, and thus agree to the removal. The business upon which the supreme government had deputed him would thus be accomplished, and with a dexterity that would redound to his own credit. “Old Hickory” would be satisfied; and then what next? what next? Not a mission to a mere tribe of savages, but an embassy to some high court of civilisation. He might yet be ambassador? perhaps to Spain?
Ah! Wiley Thompson! thy castles in the air (châteaux en Espagne) were soon dissipated. They fell as suddenly as they had been built; they broke down like a house of cards.
Osceola stepped forward to the table, and bent over it, as if to scan the words of the document. His eyes ran rapidly across the parchment; he seemed to be searching for some particular place.
He found it – it was a name – he read it aloud: “Charles Omatla.”
Raising himself erect, he faced the commissioner; and, in a tone of irony, asked the latter if he still desired him to sign.
“You have promised, Osceola.”
“Then will I keep my promise.”
As he spoke the words, he drew his long Spanish knife from its sheath, and raising it aloft, struck the blade through the parchment till its point was deep buried in the wood.
“That is my signature!” cried he, as he drew forth the steel. “See, Omatla! it is through your name. Beware, traitor! Undo what you have done, or its blade may yet pass through your heart!”
“Oh! that is what he meant,” cried the commissioner, rising in rage. “Good. I was prepared for this insolence – this outrage. General Clinch! – I appeal to you – your soldiers – seize upon him – arrest him!”
These broken speeches I heard amidst the confusion of voices. I heard Clinch issue some hurried orders to an officer who stood near. I saw half a dozen files separate from the ranks, and rush forward; I saw them cluster around Osceola – who the next moment was in their grasp.
Not till several of the blue-coated soldiers were sent sprawling over the ground; not till guns had been thrown aside, and a dozen strong men had fixed their gripe upon him, did the young chief give over his desperate struggles to escape; and then apparently yielding, he stood rigid and immobile, as if his frame had been iron.
It was an unexpected dénouement– alike unlooked for by either white men or Indians. It was a violent proceeding, and altogether unjustifiable. This was no court whose judge had the right to arrest for contempt. It was a council, and even the insolence of an individual could not be punished without the concurrence of both parties. General Thompson had exceeded his duty – he had exercised a power arbitrary as illegal.
The scene that followed was so confused as to defy description. The air was rent with loud ejaculations; the shouts of men, the screams of the women, the cries of children, the yells of the Indian warriors, fell simultaneously upon the ear. There was no attempt at rescue – that would have been impossible in the presence of so many troops – so many traitors; but the patriot chiefs, as they hurried away from the ground, gave out their wild ‘Yo-ho-ehee’ – the gathering war-word of the Seminole nation – that in every utterance promised retaliation and revenge.
The soldiers commenced dragging Osceola inside the fort.
“Tyrant!” cried he, fixing his eye upon the commissioner, “you have triumphed by treachery; but fancy not that this is the end of it. You may imprison Osceola – hang him, if you will – but think not that his spirit will die. No; it will live, and cry aloud for vengeance. It speaks! Hear ye yonder sounds? Know ye the ‘war-cry’ of the Redsticks? Mark it well; for it is not the last time it will ring in your ears. Ho – yo-ho-ehee! yo-ho-ehee! Listen to it, tyrant! it is your death-knell – it is your death-knell!”
While giving utterance to these wild threats, the young chief was drawn through the gate, and hurried off to the guard-house within the stockade.
As I followed amid the crowd, some one touched me on the arm, as if to draw my attention. Turning, I beheld Haj-Ewa.
“To-night, by the we-wa,” (spring, pond, water) said she, speaking so as not to be heard by those around. “There will be shadows – more shadows upon the water. Perhaps – ”
I did not hear more; the crowd pressed us apart; and when I looked again, the mad queen had moved away from the spot.