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.