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Дата написания1970-01-01
Язык книгиen
Возрастное ограничение12+
Жанры
зарубежная классика

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"Come, Randolph!" said he — "we must not dwell on the past, while such a doubtful future is before us. You must go back to your home and rebuild it. You have lost only a house. Your rich lands still remain, and your negroes will be restored to you. I have given orders; they are already on the way. This is no place for her," and he nodded towards Virginia. "You need not stay your departure another moment. Horses are ready for you; I myself will conduct you to the borders, and beyond that you have no longer an enemy to fear."

As he pronounced the last words, he looked significantly towards the body of the planter, still lying near the edge of the woods. I understood his meaning, but made no reply.

"And she," I said — "the forest is a rude home, especially in such times — may she go with us?"

My words had reference to Maümee. The chief grasped my hand and held it with earnest pressure. With joy I beheld gratitude sparkling in his eye.

"Thanks!" he exclaimed, "thanks for that friendly offer. It was the very favour I would have asked. You speak true; the trees must shelter her no more. Randolph, I can trust you with her life — with her honour. Take her to your home!"

Chapter Ninety Five The Death Warning

The sun was going down as we took our departure from the Indian camp. For myself, I had not the slightest idea of the direction in which we were to travel, but with such a guide there was no danger of losing the way.

We were far from the settlements of the Suwanee — a long day’s journey — and we did not expect to reach home before another sun should set. That night there would be moonlight, if the clouds did not hinder it; and it was our intention to travel throughout the early part of the night, and then encamp. By this means the journey of to-morrow would be shortened.

To our guide the country was well-known, and every road that led through it.

For a long distance the route conducted through open woods, and we could all ride abreast; but the path grew narrower, and we were compelled to go by twos or in single file.

Habitually the young chief and I kept in the advance — our sisters riding close behind us. Behind them came Jake and Viola, and in the rear half a dozen Indian horsemen — the guard of Osceola. I wondered he had not brought with him more of his followers, and even expressed my surprise.

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.

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