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Title: Through Swamp and Glade: A Tale of the Seminole War

Author: Kirk Munroe

Illustrator: Victor Semon Pérard

Release date: July 1, 2017 [eBook #55021]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Graeme Mackreth and The Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive/American Libraries.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THROUGH SWAMP AND GLADE: A TALE OF THE SEMINOLE WAR ***




Produced by Graeme Mackreth and The Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)










THROUGH SWAMP AND GLADE

[Illustration: A GREAT SHEET OF FLAME LEAPED FROM THE ROADSIDE.]




  THROUGH
  SWAMP AND GLADE

  _A TALE OF
  THE SEMINOLE WAR_

  BY

  KIRK MUNROE

  AUTHOR OF "THE WHITE CONQUERORS," "AT WAR WITH
  PONTIAC," ETC., ETC.

  _ILLUSTRATED BY VICTOR PERARD_

  NEW YORK

  CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
  1896




  COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY

  CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS


  Norwood Press
  J.S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith.
  Norwood Mass. U.S.A.




TO MY READERS


The principal incidents in the story of Coacoochee, as related in
the following pages, are historically true. The Seminole War, the
most protracted struggle with Indians in which the United States ever
engaged, lasted from 1835 to 1842. At its conclusion, though most of
the tribe had been removed to the Indian Territory in the far west,
there still remained three hundred and one souls uncaptured and
unsubdued. This remnant had fled to the almost inaccessible islands
of the Big Cypress Swamp, in the extreme southern part of Florida.
Rather than undertake the task of hunting them out, General Worth made
a _verbal_ treaty with them, by which it was agreed that they should
retain that section of country unmolested, so long as they committed no
aggressions. From that time they have kept their part of that agreement
to the letter, living industrious, peaceful lives, and avoiding all
unnecessary contact with the whites. They now number something over
five hundred souls, but the tide of white immigration is already
lapping over the ill-defined boundaries of their reservation, while
white land-grabbers, penetrating the swamps, are seizing their fertile
islands and bidding them begone. They stand aghast at this brutal
order. Where can they go? What is to become of them? Is there nothing
left but to fight and die? It would seem not.

  KIRK MUNROE.

  BISCAYNE BAY, FLORIDA, 1896.




TABLE OF CONTENTS


    CHAPTER                                               PAGE

        I. A BIT OF THE FLORIDA WILDERNESS                    1

       II. MR. TROUP JEFFERS PLOTS MISCHIEF                   9

      III. THE SLAVE-CATCHERS AT WORK                        17

       IV. CAPTURE AND ESCAPE OF NITA PACHECO                26

        V. A FOREST BETROTHAL                                34

       VI. CRUEL DEATH OF UL-WE, THE STAGHOUND               43

      VII. COACOOCHEE IN THE CLUTCHES OF WHITE RUFFIANS      52

     VIII. RALPH BOYD THE ENGLISHMAN                         60

       IX. MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A SENTINEL            67

        X. FONTAINE SALANO'S TREACHERY AND ITS REWARD        74

       XI. "THE SEMINOLE MUST GO"                            82

      XII. CHEN-O-WAH IS STOLEN BY THE SLAVE-CATCHERS        88

     XIII. "WILEY THOMPSON, WHERE IS MY WIFE?"               96

      XIV. OSCEOLA SIGNS THE TREATY                         102

      XV. LOUIS PACHECO BIDES HIS TIME                      111

      XVI. OSCEOLA'S REVENGE                                119

     XVII. ON THE VERGE OF THE WAHOO SWAMP                  126

    XVIII. COACOOCHEE'S FIRST BATTLE                        133

      XIX. RALPH BOYD AND THE SLAVE-CATCHER                 141

       XX. AN ALLIGATOR AND HIS MYSTERIOUS ASSAILANT        148

      XXI. BATTLE OF THE WITHLACOOCHEE                      156

     XXII. THE YOUNG CHIEF MAKES A TIMELY DISCOVERY         165

    XXIII. SHAKESPEARE IN THE FOREST                        171

     XXIV. BOGUS INDIANS AND THE REAL ARTICLE               181

      XXV. A SWAMP STRONGHOLD OF THE SEMINOLES              190

     XXVI. TWO SPIES AND THEIR FATE                         200

    XXVII. ANSTICE SAVES THE LIFE OF A CAPTIVE              211

   XXVIII. THE MARK OF THE WILDCAT                          222

     XXIX. TREACHEROUS CAPTURE OF COACOOCHEE AND
           OSCEOLA                                          233

      XXX. IN THE DUNGEONS OF THE ANCIENT FORTRESS          245

     XXXI. A DARING ESCAPE                                  255

    XXXII. NITA HEARS THAT COACOOCHEE IS DEAD               264

   XXXIII. TOLD BY THE MAGNOLIA SPRING                      274

    XXXIV. FOLLOWING A MYSTERIOUS TRAIL                     285

     XXXV. FATE OF THE SLAVE-CATCHERS                       296

    XXXVI. PEACE IS AGAIN PROPOSED                          306

    XXVII. COACOOCHEE IS AGAIN MADE PRISONER                316

  XXXVIII. DOUGLASS FULFILS HIS MISSION                     326

    XXXIX. THE BRAVEST GIRL IN FLORIDA                      336

       XL. A DOUBLE WEDDING AND THE SETTING SUN             346




LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    FACING
                                                                      PAGE

  A GREAT SHEET OF FLAME LEAPED FROM THE ROADSIDE
        _Frontispiece_

  THEN WITH A VICIOUS HISS THE RAW-HIDE SWEPT DOWN
  WITH THE FULL FORCE OF THE ARM THAT WIELDED IT                       58

  IT SUNK DEEP INTO THE WOOD OF THE TABLE AND STOOD
  QUIVERING AS THOUGH WITH RAGE                                       100

  "TO LEAB BEHINE DE ONLIEST FEDDERBED SHE DONE GOT"                  174

  THE GIRL STEPPED CLOSE TO THE YOUNG CHIEF AND SPOKE
  A FEW WORDS                                                         216

  HADJO LOST HIS HOLD OF THE ROPE AND CAME TUMBLING
  DOWN THE WHOLE DISTANCE                                             260

  NITA SAT BY HER FAVORITE SPRING                                     276

  "ALL IS LOST AND THE WAR IS ABOUT TO BREAK FORTH
  WITH GREATER FURY THAN EVER"                                        324




THROUGH SWAMP AND GLADE




CHAPTER I

A BIT OF THE FLORIDA WILDERNESS


The scene is laid in Florida, that beautiful land of the far south, in
which Ponce de Leon located the fabled Spring of Eternal Youth. It is a
land of song and story, of poetry and romance; but one also of bitter
memories and shameful deeds. Its very attractiveness has proved its
greatest curse, and for weary years its native dwellers, who loved its
soil as dearly as they loved their own lives, fought desperately to
repel the invaders who sought to drive them from its sunny shores.

Although winter is hardly known in Florida, still there, as elsewhere,
spring is the fairest and most joyous season of the year, and it is
with the evening of a perfect April day that this story opens.

The warm air was pleasantly stirred by a breeze that whispered of the
boundless sea, and the glowing sun would shortly sink to rest in the
placid bosom of the Mexican Gulf. From the forest came sweet scents
of yellow jasmine, wild grape, and flowering plumes of the palmetto
mingled with richer perfumes from orange blossoms, magnolias, and
sweet bays. Gorgeous butterflies hovered on the edge of the hammock
and sought resting-places for the night amid the orange leaves.
Humming-birds, like living jewels, darted from flower to flower;
bees golden with pollen and freighted with honey winged their flight
to distant combs. From a ti-ti thicket came the joyous notes of a
mocking-bird, who thus unwittingly disclosed the secret of his hidden
nest. A bevy of parakeets in green and gold flashed from branch to
branch and chattered of their own affairs; while far overhead, flocks
of snowy ibis and white curlew streamed along like fleecy clouds from
feeding-grounds on the salt marshes of the distant coast to rookeries
in the cypress swamps of the crooked Ocklawaha. Some of these drifting
bird-clouds were tinted or edged with an exquisite pink, denoting the
presence of roseate spoonbills, and the effect of their rapid movement
against the deep blue of the heavens, in the flash of the setting sun
was indescribably beautiful.

Amid this lavish display of nature's daintiest handiwork and in all
the widespread landscape of hammock and savanna, trackless pine forest
that had never known the woodman's axe, and dimpled lakes of which a
score might be counted from a slight elevation, but one human being was
visible. A youth just emerged from boyhood stood alone on the edge of
a forest where the ground sloped abruptly down to a lakelet of crystal
water. He was clad in a loose-fitting tunic or hunting-frock of doeskin
girded about the waist by a sash of crimson silk. In this was thrust a
knife with a silver-mounted buckhorn handle and encased in a sheath of
snakeskin. His hair, black and glossy as the wing of a raven, was bound
by a silken kerchief of the same rich color as his sash. The snow-white
plume of an egret twined in his hair denoted him to be of rank among
his own people. He wore fringed leggings of smoke-tanned deerskin,
and moccasins of the same material. The lad's features were handsome
and clear cut, but his expression was gentle and thoughtful as might
become a student rather than a mere forest rover. And so the lad was a
student, though of nature, and a dreamer not yet awakened to the stern
realities of life; but that the mysteries of books were unknown to him
might be inferred from a glance at his skin. It was of a clear copper
color, resembling new bronze; for Coacoochee (little wild cat) belonged
to the most southern tribe of North American Indians, the Seminoles of
Florida. Indian though he was, he was of noble birth and descended from
a long line of chieftains; for he was the eldest son of Philip Emathla
(Philip the leader), or "King Philip," as the whites termed him, and
would some day be a leader of his tribe.

Now, as the lad stood leaning on a light rifle and gazing abstractedly
at the glistening clouds of home-returning birds that flecked the
glowing sky, his face bore a far-away look as though his thoughts
had outstripped his vision. This was not surprising; for to all men
Coacoochee was known as a dreamer who beguiled the hours of many an
evening by the camp-fire with the telling of his dreams or of the
folklore tales of his people. Not only was he a dreamer of dreams and
a narrator of strange tales; but he was a seer of visions, as had been
proved very recently when death robbed him of his dearly loved twin
sister Allala.

At the time Coacoochee was many miles away from his father's village,
on a hunting-trip with his younger brother Otulke. One night as they
slept the elder brother started from his bed of palmetto leaves with
the voice of Allala ringing in his ears. All was silent about him, and
Otulke lay undisturbed by his side. As the lad wondered and was about
to again lie down, his own name was uttered softly but plainly, and
in the voice of Allala, while at the same moment her actual presence
seemed to be beside him.

It was a summons that he dared not disobey; so, without rousing Otulke,
the young hunter sprang on the back of his pony and sped away through
the moonlight. At sunrise he stood beside the dead form of the dear
sister whose fleeting spirit had called him.

Since then he had often heard Allala's voice in the winds whispering
through tall grasses of the glades, or among nodding flags on the river
banks; in waters that sang and rippled on the lake shore; from shadowy
depths of the hammocks, and amid the soft sighings of cypress swamps.
Fus-chatte the red-bird sang of her, and pet-che the wood dove mourned
that she was gone. To Coacoochee, she seemed ever near him, and he
longed for the time when he might join her. But he knew that he must
be patient and await the presence of the Great Spirit, for he believed
that the hour of his own death had been named at that of his birth. He
also knew that until the appointed time he would escape all dangers
unharmed. He felt certain that Allala watched over him and would warn
him of either death or great danger. Being thus convinced, the lad was
absolutely without fear of dangers visible or unseen; and, dreamer that
he was, often amazed his companions by deeds of what seemed to them the
most reckless daring.

At the moment of his introduction to the reader Coacoochee, bathed
in the full glory of the setting sun, wondered if the place to which
Allala had gone could be fairer or more beautiful than that in which he
lingered.

Although he was without human companionship he was not alone; for
beside him lay Ul-we (the tall one), a great shaggy staghound that
the young Indian had rescued three years before from the wreck of an
English ship that was cast away on the lonely coast more than one
hundred miles from the nearest settlement. Coacoochee with several
companions was searching for turtle-eggs on the beach, and when they
boarded the stranded vessel, a wretched puppy very nearly dead from
starvation was the only living creature they found. The Indian boy took
the little animal for his own, restored it to life through persistent
effort, nursed it through the ills of puppyhood, and was finally
rewarded by having the waif thus rescued develop into the superb hound
that now lay beside him, and whose equal for strength and intelligence
had never been known in Florida. The love of the great dog for his
young master was touching to behold, while the affection of Coacoochee
for him was only excelled by that felt for his dearest human friend.

This friend was a lad of his own age named Louis Pacheco, who was
neither an Indian nor wholly a paleface. He was the son of a Spanish
indigo planter and a beautiful octoroon who had been given her freedom
before the birth of her boy. The Señor Pacheco, whose plantation
lay near the village of King Philip, had always maintained the most
friendly relations with his Indian neighbors; and, Louis having one
sister, as had Coacoochee, these four were united in closest intimacy
from their childhood.

At the death of the indigo planter his family removed to a small estate
owned by the mother, on the Tomoka River, some fifty miles from their
old home; but this removal in nowise weakened their friendship with
the red-skinned dwellers by the lake. Frequent visits were exchanged
between the younger members of the two families, and when Allala
was taken to the spirit land, none mourned her loss longer or more
sincerely than Louis and Nita Pacheco.

Louis, being well educated by his father, taught Coacoochee to speak
fluently both English and Spanish in exchange for lessons in forest
lore and woodcraft. The young Creole was as proud of his lineage as was
the son of Philip Emathla, and bore himself as became one born to a
position of freedom and independence.

It was some months since he and Coacoochee had last met, and at the
moment of his introduction to us the latter was thinking of his friend
and meditating a visit to him. It would seem as though these thoughts
must have been induced by some subtle indication of a near-by presence;
for the youth was hardly conscious of them ere Ul-we sprang to his feet
with an ominous growl and dashed into the thicket behind them. At the
same moment the young Indian heard his own name pronounced in a faint
voice, and wheeling quickly, caught sight of a white, wild-eyed face
that he instantly recognized. Ul-we had but time to utter one joyful
bark before his young master stood beside him and was supporting the
fainting form of Nita Pacheco in his arms.




CHAPTER II

MR. TROUP JEFFERS PLOTS MISCHIEF


For a full understanding of this startling interruption of the young
Indian's meditations it is necessary to make a brief excursion among
the dark shadows of a history which, though now ancient and well-nigh
forgotten, was then fresh and of vital interest to those whose fortunes
we are about to follow.

Florida had only recently been purchased by the United States from
Spain for five millions of dollars, and its vast territory thrown open
to settlement. Being the most nearly tropical of our possessions,
it offered possibilities found in no other part of the country, and
settlers flocked to it from all directions. As the Spaniards had only
occupied a few places near the coast, the interior had been left to the
undisturbed possession of the Seminoles and their negro allies. The
ancestors of these negroes escaping from slavery had sought and found
a safe refuge in this beautiful wilderness. By Spanish law they became
free at the moment of crossing the frontier boundary line, and here
their descendants dwelt for generations in peace and happiness.

With the change of owners came a sad change of fortunes to the native
inhabitants of this sunny land. The swarming settlers cast envious
glances at the fertile fields of the Seminoles, and determined to
possess them. They longed also to enslave the negro friends and allies
of the Indians, whom they discovered to be enjoying a degree of freedom
and prosperity entirely contrary to their notions of what was right and
fitting. Slavery was a legally recognized institution of the country.
The incoming settlers had been taught and believed that men of black
skins were created to be slaves and laborers for the benefit of the
whites. Therefore to see these little communities of black men dwelling
in a state of freedom and working only for themselves, their wives,
and children was intolerable. Slaves were wanted to clear forests and
cultivate fields, and here were hundreds, possibly thousands, of them
to be had for the taking. The villages of these negroes and those of
their Indian allies were also affording places of refuge for other
blacks who were constantly escaping from the plantations of neighboring
states, and seeking that liberty guaranteed by the Constitution of
the United States to all men. This condition of affairs could not be
borne. Both the Indians and the free negroes of Florida must be taught
a lesson.

General Andrew Jackson was the man chosen to teach this lesson, and he
entered upon the congenial task with a hearty relish. Marching an army
into Florida, he killed all the Indians whom he encountered, killed or
captured all the negroes whom he could find, burned villages, destroyed
crops, and finally retired from the devastated country with a vast
quantity of plunder, consisting principally of slaves and cattle.

To impress this lesson more fully upon the Indians, General Jackson
compelled an American vessel lying in Appalachicola Bay to hoist
British colors in the hope of enticing some of them on board. Two
Seminole chiefs, deceived by this cowardly ruse, did venture to
visit the supposed British ship. When they were safely on board, his
Majesty's ensign was hauled down, that of the United States was run up,
and beneath its folds the too confiding visitors were hanged to the
yard-arms without trial or delay.

After this General Jackson summoned the Indians to come in and make
a treaty; but they were fearful of further treachery, and hesitated.
Finally some thirty warriors out of the entire tribe were bribed to lay
aside their fears and meet the Commissioners. These signed a treaty by
which the Seminoles were required to abandon their homes, villages,
fields, and hunting-grounds, in the northern part of the territory,
and retire to the distant southern wilderness, where they would be at
liberty to clear new lands and make new homes. The tribe was also bound
by the treaty to prevent the passage, through their country, of any
fugitive slave, and to deliver all such seeking refuge among them to
any persons claiming to be their owners.

The United States on its part promised to compensate the Indians for
such improvements as they were compelled to abandon, to allow them five
thousand dollars annually in goods and money for twenty years, to feed
them for one year, and to furnish them with schools.

With the signing of this alleged treaty the trials and sufferings of
the Seminoles began in earnest. They were literally driven from their
old homes, so eager were the whites to possess their fertile lands.
Most of their promised rations of food was withheld, that they might
be induced by starvation the more speedily to clear and cultivate new
fields in the south. The goods issued to them were of such wretched
quality that they were contemptuously rejected or thrown away; and
on one pretext or another nearly the whole of their cash annuity was
declared forfeited. The most common excuse for thus defrauding the
Indians was that they did not display sufficient activity in capturing
the negroes who had sought refuge in their country.

Any white man desirous of procuring a slave had but to describe some
negro whom he knew to be living among the Seminoles and file a claim
to him with the Indian agent. The latter then notified the Indians
that they were expected to capture and deliver up the person thus
described, or else forfeit his value from their annuity. Thus these
liberty-loving savages soon discovered that, under the white man's
interpretation of their treaty, they had bound themselves to deliver
into slavery every man, woman, and child found within their territory,
in whose veins flowed one drop of negro blood, including in some cases
their own wives and children, which crime they very naturally refused
to commit.

Although Philip Emathla had thus far avoided an open rupture with the
whites, an event of recent occurrence caused him grave anxiety. On
the occasion of his last expedition to St. Augustine to receive that
portion of the annuity due his band he had been persuaded by Coacoochee
and Louis Pacheco, who happened to be visiting his friend at that time,
to allow them to accompany him. The Indians camped at some distance
from the town, but were permitted to wander freely about its streets
during the daytime--a permission of which the two lads took fullest
advantage. Thus on the very day of their arrival they set forth on
their exploration of the ancient city, and Louis, who had been there
before with his father, kindly explained its many wonders to his less
travelled companion.

The massive gray walls of Fort San Marco, with their lofty watch
towers, and black cannon grinning from the deep embrasures, possessed a
peculiar fascination for Coacoochee, and it seemed as though he would
never tire of gazing on them. From the gloomy interior, however,
he shrank with horror, refusing even to glance into the cells and
dungeons, to which Louis desired to direct his attention.

"No," he cried. "In these I could not breathe. They hold the air of a
prison, and to a son of the forest that is the air of death. Let us
then hasten from this place of ill omen, lest they close the gates, and
we be forced to leap from the walls for our freedom."

So the Wildcat hastily dragged his friend from that grim place, nor
did he draw a full breath until they were once more in the sunny
fields outside. He was infinitely more pleased with the interior of
the equally ancient cathedral, and lingered long before the mystic
paintings of its decoration. Its music and the glowing candles of its
richly decked altar affected him so strangely, that even after they had
emerged from the building and stood in the open plaza, listening to its
chiming bells, he was for a long time silent.

Louis, too, was occupied with his own thoughts; and as the lads stood
thus, they failed to notice the curiosity with which they were regarded
by two men who passed and repassed them several times. One of these
men, Troup Jeffers by name, was a slave-trader, who was keenly alive to
the possibility of making a good thing out of the present embarrassment
of the Seminoles. The other man, who was known as Ross Ruffin, though
that was not supposed to be his real name, was one of those depraved
characters found on every frontier, who are always ready to perform a
dirty job for pay, and who so closely resembled the filthiest beasts of
prey that they are generally spoken of as "human jackals." With this
particular jackal Mr. Troup Jeffers had already dealt on more than one
occasion, and found him peculiarly well adapted to the requirements of
his despicable trade.

"Likely looking youngsters," remarked the slave-dealer, nodding towards
the two lads upon first noticing them. "Pity they're Injuns. More
pity that Injuns don't come under the head of property. Can't see any
difference myself between them and niggers. Now them two in the right
market ought to fetch--"

Here the trader paused to inspect the lads more closely that he might
make a careful estimate of their probable money value.

"By Gad!" he exclaimed under his breath, "I'm dashed if I believe one
of 'em is an Injun!"

"No," replied his companion; "one of 'em is a nigger. Leastways, his
mother is."

"You don't say so?" remarked Mr. Troup Jeffers, his eye lighting with
the gleam of a man-hunter on catching sight of his prey. "Who owns him?"

"No one just now. Leastways, he claims to be free. He lives with his
mother and sister in the Injun country. I've been calculating chances
on 'em myself for some time."

"Tell me all you know about 'em," commanded the trader, in a voice
husky with excitement, while the evil gleam in his eyes grew more
pronounced.

When Ross Ruffin had related the history and present circumstances of
the Pachecos to the best of his knowledge, the other exclaimed:

"I'll go yer! and we couldn't want a better thing. Agent's in town now.
I'll make out a description and file a claim this very evening. We'll
claim all three. Jump this young buck before he has a chance to get
away. It'll make the other job more simple too. Get all three up the
coast, easy as rolling off a log. 'Quick sales and big profits'--that's
my motto. I'll divvy with you. On the square. Is it a go? Shake."

Thus within five minutes, and while the unsuspecting lads still
listened in silence to the tinkling chimes of the old cathedral bells,
there was hatched against them a plot more villainous than either of
them had ever conceived possible. Not only that, but the first link was
forged of a chain of circumstances that was to alter the whole course
of their lives and entwine them in its cruel coils for many bitter
years to come.




CHAPTER III

THE SLAVE-CATCHERS AT WORK


The following day was also passed by Coacoochee and Louis in pleasant
wanderings about the quaint little city whose every sight and sound
was to them so full of novel interest. At length in the early dusk
of evening they set forth on their return to Philip Emathla's camp,
conversing eagerly as they walked concerning what they had seen. So
occupied were they that they paid little heed to their immediate
surroundings, and as they gained the outskirts of the town were
startled at being commanded to halt by a man who had approached them
unobserved. It was Troup Jeffers, the slave-catcher, who had been
watching the lads for some time and awaiting just such an opportunity
as the present for carrying out his evil designs.

"What's your name?" he demanded, placing himself squarely in front of
the young Creole.

"Louis Pacheco."

"Just so. Son of old Pacheco and a nigger woman. Nigger yourself. My
nigger, sold to me by your dad just afore he died. Hain't wanted you up
to this time. Now want you to come along with me."

"I'll do nothing of the kind!" cried the lad, hotly. "When you say that
I am your slave, or the slave of any one else, _you lie_. My mother was
a free woman, and I was born free. To that I can take my oath, and so
can my friend here. So stand aside, sir, and let me pass."

"Ho, ho! my black fighting cock," answered the trader, savagely;
"you'll pay sweetly for those words afore I'm through with ye. And
you'll set up a nigger's oath and an Injun's oath agin that of a white
man, will ye? Why, you crumbly piece of yellar gingerbread, don't you
know that when a white man swears to a thing, his word will be taken
agin that of all the niggers and Injuns in the country? Cattle of that
kind can't testify in United States courts, as you'll find out in a
hurry if you ever try it on. Now you're my property, and the sooner you
realize it, the better it will be for you. I've filed my sworn claim
with the agent, and it's been allowed. Here's his order for the Injuns
to deliver you up. So I'd advise you to go along peaceably with me if
you don't want to get yourself into a heap of trouble. Grab him, Ross!"

Mr. Troup Jeffers had only talked to detain the lads until the arrival
of his burly confederate, who was following at a short distance behind
him. As the moment for action arrived, he seized Louis by one arm,
while Ross Ruffin grasped the other.

Coacoochee, knowing little of the ways of the whites, had not realized
what was taking place until this moment; but with the seizure of his
friend the horrid truth was made clear to him. He was called a dreamer,
but no one witnessing the promptness of his action at this crisis would
have supposed him to be such. Ross Ruffin was nearest him, and at the
very moment of his laying hands on Louis there came a flash of steel.
The next instant Coacoochee's keen-bladed hunting-knife was sunk deep
into the man's arm just below the shoulder.

With a yell of pain and terror, the "jackal" let go his hold. Louis
tore himself free from the grasp of his other assailant, and in a
twinkling the two lads were running with the speed of startled deer in
the direction of their own camp, while an ineffective pistol shot rang
out spitefully behind them.

A few minutes later they had gained the camp, secured their rifles,
told King Philip of what had just taken place, crossed the San
Sebastian, and were lost to sight in the dark shadows of the forest on
its further side.

They had hardly disappeared before St. Augustine was in an uproar. An
Indian had dared draw his knife on a white man who was only exercising
his legal rights and claiming his lawful property. An Indian had
actually aided in the escape of a slave, when by solemn treaty he was
bound to use every effort to deliver such persons to their masters.
The act was an intolerable outrage and must be promptly punished.

Within an hour, therefore, an angry mob of armed citizens headed by
Troup Jeffers had surrounded Philip Emathla's encampment. They were
confronted by his handful of sturdy warriors, ready to fight with the
fury of tigers brought to bay, and but for the determined interference
of the Indian agent, who had hastened to the scene of disturbance, a
bloody battle would have ensued then and there. This officer begged the
whites to leave the affair with him, assuring them that the Indians
should be made to afford ample satisfaction for the outrage, and taught
a lesson that would prevent its repetition. At first the citizens would
not listen to him; but the cupidity of the slave-catcher being aroused
by the promise of a handsome pecuniary compensation for his loss,
he joined his voice to that of the agent, and finally succeeded in
persuading the mob to retire.

Two thousand dollars of government money due King Philip's band was
in that agent's hands and should have been paid over on the following
day. Now that official gave the aged chieftain his choice of delivering
Coacoochee up for punishment, and Louis Pacheco to the man who claimed
him as his property, or of relinquishing this money and signing for it
a receipt in full.

The alternative thus presented was a bitter one. The loss of their
money would involve Philip Emathla and his band in new difficulties
with the whites, to whom they were in debt for goods that were to be
paid for on the receipt of their annuity. The old man knew that his
creditors would have no mercy upon him, but would seize whatever of
his possessions they could attach. Nor could mercy be expected for his
son and Louis Pacheco should they be delivered into the hands of their
enemies.

Long did the perplexed chieftain sit silent and with bowed head,
considering the situation. His warriors, grouped at a short distance,
watched him with respectful curiosity. At length he submitted the case
to them and asked their advice.

With one accord, and without hesitation, they answered: "Let the
Iste-hatke (white man) keep his money. We can live without it; but if
one hair of Coacoochee's head should be harmed, our hearts would be
heavy with a sadness that could never be lifted."

So Philip Emathla affixed his mark to the paper that the agent had
prepared for him, and was allowed to depart in peace the next day. Of
the money thus obtained from the Indians two hundred dollars served to
salve the wound in Ross Ruffin's arm, and eight hundred satisfied for
the time being the claim of Mr. Troup Jeffers, the slave-trader. What
became of the balance is unknown, for the agent's books contain no
record of the transaction.

Coacoochee and Louis had halted within friendly shadows on the edge
of the forest, and there held themselves in readiness to fly to the
assistance of their friends, should sounds of strife proclaim an attack
upon the encampment. Here they remained during the night, and only
rejoined Philip Emathla on his homeward march the following day. When
they learned from him the particulars of the transaction by which their
liberty had been assured, both of them were bitterly indignant at the
injustice thus perpetrated.

The indignation of the young creole was supplemented by a profound
gratitude, and he swore that if the time ever came when it should lie
in his power to repay the debt thus incurred, he would do so with
interest many times compounded. Now, feeling secure in the freedom
for which so great a price had been paid, he returned to his home on
the Tomoka, where for several months he devoted himself assiduously
to labor on the little plantation that afforded the sole support of
his mother, his sister, and himself. During this time of diligent
toil, though he found no opportunity for communicating with his Indian
friends of the lake region, they were often in his thoughts, and his
heart warmed toward them with an ever-increasing gratitude as he
reflected upon the awful fate from which they had saved him.

While the busy home life of the family on the Tomoka flowed on thus
peacefully and happily, there came one evening a timid knock at
the closed door of their house, and a weak voice, speaking in negro
dialect, begged for admittance.

Louis, holding a candle, opened the door, and as he did so, was struck
a blow on the head that stretched him senseless across the threshold.
As Nita, who was the only other occupant of the house at that moment,
witnessed this dastardly act, she uttered a piercing scream and was
about to fling herself on her brother's body, but was roughly pushed
back by two white men, who entered the room, and dragging Louis back
from the door, closed it behind them.

One of the men, who were those precious villains Troup Jeffers and Ross
Ruffin, bound the wrists of the unconscious youth behind him, while the
other ordered Nita to bring them food, threatening to kill her brother
before her eyes in case she refused. The terrified girl hastened to
obey; but, as with trembling hands she prepared the table with all
that the house afforded in the way of provisions, her mind was filled
with wild schemes of escape and rescue. Her mother was absent, having
gone to sit with the dying child of their only near neighbors, a negro
family living a short distance down the river.

While the girl thus planned, and strove to conceal her agony of thought
beneath an appearance of bustling activity, the slave-catchers dashed
water in her brother's face and used other means to restore him to
consciousness. In this they were finally successful.

The moment that he was sufficiently recovered to realize his situation
and recognize the men who had treated him so shamefully, he demanded to
be set at liberty, claiming that he was free by birth, and that even if
he were not, the price of his freedom had been paid several times over
by the annuity that Philip Emathla had relinquished on his account.

"Oh no, you're not free, my lad, as you'll soon discover," replied Mr.
Troup Jeffers, with a grin. "You're property, you are. You was born
property, and you'll always be property. Just now you're my property,
and will be till I can get you to a market where your value will be
appreciated. As for the cash handed over by that old fool of an Injun,
it warn't more than enough to pay for the cut that young catamount give
my friend here, and for my injured feelings. It warn't never intended
to pay for you. So shut your mouth and come along quietly with us, or
we'll make it mighty oncomfortable for ye. D'ye hear?"

"But my father was a white man, my mother was a free woman, and I was
born--"

"Shut up! I tell ye!" shouted the trader, angrily.

Determined to be heard, the youth again opened his mouth to speak,
when, with a snarl of rage, the brute sprang forward and dealt him
several savage kicks with a heavy cowhide boot that proved effective
in procuring the required silence.

While the attention of both men was thus engaged, Nita managed to slip
unobserved from a back door of the house. With the swiftness of despair
she fled along the shadowy forest trail that led to the neighbor's
cabin, a quarter of a mile away. There she hoped to obtain help for her
brother's rescue. When she reached it, she found to her dismay that
it was dark and empty. Its door stood wide open, and the poor girl
received no answer to her terrified callings.




CHAPTER IV

CAPTURE AND ESCAPE OF NITA PACHECO


For a minute Nita, trembling with excitement and terror, stood
irresolute. Then, noticing that a few embers still smouldered on the
hearth, she found a sliver of fat pine and thrust it among them. As it
flared up with a bright blaze, its light disclosed a scene that filled
the girl with despair and told the whole sad story--the child with whom
her mother was to watch that night lay dead on the only bed in the
room. The rest of the scanty furniture was overturned and broken; while
the whole appearance of the place denoted that it had been the scene of
a fierce struggle.

In vain did Nita seek for any trace of her mother. It was only too
evident that the slave-catchers had been here, made captives of all
the living inmates, and removed them to a place of safe keeping before
visiting the Pacheco house. Sick at heart and undecided as to her
course of action, the poor girl left the cabin. As she emerged from its
shattered doorway, she was rudely clasped in a pair of strong arms, and
with a hoarse chuckle of satisfaction a voice, that she recognized as
belonging to one of the men she had left with Louis, exclaimed:

"So, gal, ye thought ye was gwine to give us the slip, eh? and maybe
bring help to your brother? We uns is up to them games though, and
ye've got to be oncommon spry to git ahead of us. I suspicioned whar
ye'd gone the minit I found ye'd lit out without so much as saying by
your leave, and I was on to yer trail in less'n no time. Now ye might
as well give in and go along quiet with us. We'll find ye a nice easy
place whar ye won't hev much to do, and whar ye kin live happier than
ye ever could in this here forsaken wilderness."

While thus talking, the man, with a firm grasp of the girl's arm, was
leading her back along the trail they had come. She had not spoken
since uttering a cry of terror when he first seized her, and she now
walked beside him so quietly and unresistingly that he imagined her
spirit to be broken beyond further thought of escape.

The darkness of the hammock was intense, and being unaccustomed to the
narrow path, Ruffin found difficulty in following it. All at once, as
he swerved slightly from the trail, his foot caught in a loose root,
and he pitched headlong to the ground, releasing the girl's arm as
he fell. In an instant she was gone. Her light footfall gave back no
sound to indicate the direction she had taken, and only the mocking
forest echoes answered the man's bitter curses which were coupled with
commands that she return to him.

Time was precious with the slave-catchers, and to pursue the girl would
be a hopeless task. Ross Ruffin realized this, and so, baffled and
raging, he made his way to that point on the river where, in a small
boat, with Louis still bound and helpless, Troup Jeffers impatiently
awaited his coming. The latter upbraided his confederate in unmeasured
terms for allowing the girl to escape, and so fierce was their quarrel
that it seemed about to result in bloodshed. Finally their interests,
rather than their inclinations, led them to control their anger and to
reflect that with the captives already secured, including Louis, his
mother, and the family of their negro neighbors, the venture promised
to be very profitable, after all. So they pulled down the dark river
and out to a small schooner that, in charge of two other white men, lay
off its mouth, awaiting them.

Louis had listened eagerly to Ruffin's report of his sister's flight,
and thus assured of her escape, he became more reconciled to the fate
in store for himself. As the boat in which he lay glided from the
river's mouth, there came to him the sound of a dear voice that in
all probability he would never hear again. It was a passionate cry
of farewell from the sister whom he loved better than all the world
beside. With a mighty effort the captive raised himself to a sitting
posture.

"Good-bye, Nita!" he shouted; "God bless--"

Then he was silenced and struck down by a blow in the face. At the same
instant a flash of fire leaped from the boat, and a rifle bullet sped
angrily through the forest in the direction from which Nita's voice had
come. It did not harm her, but she dared not call again. Nor did she
dare remain longer in that vicinity.

Returning to her deserted home, the poor girl hastily gathered a
slender store of provisions and then set forth, fearfully and with
a breaking heart, to thread the shadowy trails leading to the only
place of refuge that she knew,--the village of Philip Emathla the
Seminole. For two days she travelled, guided by instinct rather than
by a knowledge of the way, and at the end of the second she came to
the place where Coacoochee was standing. As her presence was betrayed
by Ul-we, and the young Indian sprang to her side, the girl sank into
his arms, faint and speechless from exhaustion. Her dress hung in
rags, her feet were bare and bleeding, and her tender skin was torn by
innumerable thorns.

Filled with wonder and a premonition of evil tidings by this appearance
of his friend's sister so far from her home and in so sad a plight,
Coacoochee bore her to the open space in which he had stood, and laid
her gently down at the base of a great oak. Then, realizing that all
his strength would not suffice to carry her over the mile or more
lying between that place and his father's village, he bade the great
staghound stand guard over the fainting girl, and started off at a
speed that he alone of all his tribe possessed, to seek assistance.

The peaceful village was startled by his appearance as he dashed
breathlessly into it a few minutes later, and some of the men
instinctively grasped their weapons. With a few words, Coacoochee
assured them that there was no immediate cause for alarm, and then
ordering three stalwart young warriors to follow him, he again entered
the forest and hastened back to where he had left the exhausted girl.

A little later Nita Pacheco was borne into the village and given over
to the skilful ministrations of the women belonging to King Philip's
household. Under their kindly care the strength of the fugitive was so
restored that within an hour after her arrival she was able to relate
her sad story to the aged chief, who bent over her and listened to her
words with breathless attention.

When she finished, and Philip Emathla was possessed of all the facts
she had to communicate, he drew himself to his full height and stood
for a moment silent, while his whole frame trembled with anger.

At length he said: "It is well, my daughter. I have heard thy words,
and they have caused my heart to bleed. From this hour thou shalt be
to Philip Emathla as the child of his old age, and thy sorrows shall
be his. Sleep now and regain thy strength while he takes counsel
concerning this matter with his wise men, and in the morning he will
speak further with thee."

When the old chief repeated Nita Pacheco's story to his warriors
assembled about the council fire that night, his words were received in
silence, but with fierce scowls; clinched hands, and twitching fingers.
At its conclusion the silence was only broken by angry mutterings, but
none knew what to advise. At length King Philip addressed Coacoochee,
who, youngest of all present, had been allowed a seat at this council
for the first time. Calling him by name, the old chief said:

"My son, on account of thy friendship with Louis Pacheco, thy interest
in this matter is greater than that of any other among my councillors.
What, then, is thy opinion concerning this tale of wrong and outrage?"

Standing bravely forth in the full glow of firelight, with his athletic
form and proud profile clearly outlined against it, the lad spoke
vehemently and from a full heart as he replied:

"The words of my father have made the hearts of his children heavy.
They tell us of the wickedness of the white man. That is nothing new.
We have heard of it many times before. So many that we are weary with
listening. But now this wickedness has fallen on those who have the
right to call upon us for vengeance. They are not of our blood, but
they lived among us and trusted us to protect them. Louis Pacheco is
my friend and brother. This maiden is as a daughter to my father. They
were not born slaves. The Great Spirit created them free as the birds
of the air or the deer of the forest. Of this freedom, the gift of the
Great Spirit, the white man seeks to rob them. Are we dogs that we
should suffer this thing? No; the Seminoles are men and warriors. Let
the chief send a message to the white man, demanding that these our
friends be set free and restored to us. Let him also send out those who
will discover whither they have been taken. If they be dead or carried
away so far that he cannot find them, then let him lead his warriors
to battle with the pale-faced dogs, that the fate of our friends may
be avenged. Coacoochee has spoken, and to Philip Emathla has he made
answer."

This brave speech, delivered with all the fire and enthusiasm of youth
as well as with the eloquent gestures that Coacoochee knew so well
how to use, was received with murmurs of satisfaction by the younger
warriors, whose eyes gleamed with a fierce joy at the thought of
battle. The breast of the young orator swelled with pride as, reseating
himself in his appointed place, he glanced about him and noted the
effect of his maiden effort at public speech-making. His whole soul was
enlisted in the cause of those oppressed ones for whom he had just
pleaded so earnestly, and he longed with the earnestness of honorable,
high-strung, and fearless youth to strike a telling blow in their
behalf.

While he with the younger members of the band were thus animated by
a spirit of resistance to injustice at any cost, the older warriors
shook their heads. They could not but reflect upon their own weakness
when they considered the power of the white man and the number of his
soldiers.

The old chief who had called forth this manifestation of feeling noted
shrewdly the varied expressions of those about him and then dismissed
the council, saying that after sleeping he would announce his decision.




CHAPTER V

A FOREST BETROTHAL


Philip Emathla was an old man and a wise one. He had visited the great
white Father at Washington, and had thus gained a very different idea
of the power and number of the palefaces from that generally held by
his tribe. He loved his land and his people. He was determined not to
submit to injustice if he could help it, but he shrank from plunging
the Seminoles into a war with the powerful and arrogant invaders of
their country. He knew that such a war could only result in the utter
defeat of the red man, no matter how long or how bravely he might
fight. Thus Coacoochee's fiery speech at the council was a source of
great anxiety to the old man and caused him to pass a sleepless night.
By morning, however, he had decided upon a course of action, and again
summoning his councillors, he unfolded it to them.

As the money value of Louis Pacheco and his mother had already been
doubly paid by the Indians through the relinquishment of their annuity,
Philip Emathla would himself go to the agent at Fort King, claim them
as his slaves, and demand their return to him as such. At the same
time he would send scouts to St. Augustine to discover if the captives
were in that city and what chance there was of rescuing them in case
the agent should refuse to recognize his claim. Until these things
were done there must be no thought or mention of war. It could only be
considered after all else had failed.

As Coacoochee listened to these words, his face assumed a look of
resolve, and he eagerly awaited an opportunity to speak. He was no
longer content to be considered a dreamer, but was anxious to prove
himself the worthy son of a great chief and entitled to the proud rank
of warrior. When, therefore, his father finished what he had to say and
signified that any who chose might speak, the lad, after waiting for
a few minutes out of deference to his elders, rose with a modest but
manly bearing and requested that two favors might be granted him. One
was that he might be allowed to go alone on the scout to St. Augustine
and there learn the fate of his friend. The other, asked with that
confusion of manner which all youths, savage as well as civilized,
manifest on such occasions, was that he might have his father's
permission to make Nita Pacheco a daughter of the tribe, in fact as
well as in name, by taking her to be his wife.

After regarding the lad fixedly and in silence for nearly a minute, the
old chief made reply as follows:

"My son, although thou hast attained the stature of a man, and it has
been permitted thee to speak in council, thou art still but a boy in
knowledge as well as in years. That thou may speedily prove thyself
worthy the name of warrior is my hope and desire. Therefore that thou
may not lack opportunity for gaining distinction, I hereby grant the
first of thy requests on condition that six of my well-tried braves
shall go with thee. They may be left in concealment outside the city,
and thou may enter it alone; but it is well to have friends at hand in
case of need. It is also well that a young warrior should be guided by
the counsel of those who are older and wiser.

"Thy second request will I also grant upon conditions. Gladly will I
accept the maiden whom thou hast named, as a daughter in truth as well
as in name; but it seems to have escaped thy mind that no son of the
Seminoles may take to himself a wife until he has won the title of
warrior and proved himself capable of her support. Again, there is but
one time for the taking of wives, which may only be done at the great
green corn dance of thy people. If it pleases the maiden to plight thee
her troth, to that I will give consent, provided the ceremony shall
take place ere the setting of this day's sun. Then when thou art gone
on thy mission to discover the fate of her mother and her brother, she
will be doubly entitled to the love and protection of thy people. Let,
then, a solemn betrothal satisfy thee for the present, and at some
future time will the question of thy marriage be considered. Thus
speaks Philip Emathla."

Coacoochee had loved the sister of his friend longer than he could
remember, and believed that Nita entertained a similar feeling toward
him, though no words of love had ever passed between them. Now they
were to exchange a promise of marriage! The mere thought gave him a
more manly and dignified bearing. And then he was to be immediately
separated from her. How hard it would be to leave her! Doubly hard,
now that she was in sorrow, and suffering the keenest anxiety. Still,
if he could only bring back tidings of the safety of her dear ones, or
perhaps even return them to her, how happy it would make her! How proud
she would be of him!

To Nita the proposition that she should participate in a ceremony of
betrothal to Coacoochee, which among the Seminoles is even more solemn
and important than that of marriage itself, was startling but not
unwelcome. She loved the handsome youth. In her own mind that had long
ago been settled. Now she was homeless and alone. Where could she find
a braver or more gallant protector than Coacoochee? Besides, was he not
going into danger for her sake, and the sake of those most dear to her?
Yes, she would give him her promise in the presence of all his people
freely and gladly.

Again the sun was near his setting, and all nature was flooded
with the golden glory that waited on his departure. The cluster of
palmetto-thatched huts nestled beneath tall trees on the shore of
blue Ahpopka Lake wore an expectant air, and their dusky inhabitants,
gathered in little groups, seemed to anticipate some event of
importance.

At length there came the sound of singing from a leafy bower on the
outskirts of the village, and then appeared a bevy of young girls
wreathed and garlanded with flowers. In their midst walked one whose
face, fairer than theirs, still bore traces of recent suffering. She
was clad in a robe of fawnskin, creamy white and soft as velvet.
Exquisitely embroidered, it was fit for the wear of a princess, and
had indeed been prepared for the gentle Allala, King Philip's only
daughter, shortly before her death. Now, worn for the first time, it
formed the betrothal dress of Nita Pacheco. In the tresses of her
rippling hair was twined a slender spray of snow-white star jasmine.
She wore no other ornament, but none was needed for a beauty so radiant
as hers.

So, at least, thought Coacoochee, as, escorted by a picked body of
young warriors, gaudy in paint and feathers, he entered the village at
this moment, but from its opposite side, and caught a glimpse of her.

Both groups advanced to the centre of the village and halted, facing
each other, before the chief's lodge. There for some moments they stood
amid an impressive silence that was only broken by the glad songs of
birds in the leafy coverts above them. At length the curtain screening
the entrance was drawn aside, and Philip Emathla, followed by two of
his most trusted councillors, stepped forth. The head of the aged
chieftain was unadorned save by a single roseate feather plucked from
the wing of a flamingo. This from time immemorial had been the badge of
highest authority among the Indians of Florida, and was adopted as such
by the latest native occupants of the flowery land. The chief's massive
form was set off to fine advantage by a simple tunic and leggings of
buckskin. Depending from his neck by a slender chain was a large gold
medallion of Washington, while across his breast he wore several other
decorations in gold and silver.

Standing in the presence of his people, and facing the setting sun, the
chieftain called upon the group of flower-decked maidens to deliver up
their sister, and as Nita stepped shyly forth, he took her by the hand.
Next he called upon the group of young warriors to deliver up their
brother, whereupon their ranks opened, and Coacoochee walked proudly to
where his father stood.

Taking him also by the hand, the old chief asked of his son, in a
voice that all could plainly hear, if he had carefully considered the
obligation he was about to assume. "Do you promise for the sake of this
maiden to strive with all your powers to attain the rank of a warrior?
Do you promise, when that time comes, to take her to your lodge to be
your squaw? to protect her with your life from harm? to hunt game for
her? to see that she suffers not from hunger? to love her and bear with
her until the Great Spirit shall call you to dwell with him in the
Happy Hunting-grounds?"

"Un-cah (yes)," answered Coacoochee so clearly as to be heard of all.
"I do promise."

Turning to Nita, the chieftain asked: "My daughter, are you also
willing to make promise to this youth that when the time comes for
him to call thee to his lodge, you will go to him? Are you willing to
promise that from then until the sun shall no longer shine for thee,
till thine eyes are closed in the long sleep, and till the music of
birds no longer fill thy ears, Coacoochee shall be thy man, and thou
shall know no other? Are you willing to promise that from that time his
lodge shall be thy lodge, his friends thy friends, and his enemies thy
enemies? Are you willing to promise that from the day you enter his
lodge you will love him and care for him, make his word thy law, and
follow him even to captivity and death? Consider well, my daughter,
before answering; for thy pledged word may not be lightly broken."

Lifting her head, and smiling as she looked the old man full in the
face, Nita answered, in low but distinct tones:

"Un-cah. I am willing to promise."

With this the chieftain placed the girl's hand in that of Coacoochee,
and turning to the spectators, who stood silent and attentive, said:

"In thy sight, and in hearing of all men, this my son and this my
daughter have given to each other the promise that may not be broken.
Therefore I, Philip Emathla, make it known that whenever Coacoochee,
after gaining a warrior's rank, shall call this maiden to his lodge,
she shall go to him. From that time forth he shall be her warrior, and
she shall be his squaw. It is spoken; let it be remembered."

With these words the ceremony of betrothal was concluded, and at
once the spectators broke forth in a tumult of rejoicing. Guns were
discharged, drums were beaten, great fires were lighted, there was
dancing and feasting, and in every way they could devise did these
simple-minded dwellers in the forest express their joy over the event
that promised so much of happiness to the well-loved son of their chief.

In these rejoicings Coacoochee did not take part, glad as he would
have been to do so. He had a duty to perform that might no longer be
delayed. The fate of his friend, who was now become almost his brother,
must be learned, and it rested with him to discover it.

So on conclusion of the betrothal ceremony he led Nita into his
father's lodge, bade her a tender farewell, and promising a speedy
return, slipped away almost unobserved. Followed only by Ul-we, the
great staghound, he entered the dark shadows of the forest behind the
village, and was immediately lost to view.




CHAPTER VI

CRUEL DEATH OF UL-WE THE STAGHOUND


When Coacoochee left the Indian village on the night of his betrothal
and set forth on his journey to St. Augustine, he fully realized that
the act marked a crisis in his life, and that from this hour his
irresponsible boyhood was a thing of the past. For a moment he was
staggered by the thought of what he was undertaking, together with an
overpowering sense of his own weakness and lack of worldly knowledge.
How could he, a mere lad, educated in nothing save forest craft, hope
to compete with the strength, wisdom, and subtlety of the all-powerful
white man? His heart sank at the prospect, there came a faltering in
his springy stride, he feared to advance, and dreaded to retreat.

As he wavered he became conscious of a presence beside him, and to his
ear came the voice of Allala. In tender but reproachful accents it said:

"My brother, to thee are the eyes of our people turning. Philip Emathla
is chief of a band; through long strife, bitter trial, and deepest
sorrow, Coacoochee shall become leader of a nation. Remember, my
brother, that to strive and succeed is glorious; to strive and yield is
still honorable; but to yield without striving is contemptible."

The voice ceased, and the young Indian felt that he was again alone,
but he was no longer undecided. His veins thrilled with a new life,
and his heart was filled with a courage ready to dare anything. In an
instant his determination was taken. He would strive for victories, he
would learn to bear defeat, but it should never be said of Coacoochee
that he was contemptible. Filled with such thoughts, the youth sprang
forward and again urged his way along the dim forest trail.

He had gone but a short distance when he came to a group of dark
figures evidently awaiting him. They were the six warriors chosen by
his father to accompany him on his dangerous mission. As he joined
them, a few words of greeting were exchanged, and one of them handed
him his rifle, powder-horn, and bullet-pouch. Here he took the lead,
with Ul-we close at his heels. The others followed in single file and
with long, gliding strides that maintained with slight apparent effort
yet bore them over the ground with surprising rapidity.

The night was lighted by a young moon, and such of its rays as were
sifted down through the leafy canopy served to guide their steps as
truly as though it had been day. When the moon set, the little band
halted on the edge of an open glade, and each man cut a few great
leaves of the cabbage palmetto, which he thrust stem first into the
ground to serve as protection against the drenching night dew. Then,
flinging themselves down in the long grass, they almost instantly fell
asleep, leaving only Ul-we to stand guard.

A brace of wild turkey, shot at daylight a short distance from where
they slept, furnished a breakfast, and at sunrise they were once more
on their way. That morning they crossed the St. John's River in a canoe
that had been skilfully concealed beneath a bank from all but them, and
soon after sunset they made their second camp within a few miles of St.
Augustine.

Up to this time they had seen no white man, but now they might expect
to see many; for they were near a travelled road recently opened for
the government westward into the far interior, by a man named Bellamy;
thus it was called the "Bellamy Road,"--a name that it bears to this
day.

Over it Coacoochee, accompanied only by Ul-we, walked boldly the next
morning until he came to the city. He did not carry his rifle with
him, as he knew that Indians off their reservation were apt to have
all firearms seized and taken from them. Moreover, he anticipated
no danger. These were times of peace, in which Indians as well as
whites were protected by treaty. So, cautioning his warriors to remain
concealed until his return, the young leader went in search of the
information he had been detailed to obtain.

During his journey he had carefully considered the steps to be taken
when he should reach its end. He might easily have slipped into
the town under cover of darkness, and, with little chance of being
observed, communicated with certain negroes of the place, who would
have told him what he desired to know. He might have remained concealed
in the outskirts until some of them passed that way. Several other
plans suggested themselves, but all were rejected in favor of the
one now adopted. Honest and straightforward himself, Coacoochee was
disinclined to use methods that might lie open to suspicion. He knew of
no reason why he, a free man, should not visit any portion of the land
that his people still claimed as their own, and consequently he entered
the town boldly and in broad daylight.

The sight of an Indian in the streets of St. Augustine was at that time
too common to attract unusual attention. Still, the bearing of the
young chief was so noble, and his appearance so striking, that more
than one person turned to gaze after him as he passed.

The great dog that followed close at his heels also excited universal
admiration, and several men offered to buy him from the youth as he
passed them. To these he deigned no reply, for it was part of the
Indian policy at that time, as it is now, to feign an ignorance of any
language but their own.

Within a few hours Coacoochee had learned all that was to be known
concerning the recent expedition of Jeffers and Ruffin. If they were
successful in their undertaking, they were to proceed directly to
Charleston, South Carolina, and there dispose of their captives. As
they had now been absent from St. Augustine for more than a week, this
is what they were supposed to have done.

Once during his hurried interviews with those who were able to give
him information, but were fearful of being discovered in his company,
the young Indian was vaguely warned that some new laws relating to his
people had just been passed, and that if he were not careful, he might
get into trouble through them.

Several times during the morning one or more of the street dogs of
the town ran snarling after Ul-we; but, in each case, one of his deep
growls and a display of his formidable teeth caused them to slink away
and leave him unmolested.

Having finished his business, Coacoochee set out on a return to the
camp where his warriors awaited him. His heart was heavy with the news
that he had just received, and as he walked, he thought bitterly of the
fate of the friend who had been dragged into slavery far beyond his
reach or power of rescue.

Thus thinking, and paying but slight attention to his surroundings, he
reached the edge of the town. He was passing its last building, a low
groggery, on the porch of which were collected a group of men, most of
them more or less under the influence of liquor.

One of the group was a swarthy-faced fellow named Salano, who had for
some unknown reason conceived a bitter hatred against all Indians, and
often boasted that he would no more hesitate to shoot one than he would
a wolf or a rattlesnake. Beside this man lay his dog, a mongrel cur
with a sneaking expression, that had gained some notoriety as a fighter.

As Coacoochee passed this group, though without paying any attention to
them, Salano called out to him in an insulting tone:

"Hello, Injun! whar did you steal that dog?"

If the young chief heard this question, he did not indicate by any sign
that he had done so; but continued calmly on his way.

Again Salano shouted after him. "I say whar did you steal that dog,
Injun?" then, with an oath, he added: "Bring him here; I want to look
at him."

Still there was no reply.

In the meantime the cur at Salano's feet was growling and showing his
teeth as he gazed after the retreating form of Ul-we.

At this juncture his master stopped, and pointing in the direction of
the staghound, said, "Go, bite him, sir!"

The cur darted forward, and made a vicious snap at Ul-we's hind legs,
inflicting a painful wound.

The temper of the big dog was tried beyond endurance. He turned, and
with a couple of leaps overtook the cur, already in yelping retreat.
Ul-we seized him by the back in his powerful jaws. There was a wild
yell, a momentary struggle, a crunching of bones, and the cur lay
lifeless in the dust. At the same moment the report of a rifle rang
out, and the superb staghound sank slowly across the body of his late
enemy, shot through the heart.

All this happened in so short a space of time that the double tragedy
was complete almost before Coacoochee realized what was taking place.

The moment he did so, he sprang to his faithful companion, and kneeling
in the dust beside him, raised the creature's head in his arms. The
great, loving eyes opened slowly and gazed pleadingly into the face of
the young Indian; with a last effort the dog feebly licked his hand,
and then all was over. Ul-we, the tall one, the noblest dog ever owned
and loved by a Seminole, was dead.

Over this pathetic scene the group about the groggery made merry with
shouts of laughter and taunting remarks. As Coacoochee, satisfied that
his dog was really dead, slowly rose to his feet, Salano jeeringly
called out, "What'll you take for your pup now, Injun?"

The next moment the man staggered back with an exclamation of terror
as the young Indian sprang to where he stood, and with a face distorted
by rage hissed between his teeth:

"From thy body shall thy heart be torn for this act! Coacoochee has
sworn it."

Even as he spoke, a pistol held in Salano's hand was levelled at his
head, and his face was burned by the explosion that instantly followed,
though the bullet intended for him whistled harmlessly over his head. A
young man who had but that moment appeared on the scene had struck up
the murderer's arm at the instant of pulling the trigger, exclaiming as
he did so:

"Are you mad, Salano!"

Then to Coacoochee he said: "Go now before further mischief is done.
The man is crazy with drink, and not responsible for his actions. I
will see that no further harm comes to you." Without a word, but with
one penetrating look at the face of the speaker, as though to fix it
indelibly on his memory, the young Indian turned and walked rapidly
away.

He had not gone more than a mile from town, and was walking slowly
with downcast head and filled with bitter thoughts, when he was roused
from his unhappy reverie by the sound of galloping hoofs behind him.
Turning, he saw two horsemen rapidly approaching the place where he
stood. At the same time he became aware that two others, who had made
a wide circuit under cover of the dense palmetto scrub on either side
of the road, and thus obtained a position in front of him, were closing
in so as to prevent his escape in that direction. He could have darted
into the scrub, and thus have eluded his pursuers for a few minutes;
and had he been possessed of his trusty rifle, he would certainly have
done so. But unarmed as he was, and as his enemies knew him to be, they
could easily hunt him out and shoot him down without taking any risk
themselves, if they were so inclined.

So Coacoochee walked steadily forward as though unconscious of being
the object toward which the four horsemen were directing their course.
He wished he were near enough to the hiding-place of his warriors to
call them to him, but they were still a couple of miles away, and even
his voice could not be heard at that distance. So, apparently unaware
of, or indifferent to, the danger closing in on him, the young Indian
resolutely pursued his way until he was almost run down by the horsemen
who were approaching him from behind. As they reined sharply up, one of
them ordered him to halt.

Coacoochee did as commanded, and turning, found himself again face to
face with Fontaine Salano, the man who but a short time before had
attempted to take his life.




CHAPTER VII

COACOOCHEE IN THE CLUTCHES OF WHITE RUFFIANS


As the young chief, obeying the stern command to halt, faced about, he
found himself covered by a rifle in the hands of his most vindictive
enemy. He knew in a moment that a crisis in their intercourse had
been reached, and almost expected to be shot down where he stood, so
malignant was the expression of the white man's face. Still, with the
wonderful self-control in times of danger that forms part of the Indian
character, he betrayed no emotion nor trace of fear. He only asked:

"Why should Coacoochee halt at the command of a white man?"

"Because, Coacoochee, if such is your outlandish name, the white man
chooses to make you do so, and because he wants to see your pass,"
replied Salano, sneeringly.

In the meantime the other riders had come up, and two of them,
dismounting, now stood on either side of the young Indian. In obedience
to an almost imperceptible nod from their leader, these two seized him,
and in a moment had pinioned his arms behind him. Coacoochee could
have flung them from him and made a dash for liberty even now. He did
make one convulsive movement in that direction; but like a flash the
thought came to him that this was precisely what his enemies desired
him to do, that they might thus have an excuse for killing him. So he
remained motionless, and quietly allowed himself to be bound.

At this a shade of disappointment swept over Salano's face, and he
muttered an oath. The truth was that, terrified by Coacoochee's recent
threat to have his life in exchange for that of Ul-we, which he had so
cruelly taken, the bully had determined to get rid of this dangerous
youth without delay, and had hit upon the present plan for so doing.
He had calculated that his victim would attempt to escape, or at least
offer some resistance. In either case he would have shot him down
without compunction, and afterwards if called to account for the act,
would justify himself on the ground that the Indian was transgressing
a law recently passed by the Legislature of Florida, which he, in his
character of Justice of the Peace, was attempting to enforce.

Still, his plan had not wholly failed, and he now proceeded to carry it
to an extremity.

"So you acknowledge that you hain't got no pass, do you, Injun? And are
roaming about the country, threatening white folks' lives, and doing
Lord knows what other deviltry on your own responsibility," he said.
"Now, then, listen to this." Drawing a paper from his pocket as he
spoke, the man read as follows:

"_An Act to prevent Indians from roaming at large throughout the
Territory_: Be it enacted by the Governor and Legislative Council of
the Territory, that from and after the passing of this act, if any
Indian, of the years of discretion, venture to roam or ramble beyond
the boundary lines of the reservations which have been assigned to
the tribe or nation to which said Indian belongs, it shall and may be
lawful for any person or persons to apprehend, seize, and take said
Indian, and carry him before some Justice of the Peace, who is hereby
authorized, empowered, and required to direct (if said Indian have
not a written permission from the agent to do some specific act) that
there shall be inflicted not exceeding thirty-nine (39) stripes, at
the discretion of the Justice, on the bare back of said Indian, and,
moreover, to cause the gun of said Indian, if he have any, to be taken
away from him and deposited with the colonel of the county or captain
of the district in which said Indian may be taken, subject to the order
of the Superintendent of Indian Affairs."

"Now, Mr. Injun, what have you got to say to that?" demanded Salano, as
he folded the paper and restored it to his pocket.

Although Coacoochee had not understood all that had just been read to
him, he comprehended that by a white man's law, an Indian might be
whipped like a slave or a dog, and his blood boiled hotly at the mere
thought of such an outrage. Still he replied to Salano's last question
with dignity and a forced composure.

"The Iste-chatte has not been told of this law. It is a new one to him,
and he has had no time to learn it. It was not put into the treaty.
Coacoochee is the son of a chief. If you lift a hand against him, you
lift it against the whole Seminole nation. If you strike him, the land
will run red with white men's blood. If you kill him, his spirit will
cry for vengeance, and no place can hide you from the fury of his
warriors. They will not eat nor drink nor sleep till they have found
you out, and torn the cowardly heart from your body."

"Oh come!" interrupted Salano, with an oath, "that will do. We don't
want to hear any more from you. This Injun is evidently a dangerous
character, gentlemen, and as a Justice of the Peace I shall deal with
him according to the law. We'll whip him first, and if that isn't
enough, we'll hang him afterwards."

The three men who accompanied Salano were his boon companions, and
were equally ready with himself to perform any deed of cruelty or
wickedness. They regarded an Indian as fair game, to be hunted and
even killed wherever found. Nothing would please them better than a
declaration of war against the Seminoles, and they were determined
to leave nothing undone to hasten so desirable an event. To whip an
Indian under cover of the law was rare sport, and the prospect of
hanging him afterwards filled them with a brutal joy. So they readily
obeyed the commands of their leader, and after fastening their horses
by the roadside, they threw a slip-noose over Coacoochee's head, and
drawing it close about his neck, led him a short distance within a
grove of trees, to one of which they made fast the loose end of the
rope. He was thus allowed to step a couple of paces in each direction.
Ripping his tunic from the neck downward with a knife, they stripped it
from his back, and all was in readiness for their devilish deed. Their
rifles had been left hanging to their saddles, but each man had brought
a raw-hide riding-whip with him, and these they now proposed to apply
to the bare back of their silent and unresisting victim.

"Ten cuts apiece, gentlemen!" cried Salano, with a ferocious laugh.
"That'll make the thirty-nine allowed by law, and one over for good
measure. I take great credit to myself for the idea of making the
prisoner fast by the neck only, and that with a slip-noose. He's
got plenty of room to dance, and if he looses his footing and hangs
himself, why, that'll be his lookout and not ours. At any rate, it will
be a good riddance of the varmint, and will relieve us from further
responsibility in the matter. I claim the first cut at him; so stand
back and give me room."

As the others moved back a few paces, the chief ruffian stepped up to
the young Indian, and laying the raw hide across the bared shoulders
as though to measure the width of the blow he was about to inflict, he
lifted it high above his head, saying as he did so:

"You'll cut my heart out, will you, Injun? We'll see now who is going
to do the cutting."

Then with a vicious hiss, the raw hide swept down with the full force
of the arm that wielded it.

There was no outcry and no movement on the part of the Indian, only his
flesh shrunk and quivered beneath the cruel blow, which left a livid
stripe across his shoulders.

That blow was to be paid for with hundreds of innocent lives, and
millions of dollars. It was to be felt throughout the length and
breadth of the land, and was to be atoned by rivers of blood. In a
single instant its fearful magic transformed the young Indian who
received it, from a quiet, peace-loving youth, with a generous,
affectionate nature, into a savage warrior, relentless and pitiless. It
gave to the Seminoles a leader whose very name should become a terror
to their enemies, and it precipitated one of the cruellest and most
stubbornly contested Indian wars ever waged on American soil.

Again was the whip uplifted, but before it could descend for a second
blow, the wretch who wielded it was dashed to the ground, and a white
man with blazing eyes stood over his prostrate figure. The newcomer
presented a cocked rifle at the startled spectators of the proceedings,
who had been too intent upon the perpetration of their crime to take
notice of his approach.

"Cowards!" he cried, in ringing tones. "Does it take four of you
to whip one Indian? Is this the way you continue a private quarrel
and gratify your devilish instincts? Bah! Such wretches as you are
a disgrace to manhood! You make me ashamed of my color, since it is
the same as your own. Did you not hear me give my word to this youth
that he should go in safety? How dared you then even contemplate this
outrage? Perhaps you thought that the word of an Englishman might be
defied with impunity. From this moment you will know better; for if
any one of you ever dares cross my path again, I will shoot him in his
tracks as I would any other noxious beast that curses the earth. Now
get you gone from this spot ere my forbearance is tempted beyond its
strength. Go back to the town, and there proclaim your iniquity, if you
dare. You will find few sympathizers in your attempt to precipitate an
Indian war, and deluge this fair land with blood. Go, and go on foot.
Your horses have already taken the road. Go, and if you even dare to
look back until out of my sight, a bullet from this rifle shall spur
your lagging pace. And you, Fontaine Salano, you brute of brutes, you
pariah dog, do you go with them. Away out of my sight, I say, lest I
cause this Indian to flay your bare back with the lashes you intended
for him."

[Illustration: THEN WITH A VICIOUS HISS THE RAWHIDE SWEPT DOWN WITH THE
FULL FORCE OF THE ARM THAT WIELDED IT.]

Whether the four men imagined that they were confronted by one bereft
of his senses, or whether they were indeed the cowards he called them,
it is impossible to say. Certain it is that they received the young
man's scathing words in silence, and, when ordered to leave, they took
their departure with a precipitate haste that would have been comical
under less tragic circumstances.

The stranger followed them to the edge of the wood, and watched them
until they disappeared in the direction of the town. Then he returned
to where Coacoochee, who had not yet seen the face of his deliverer,
still remained bound to the tree. As with a keen-edged knife he cut
the thongs confining the young Indian's arms, and the rope about his
neck, thus allowing the latter to face him, Coacoochee gave a start of
surprise. His new friend was the same who, but an hour or so before,
had saved him from Fontaine Salano's pistol in the streets of St.
Augustine.




CHAPTER VIII

RALPH BOYD THE ENGLISHMAN


The man who had thus so opportunely come to the rescue of Coacoochee
twice in one day was a remarkable character even in that land of
adventurers. Descended from a wealthy English family, well educated and
accomplished, he had sought a life of adventure, and after spending
some years in out-of-the-way corners of the world, had finally settled
down on a large plantation in Florida left to him by an uncle whom he
had never seen. Here he now lived with his only sister Anstice, who had
recently come out to join him.

Filled with a love for freedom and always ready to quarrel with
injustice in any form, he had, before even seeing his property, freed
his slaves and ordered his attorneys to discharge an oppressive
overseer who had mismanaged the plantation for some years. This man,
whom Ralph Boyd did not even know by sight, was no other than our
slave-catching acquaintance Mr. Troup Jeffers.

In that slave-holding community a man who chose to work his plantation
with free labor became immediately unpopular, and some of his neighbors
sought quarrels with him, in the hope of driving him from the country.
But they had reckoned without their host. Ralph Boyd was not to be
driven, as the result of several duels into which they forced him
plainly proved. He was a good shot, an expert swordsman, a capital
horseman, and was apparently without fear. Therefore it was quickly
discovered that to meddle with the young Englishman was to meddle
with danger, and that his friendship was infinitely preferable to his
enmity. He was of such a sunny disposition that it was difficult to
rouse him to anger on his own behalf, but he never permitted a wrong to
be perpetrated on the weak or helpless that lay within his powers of
redress. Thus a case of cowardly brutality like the present, and one of
which the possible consequences were so terrible to contemplate, filled
him with a righteous and well-nigh uncontrollable rage.

The Boyd plantation lay some forty miles from St. Augustine, and Boyd
had ridden into town that day on a matter of business. He had reached
it just in time to witness Salano's shooting of Ul-we. Filled with
indignation at the deed, and admiring the manner with which Coacoochee
confronted his tormentors, Boyd at once took the young Indian's part
and probably saved his life. Then he went about his own business. Some
time afterwards he learned by the merest accident of the departure
of Salano and his evil associates on the track of the young chief.
Fearing that they meditated mischief toward one to whom he had given
the promise of his protection, he procured a fresh horse and started in
hot pursuit.

Finding the four horses hitched by the roadside, and noting that each
man had left his rifle hanging to the saddle, Boyd took the precaution
of putting these safely out of the way, by the simple expedient of
cutting the horses loose and starting them on the back track before
entering the grove. Then, following the sound of voices, he made
his way noiselessly among the trees to the disgraceful scene of the
whipping. He had not anticipated anything so bad as this, and the sight
filled him with an instant fury.

Springing forward, rifle in hand, he stretched Salano on the ground
with a single blow, and then confronted the others. They all knew him,
and would rather have encountered any other two men. His very presence,
in moments of wrath, inspired terror, and when he gave them permission
to go, they slunk from him like whipped curs.

If Coacoochee was startled at sight of his deliverer, Boyd was no less
so at the frightful change in the face of the young Indian. It was no
longer that into which he had gazed an hour before. That was the mobile
face of a youth reflecting each passing emotion, and though it was even
then clouded by sorrow and anger, a little time would have restored its
sunshine. Now its features were rigid, and stamped with a look that
expressed at once intolerable shame and undying hate. The eyes were
those of a wild beast brought to bay and prepared for a death struggle.

The once fearless gaze now fell before that of the white man.
Coacoochee, proudest of Seminoles, hung his head. This man had
witnessed his shame and had at the same time placed him under an
obligation. The young Indian could not face him, and could not kill
him, so he stood motionless and silent, with his eyes fixed on the
ground.

Ralph Boyd appreciated the situation, and understood the other's
feelings as though they were his own, as in a way they were. They would
be the feelings of any free-born, high-spirited youth under similar
circumstances.

"My poor fellow," said Boyd, holding out his hand as he spoke, "I think
I know how you feel, and I sympathize with you from the bottom of my
heart. You will surely allow me to be your friend, though, seeing that
I have just made four enemies on your account. Won't you shake hands
with me in token of friendship?"

"I cannot," answered Coacoochee, in a choked voice. "You are a white
man. I have been whipped by a white man. Not until the mark of his blow
has been washed away with his blood can I take the hand of any white
man in friendship."

"Well, I don't know but what I should feel just as you do," replied
Boyd, musingly. "I have never before met any of your people, but have
been told that you were a treacherous race, without any notions of
honor or true bravery. Now it seems to me that your feelings in this
matter are very much what mine would be if I were in your place. Still,
I hope you are not going to lay up any bitterness against me on account
of what was done by another, even though we are, unfortunately, both
of the same color. I am curious to know something of you Indians, and
would much rather have you for a friend than an enemy."

"Coacoochee will always be your friend," answered the other, earnestly.
"Some day he will shake hands with you. Not now. With his life will he
serve you. A Seminole never forgives an injury, and he never forgets a
kindness. Now I must go."

"Hold on, Coacoochee; you must not go half naked and with that mark on
your back," exclaimed Boyd. "Here, I have on two shirts, and I insist
that you take one of them. With your permission I will take in exchange
this buckskin affair of yours that those villains cut so recklessly,
and will keep it as a souvenir of this occasion."

As he spoke, the young Englishman divested himself of his outer
garment, a tastefully made hunting-tunic of dark green cloth, and
handed it to Coacoochee. Without hesitation the Indian accepted this
gift, and put on the garment, which fitted him perfectly.

Then the two young men left the little grove in which events of such
grave import to both had just taken place, and walked to where Boyd had
left his horse.

Upon Coacoochee saying that he should go but a little further on the
road, the other declared an intention to accompany him, and so, leading
his horse, walked on beside the shame-faced Indian.

The more Boyd talked with Coacoochee, the more he was pleased with him.
He found him to be intelligent and modest, but high-spirited and imbued
to an exaggerated degree with savage notions of right and wrong, honor
and dishonor. To avenge a wrong and repay a kindness, to deal honorably
with the honorable and treacherously with the treacherous, to serve
a friend and injure an enemy, was his creed, and by it was his life
moulded.

At length they came to the place where the young Indian said he must
leave the road. As they paused to exchange farewells, the querulous
note of a hawk sounded from the palmetto scrub close beside them.
Coacoochee raised his hand, and as though by magic six stalwart
warriors leaped into the road and surrounded them.

Boyd made an instinctive movement toward his rifle, but it was checked
by the sight of a faint smile on his companion's face. At the same time
the latter said quietly:

"Fear nothing; they are my friends, and my friends are thy friends."

To the Indians he said in their own tongue, "Note well this man. He is
my friend and that of all Seminoles. From them no harm must ever come
to him."

Then he waved his hand, and the six warriors disappeared so instantly
and so utterly that the white man rubbed his eyes and looked about him
in amazement.

Turning, to express his surprise to Coacoochee, he discovered that the
young chief had also disappeared, and that he alone occupied the road.




CHAPTER IX

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF A SENTINEL


For a full minute Ralph Boyd stood bewildered in the middle of the
road. In vain did he look for some sign and listen for some sound that
would betray the whereabouts of those who, but a moment before, had
stood with him. The tall grasses waved and the flowers nodded before a
gentle breeze, but it was not strong enough to move the stiff leaves
of the palmetto scrub, nor was there any motion that might be traced
to the passing of human beings among their hidden stalks. From the
feathery tips of the cabbage palms came a steady fluttering that rose
or fell with the breathings of the wind, and in far-away thickets could
be heard the cooing of wood doves, and the occasional cheery note of a
quail, but no other sound broke the all-pervading silence.

All at once from a hammock growing at a considerable distance from
where the young man stood there came to his ears the thrilling sound of
a Seminole war-cry:

"Yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-che!"

It was followed by another and another, until the listener counted
seven of the ominous cries in as many distinct voices, and knew that
they were uttered by the seven Indians who had stood with him in the
road.

Unaccustomed to the ways of red men, Boyd could not understand how they
had glided so noiselessly and swiftly away from him.

"It is like magic," he muttered, "and gives one a creepy feeling. What
a terrible thing a war with such as they would be in this country,
where everything is so favorable to them and so unfavorable to the
movements of troops. And yet war is the very thing toward which the
reckless course of politicians, slave-hunters, and land-grabbers
is hurrying the government. Well, I shan't take part in it, that's
certain, though my present duty as a white man is plainly to ride back
to St. Augustine and give the colonel information of this present band
of Indians. I wouldn't think of doing so, only for fear that, smarting
under the insult to that fine young fellow Coacoochee, they will seek
revenge and visit the sins of the guilty upon innocent heads. If
Coacoochee has only followed my advice and gone directly back to the
reservation, and to his own place, there won't be any trouble; but if
he is going to hang around here, trying to lift a few scalps, as I am
afraid he is, he may get himself into a fix from which I can't help
him."

It must not be supposed that Ralph Boyd had been standing in the middle
of the road all this time. He was in the saddle even before the sound
of the Indian war-cries informed him of the direction they had taken
and where they were. Directly afterwards he put spurs to his horse, and
during the latter part of his soliloquy was galloping rapidly back over
the road he had just come.

Although Boyd knew Salano to be a bitter and unscrupulous enemy, he had
no hesitation in returning to St. Augustine on his account, or for fear
of the others with whose cruel sport he had so summarily interfered. He
did not believe they would dare publish what they had done, or care to
acknowledge that they had been driven off and compelled to forego their
intentions by a single man.

To satisfy himself on this point, he made a few inquiries on reaching
the city, and finding that nothing was known of the recent adventure,
he went to the colonel commanding the small garrison stationed in the
city and informed him of the presence near it of an armed band of seven
Indian warriors. He also expressed his fear that they intended mischief
to some of the plantations along the St. John's.

The colonel listened attentively to all that he had to say and thanked
him for the information. Darkness had fallen by this time, and it was
too late to do anything that night, but the officer promised to send
out a scouting party of twenty troopers at daylight. In the meantime
he begged that Boyd would remain as his guest over night, and in the
morning consent to guide the troops to the place where he had seen
the Indians, which the latter readily agreed to do. He did this the
more willingly because he had learned that the scouting party was to
be commanded by Irwin Douglass, a young lieutenant with whom he had
formed a pleasant acquaintance, and who had already visited him at the
plantation.

When, after an early and hurried cup of coffee with the colonel and
Douglass the following morning, Boyd joined the soldiers, to whom for
a short distance he was to act as guide, he was amazed to find that
Fontaine Salano had applied for and received permission to accompany
them. He wondered at this as the troop clattered noisily with jingling
sabres and bit-chains out of the quiet old town. Was Salano's hatred of
the young Indian whom he had so cruelly wronged so bitter that he was
determined to seize every opportunity for killing him? Boyd could think
of no other reason why the man, naturally so indolent, should undertake
this forced march with all the discomforts that must necessarily attend
it.

The spring morning was just cool enough to be exhilarating. The fresh
air was laden with the perfume of orange groves, and from their green
coverts innumerable birds poured forth their choicest melody. The
cavalry horses, in high spirits from long idleness, pranced gaily along
the narrow streets and were with difficulty reined to a decorous trot.

Once free from the town and out in the broad plain of sand and
chaparral that lay beyond, the pace was quickened, and for several
miles the troop swung cheerily along at a hand gallop, with polished
weapons and accoutrements flashing brightly in the rays of the newly
risen sun.

A halt was called at the place where Boyd had encountered the Indians,
and scouts were sent in search of signs. These easily found the camp
from which Coacoochee had started on his visit to town the morning
before, and finally discovered a fresh trail leading to the west or
toward the St. John's.

It was not easy for the troops, inexperienced in Indian warfare, to
follow this on horseback, and they soon lost it completely. This did
not greatly disturb Lieutenant Douglass; for, being satisfied that the
plantations along the river were the objective points of those whom he
was pursuing, he determined to push on toward them without losing any
time in attempting to rediscover the trail.

That evening they reached the great river and encamped near it without
having discovered any further Indian sign, or finding that the few
widely scattered settlers had been given any cause to suspect the
presence of an enemy.

During that night, however, two startling incidents occurred. The first
of these was the complete and mysterious disappearance of one of the
sentinels who guarded the camp. He had been stationed not far from the
edge of the forest, but within easy hail of his sleeping comrades. The
sergeant had given him particular cautions regarding the dangers of
his post, and warned him to be keenly alert to every sound, even the
slightest. He had answered with a laugh, that his ears were too long
to permit anything human to get within a rod of him without giving him
warning, and he declared his intention of firing in the direction of
any suspicious sound.

So they left him, and an hour later the corporal of the guard, visiting
the post, found it vacant. In the darkness it was useless to hunt
for the missing sentry, and so, without giving a general alarm, the
corporal detailed another sentinel to the place of the missing man, and
remained with him on the post until morning. They neither saw nor heard
anything to arouse their suspicions, but as soon as daylight revealed
surrounding objects, they could readily note signs of a struggle at one
end of the beat paced by their unfortunate predecessor.

There were no traces of blood, nor in the trail of moccasined feet
leading away from the spot could any imprint of the heavy cavalry
boots worn by the missing soldier be found. The trail led to a small
creek that emptied into the river just above the camp, but there it
ended. Both banks of this creek were carefully examined for a mile up
and down, but they revealed no sign to denote that they had ever been
trodden by human feet.

There was nothing more to be done. The man was reported as missing,
and a riderless horse was led by one of the troopers on that day's
march,--but this mysterious disappearance and unknown fate of their
comrade served to open the eyes of the soldiers to the dreadful
possibilities of Indian warfare.




CHAPTER X

FONTAINE SALANO'S TREACHERY AND ITS REWARD


Another mysterious happening of that first night out was well
calculated to exercise a depressing effect on the men and to transform
the contempt they had hitherto felt for Indians into a profound respect
not unmixed with fear. Fontaine Salano slept rolled in his blanket not
far from the lieutenant in command of the party, and within the full
light of a camp-fire. Toward morning, however, this fire had burned so
low that it shed but little light, and the place where Salano lay was
buried in shadow.

When he awoke at the first peep of dawn, he was puzzled by the
appearance of a number of strange objects that rose from the ground
close by his head. He examined them curiously, but his curiosity was
in an instant changed to horror when he discovered them to be seven
blood-stained Indian arrows thrust into the ground, three on each side
of where his head had lain and one at the upper end of his couch. This
one bore impaled on its shaft the bloody heart of a recently killed
deer, the significance of which was so plain that no one could fail to
understand it.

The mere fact that the Indians had thus been able to penetrate
undetected to the very centre of a guarded camp invested them in the
eyes of the men with supernatural powers. The effect on Salano was
precisely what Coacoochee had intended it should be. To feel that he
had been completely within the power of one who had sworn to have his
life and had only been spared as a cat spares a mouse, that she may
prolong its torture for her own pleasure, filled the wretch with a
terror pitiful to behold.

He begged Lieutenant Douglass to return at once to St. Augustine or at
least to send him back under escort. The officer politely regretted his
inability to comply with either of these requests, saying that it would
be contrary to his duty to retire from that part of the country until
satisfied that the Indians had left it, and that he dared not weaken
his little force by detailing any men for escort duty.

The man displayed such abject cowardice that finally, more out of
disgust than pity, Ralph Boyd offered to accompany him back to the
city, and to his surprise, Salano accepted the offer eagerly. As they
were both volunteers, Douglass had no authority for detaining them,
though he protested against the undertaking, and tried to persuade them
of its dangers. Ralph Boyd only laughed, and even Salano intimated
a belief that the Indians would devote themselves to watching the
movements of the scouting party, so that to remain with them would be
to remain in the vicinity of greatest danger.

The lieutenant said that he should remove his command only a short
distance, to a better and more secure camping-ground that he knew of
not very far from Boyd's plantation, over which he promised to keep
especial watch. He intended to remain at that place until he learned
something definite regarding the movements of the Indians, and there
Boyd promised to rejoin him on the following day.

Camp was broken, and the clear bugle notes of "boots and saddles" were
ringing on the still morning air as Boyd and Salano rode away from the
camp on the return trail to St. Augustine. They rode in silence; for
one entertained too great a contempt for the other to care to talk with
him, and Salano was perfecting a plan for obtaining one portion of the
revenge upon which his mind was intent.

They had not proceeded thus more than two miles, when they came to a
narrow gully through which they were obliged to ride in single file,
and here Salano, with an exaggerated show of politeness, dropped
behind, allowing Boyd to take the lead.

The latter rode unsuspectingly ahead for a few rods, and then, not
hearing the sound of the other's horse behind him, turned to see if he
were not coming.

The sight that met his eyes was so unexpected and terrible that for
an instant it rendered him incapable of thought or action. Salano,
dismounted from his horse, was slowly raising a rifle and taking
deliberate aim at him. He could see the cruelly triumphant expression
on the swarthy face. In that instant of time he also saw a flashing
figure with uplifted arm leap from the underbrush behind Salano. Then
all became a blank.

When next Ralph Boyd was able to take an interest in the affairs of
this world, he was lying in the shade of a tree, two horses were
cropping the grass near him, and a strange, wild-looking figure was
dashing water in his face.

"What does this mean? What has happened?" Boyd inquired faintly.

"Wal, cap'n," answered the stranger, in unmistakable English, pausing
in his occupation and drawing a long breath. "I'm almighty glad you
ain't dead. The Injun said you warn't, but I wouldn't be sure of it
myself till this very minute. As to what's happened, I'm a leetle mixed
myself, but it's something like this: Some red villians was about to do
for me when you come along and stopped 'em. Then a white villian was
about to do for you, when one of the red villians stopped him, or at
any rate he stopped the worst of it; then the red villian did for the
white villian, and did it almighty thorough too."

At this juncture Boyd again closed his eyes and seemed about to lapse
once more into unconsciousness, whereupon the stranger began again to
dash water vigorously in his face.

There was a stinging sensation and a loud buzzing in the young man's
head. Salano's murderous aim had been slightly disconcerted, at the
moment of firing, by a fierce yell in his very ear. At the instant of
pulling the trigger Coacoochee's terrible knife had been buried to the
hilt in his body. The would-be murderer sank dead without a groan,
while his intended victim escaped with a scalp wound which, though not
dangerous, was sufficient to deprive him of his senses for some time.

When he had sufficiently recovered his strength to be able to sit up,
and after he had listened to these details of his own narrow escape, he
looked curiously at his companion and asked him who he was. It is no
wonder that he did not recognize the strange figure; for though the man
wore a pair of army trousers, he had Indian moccasins on his feet, was
bare-headed, and naked to the waist. Half his face as well as half of
his body was painted red and the other half black.

In this manner did the Seminoles prepare their bodies for death, and to
those who understood its meaning, this combination of the two colors
had a very grim significance. Fortunately for the man's peace of mind,
he had not understood why this form of decoration was applied to him,
though his fears that his life was in danger had been very fully
aroused.

In answer to Ralph Boyd's questions, he told his story as follows:
"I'm not surprised that you don't recognize me, cap'n; for I'm not
quite sure that I'd recognize myself. Still, whatever I may be to-day,
yesterday I was private Hugh Belcher of Company B, Second Regiment
United States Dragoons."

"What!" exclaimed Boyd, "are you the sentry who disappeared last night?"

"That's who I am, sir," replied the other, "much as my present
appearance would seem to point again its being true. How the Reds crept
upon me without me hearing a sound of their coming is more than I can
tell, for I've always bragged that my ears were as sharp as the next
man's. However, they did it, and the first I knew of their presence was
when a blanket was flung over my head and I was tripped up. I don't
know how many of 'em had me, but there was enough, anyway, to hold me
fast, and tie me and get a gag into my mouth, so that I couldn't make
a sound. Then they pulled off my boots, put moccasins on my feet, and
made me go along with them.

"After awhile we came to this place, and here, as soon as it got light,
they stripped me and painted me and tied me to a tree, and was just
getting ready to give me a thrashing with a lot of switches they'd cut,
though Lord knows I hadn't done nothing to rile 'em, when all of a
sudden you and Mr. Salano hove in sight.

"I was faced that way and see Mr. Salano when he dropped off his horse
and drawed a bead on you. I'd a hollered, but the gag was still in my
mouth, so I couldn't. When the head Injun see what was taking place
though, he gave one spring out of the brush, and landed on Mr. Salano's
back like a wildcat. At the same time he let loose a yell fit to raise
the dead. The gun went off just as he yelled, and you tumbled out of
the saddle like you was killed.

"When the head Injun saw that, he run up to you first and dragged you
to this place. Then he run back to Mr. Salano and stooped over him
like he was feeling of his heart to see if he was dead. When he riz
up again, he fetched another yell and called out something in his own
lingo about Ul-we. Then the rest crowded around him, and he talked to
them for about a minute.

"After that they come back and cut me loose, and the head Injun,
pointing to you, said in English, 'You are free. Care for him. He is
not dead. Tell him Coacoochee's heart is no longer heavy. He will go
to his own people. If the soldiers want him, let them seek him in
the swamps of the Okeefenokee.' Then, without another word, they all
disappeared, and I set to work to bring you to."

Thus was the death of Ul-we, the tall one, atoned for in heart's blood,
and thus was the stripe on Coacoochee's back washed out with the blood
of him who had so wantonly inflicted it. Thus, also, did Coacoochee
save the life of his friend and punish the would-be assassin who had
so planned his cowardly revenge upon Ralph Boyd that the act would be
credited to the Indians.

With the accomplishment of this deed of just retribution, Coacoochee
and his warriors disappeared from that part of the country, nor were
they again seen there for many months.




CHAPTER XI

THE SEMINOLE MUST GO


The Seminoles must be removed. The clamor of the land-speculator, the
slave-hunter, and a host of others interested in driving the Indian
from his home had at length been listened to at Washington, and the
fiat had gone forth. The Seminoles must be removed to the distant
west--peaceably if possible, but forcibly if they will not go otherwise.

A new treaty had been made by which the Indians agreed to remove to the
new home selected for them, provided a delegation of chiefs appointed
to visit the western land reported favorably concerning it. These went,
saw the place, and upon their return reported it to be a cold country
where Seminoles would be very unhappy.

Upon hearing this, the Indians said that they would prefer to remain
where they were. Thereupon the United States Government said through
its commissioners that it made no difference whether they wanted to go
or not; they must go.

In the meantime, outrages of every kind were perpetrated upon the
Indians. The whipping of those discovered off the reservation, that
was begun with Coacoochee, was continued. Several Indians were thus
whipped to death by the white brutes into whose cowardly hands they
fell. The system of withholding annuities and supplies was continued,
and the helpless Indians were recklessly plundered right and left.

General Andrew Jackson, who was now President, had no love for Indians.
He had in former years wronged them too cruelly for that, while
teaching them lessons of the white man's power. He therefore appointed
General Wiley Thompson of Georgia, as the Seminole agent, and ordered
him to compel their removal to the far west without further delay. He
also sent troops to Florida, and these began to gather at Fort Brooke
and Tampa Bay under command of General Clinch.

It was evident that the Seminoles must either submit to leave the sunny
land of their birth, their homes, and the graves of their fathers, or
they must fight in its defence, and for their rights as free men. If
they consented to go west to the land that those chiefs who had seen it
described as cold and unproductive, they would find already established
there their old and powerful enemies, the Creeks, who were eagerly
awaiting their coming, with a view to seizing their negro allies and
selling them into slavery. It was evident that a fight for his very
existence was to be forced upon the Seminole in either case, and it
only remained for him to choose whether he would fight in his own
land, of which he knew every swamp, hammock, and glade, and of which
his enemy was ignorant, or whether he should go to a distant country,
of which he knew nothing, and fight against an enemy already well
acquainted with it.

This was the alternative presented to the warriors of Philip Emathla's
village assembled about their council fire on a summer's evening a few
weeks after that with which this history opens.

On Coacoochee, now sitting in the place of honor at the right hand of
the chief his father and earnestly regarding the speaker who laid this
state of affairs before them, the weeks just passed had borne with the
weight of so many years. During their short space he had passed from
youth to manhood. Having directed the search for himself that followed
the death of Salano, toward the Okeefenokee, while his village lay in
exactly the opposite direction, he had escaped all intercourse with the
whites from that time to the present. But from that experience he had
returned so much wiser and graver that his advice was now sought by
warriors much older than he, while by those of his own age and younger
he was regarded as a leader. Thus, though still a youth in years, and
though he still reverenced and obeyed his father, he was to all intents
the chief of Philip Emathla's powerful band.

It was in this capacity that the speaker, to hear whom this council
was gathered, evidently regarded him, and it was to Coacoochee that his
remarks were especially directed.

This speaker was a member of a band of Seminoles known as the Baton
Rouge or Red Sticks, who occupied a territory at some distance from
that of King Philip. His father, whom he had never known, was a white
man, but his mother was the daughter of a native chieftain, and though
he spoke English fluently, he had passed all of his twenty-eight
years among the Seminoles, and they were his people. Although not a
chief, nor yet regarded as a prominent leader, he was possessed of
such force of character and such a commanding presence that he had
acquired a great influence over all the Indians with whom he was thrown
in contact. His name was Ah-ha-se-ho-la (black drink), generally
pronounced Osceola by the whites, who also called him by his father's
name of Powell.

This dauntless warrior was bitterly opposed to the emigration of his
tribe, and was anxious to declare war against the whites rather than
submit to it. He believed that the Seminoles, roaming over a vast
extent of territory abounding in natural hiding-places, might defend
themselves against any army of white soldiers that should undertake to
subdue them for at least three years. Could the conflict be sustained
for that length of time without the whites gaining any decided
advantages, he declared they would then give up the struggle and allow
the Indians to retain their present lands unmolested.

Osceola was now visiting the different bands of the tribe, preaching
this crusade of resistance to tyranny. As he stood before Philip
Emathla and his warriors, with his noble figure and fine face fully
displayed in the bright firelight, they were thrilled by his eloquence.
With bated breath they listened to his summing up of their grievances,
and when he declared that he would rather die fighting for this land
than live in any other, they greeted his words with a murmur of
approving assent.

Never had Coacoochee been so powerfully affected. The sting of the
white man's whip across his shoulders was still felt, and he was choked
with the sense of outrage and injustice inflicted upon his people. His
fingers clutched nervously at the hilt of his knife and he longed for
the time to come when he might fight madly for all that a man holds
most dear.

As his gaze wandered for a moment from the face of the speaker, it
fell on a group just visible within the circle of firelight. There sat
the beautiful girl to whom he had so recently plighted his troth, and
beside her Chen-o-wah, the daughter of a Creek chief and his quadroon
squaw. She was the wife of Osceola, and the one being in all the world
whom the fierce forest warrior loved.

For a moment Coacoochee's determination wavered as he reflected what
these and others equally helpless would suffer in a time of war. There
came a memory of the manner in which Nita's mother and brother had been
consigned to slavery by the white man. No word had come from them, but
he could imagine their fate. Might not the same fate overtake her most
dear to him and hundreds of others with her? Would it not be better for
them to incur the dangers and sufferings of war rather than those of
slavery? Yes, a thousand times yes.

And then, perhaps the whites were not so very powerful, after all.
Their soldiers, so far as he had seen them, were but few in number,
and moved slowly from place to place. He and his warriors could travel
twenty miles to their five. Besides, there were the vast watery
fastnesses of the Everglades and the Big Cypress in the far south, to
which the Indians could always retreat and into which no white man
would ever dare follow them. Yes, his voice should be raised for war,
no matter how long it might last, nor how bloody it might be, and the
sooner it could be begun, the better. But he must listen, for Philip
Emathla was about to speak.




CHAPTER XII

CHEN-O-WAH IS STOLEN BY THE SLAVE-CATCHERS


The aged chieftain rose slowly and for a moment gazed lovingly and in
silence at those gathered about him; then he said: "My children, we
have listened to the words of Ah-ha-se-ho-la, and we know them to be
true. But he has spoken with the voice of a young man. He sees with
young eyes. My eyes are old, but they can look back over many seasons
that a young man cannot see. They can also look forward further than
his, and see many things. I have seen the great council of the white
man, and his warriors. I have seen his villages. His lodges are more
numerous than the trees of the forest, and his numbers are those of the
leaves of countless trees. To fight with him would be like fighting the
waves of the great salt waters that reach to the sky. If we should kill
one, ten would spring up to take his place. For a hundred who may fall,
a thousand will stand. He is strong, and we are weak. Let us then live
at peace with him while we may. Let us meet him in council and tell him
how little it is that we ask. There is a land beyond Okeechobee, the
great sweet water, that the white man can never want, but where the
red man could dwell in peace and plenty. Let him leave this to us, and
we will ask no more.

"If he will not do this, then let us fight. Never will Philip Emathla
consent to go to the strange and distant land of the setting sun. If it
is a better land than this, as the white man tells us, why does he not
go there himself and leave us alone? It is a cold country. My people
would die there. It is better to die here and die fighting.

"The white chief at Fort King calls us together for one more talk with
him. Philip is old. He cannot travel so far, but Coacoochee shall go in
his place. He will speak wisely, and if peace can be had, he will find
it. If there is no peace, if the Seminole must fight, then who will
fight harder or more bravely than Coacoochee? At his name the white
man will tremble, and his squaws will hide their faces in fear. The
enemies of Coacoochee will fall before him as ripe fruit falls before
the breath of Hu-la-lah (the wind). He will kill till he is weary of
killing. His footsteps will be marked with blood. Rivers of blood shall
flow where he passes. I am old and feeble, but Coacoochee is young and
strong. From this day shall he be a war-chief of the Seminoles. Philip
Emathla has spoken."

At this announcement there came a great shout of rejoicing, and as the
council broke up, the warriors crowded about Coacoochee to tell him
how proud they would be to have him lead them in battle.

After the tumult had somewhat subsided, Osceola, who had not hitherto
spoken directly to Coacoochee, stepped up to him. The two young men
grasped each other's hands, and gazed earnestly in each other's face.
Finally Osceola, apparently satisfied with what he saw, broke the
silence, and said:

"We are brothers?"

"We are brothers," answered the young war-chief, and thus was made a
compact between the two that was only to be broken by death.

The following morning, Coacoochee, with a small escort of warriors, set
forth, in company with Osceola and Chen-o-wah, to travel to the village
of Micanopy, head chief of the Seminoles, there to hold another council
before going to Fort King for a talk with the agent.

In Micanopy's village they found assembled a large number of Seminole
warriors, and many of the sub-chiefs of the tribe. This council was
a grave and momentous affair. It was to decide the fate of a nation,
and its deliberations were prolonged over two days. Micanopy, the head
chief, was old, corpulent, and fond of his ease. He loved his land and
hated the thought of war. He was greatly disinclined to remove to the
west, but it was not until urged and almost compelled by the younger
men, especially Coacoochee and Osceola, that he finally declared
positively that he would not do so.

His utterance decided the majority of the council. They would fight
before submitting to removal, but on one pretext and another they would
gain all possible time in which to prepare for war.

It was also announced at this council that any Seminole who should
openly advocate removal, and should make preparations for emigrating,
should be put to death.

In all the council there was but one dissenting voice. It was that of a
sub-chief named Charlo, who had been raised to the head of a small band
by the agent, in place of an able warrior who was an uncompromising
enemy of the whites. This petty chief spoke in favor of removal,
and ridiculed the suggestion that the tribe could hold out for any
length of time against the overwhelming power of the white man. He was
listened to with impatience, and many dark glances were cast at him as
he resumed his seat.

Three days later some fourteen chiefs, accompanied by a large number
of their people, were encamped near Fort King, and active preparations
were going forward for the great talk that was to be held that
afternoon.

On the morning of that day, a thick-set, evil-looking man, whom the
reader would at once recognize as his old acquaintance Mr. Troup
Jeffers the slave-trader, sat in the agent's office engaged in earnest
conversation with General Wiley Thompson.

"Thar ain't no doubt about it, gineral," he was saying. "She's easy
enough identified, and I'll take my affidavy right here that she's the
gal Jess who run away from old Miss Cooke's place two year ago. You've
got a list of all them niggers and their description, as well as the
order from Washington for their capture and deliverin' up. You know
you have, and when I tell you what this gal looks like, you see if she
don't answer the description exactly."

"Yes, sir, I've no doubt," answered the agent, wearily, for of the
many trials of his difficult position, the importunities of the
slave-hunters who besieged him at all hours were the greatest. "I don't
doubt what you say, and I'll give you an order for the girl which you
can present to the chiefs. If they give her up, well and good; but if
they won't, why they won't, that's all, and matters are too critical
just now for us to attempt to force them."

"All right, gineral," replied Mr. Jeffers, with a triumphant glitter in
his cruel little eyes. "The order is all I want, and I'll get the gal
without putting you or anybody else to a mite of trouble."

Thus saying, the trader took the slip of paper handed him by the agent,
and left the office.

Like a vulture scenting the carnage from afar, the slave-trader hearing
that the Seminoles and their negro allies were about to be removed,
had hastened to the scene of action, determined in some way to secure a
share of the peculiar property in which he dealt, before it should be
placed beyond his reach.

In the Indian camp he had seen several good-looking young women in
whose veins he was convinced flowed negro blood, and he decided that
his purpose would be served by securing one or more of these. Going to
the agent with the trumped-up story of having thus discovered a runaway
slave girl, he obtained the coveted order for her restoration to her
lawful owner. Armed with this, he proceeded to carry out his wicked
design.

His plan was very simple, and to put it into operation, he repaired to
the store of the post trader. It was located in a grove of live oaks,
some distance beyond the stockade, and was hidden from view of those in
or near the fort. To it, groups of Indians, men, women, and children,
found their way at all times for the purchase of such supplies as they
needed and could afford.

Rogers, the storekeeper, whose conscience from a long dealing with
and cheating of Indians was as calloused and hardened as that of Mr.
Jeffers himself, was not above turning what he called an honest penny
by any means that came in his way. Therefore when the slave-trader
explained his business, showed the agent's order, and offered Rogers
ten dollars to assist him in recapturing his alleged property, the
latter readily consented to do so.

Troup Jeffers was almost certain that one or more of the young women
whom he had noticed in the Indian camp would visit the store at some
time during the day, and so he waited patiently the advent of a victim.

At length, late in the afternoon, when most of the Indians were
attracted to the scene of the council, then in session, a squaw was
seen to approach the store. She was one of those whom Mr. Jeffers had
selected as suitable for the slave market, and the instant he observed
her he exclaimed to the storekeeper:

"Here comes the very gal I'm after--old Miss Cooke's Jess. I'll just
step into the back room, and if you can persuade her to come in there
to look at something or other, we'll have her as slick as a whistle."

"All right," responded Rogers, who a minute later was waiting on his
customer with infinitely more politeness than he usually vouchsafed to
an Indian.

She desired to purchase some coffee and sugar with which to surprise
and please her husband when he returned to his lodge after the council
should be ended, and the storekeeper easily persuaded her to enter the
other room, where he said his best goods were kept.

As the unsuspecting woman bent over a sugar barrel, she was seized from
behind, and her head was enveloped in a shawl, by which her cries were
completely stifled.

A few minutes later, bound and helpless, she was lifted into a light
wagon and driven rapidly away.

Half an hour afterwards, a boy who worked for the storekeeper remarked
to his employer:

"I should think you would be afraid of Powell."

"What for?" asked Rogers.

"Why, for letting that man carry off his wife," was the reply.

Thus did the storekeeper receive his first intimation that the alleged
runaway slave girl was Chen-o-wah, the adored wife of Osceola.




CHAPTER XIII

"WILEY THOMPSON, WHERE IS MY WIFE?"


While the wife of Osceola was thus being kidnapped and consigned to
slavery, he, ignorant of the blow in store for him, was participating
in a far different scene. Just outside the gateway of the fort, in
an open space of level sward, the great council upon which so much
depended was assembled. At one side of a long table sat General Clinch,
commanding the army in Florida, with the officers of his staff standing
behind him. Beside him sat General Wiley Thompson, the agent, red-faced
and pompous, Lieutenant Harris, the United States disbursing agent,
who was to conduct the Indians to their western homes, and several
commissioners. All the officers were in full uniform, and presented a
brave appearance. Behind them were two companies of infantry, resting
at ease on their loaded muskets, but ready to spring into action at a
moment's notice. Just inside the gateway of the fort the guns of its
light battery were charged to the muzzle with grape and canister, ready
for instant service. This was one side of the picture.

On the opposite side of the table from the whites sat or stood a group
of Indian chiefs, sullen, determined, and watchful. Too many times
already had the white man cheated them. They would take care that he
should not do so again. They had learned by bitter experience how
lightly he regarded such treaties as conflicted with his interests.
They knew the value of his false promises and fair words.

A little in front of the others sat Micanopy, head chief of the tribe,
and close behind him, so that they could whisper in his ear, stood
Coacoochee and Osceola. Grouped about them were Otee the Jumper, Tiger
Tail, Allapatta Tustenugge, the Fighting Alligator, Arpeika, or Sam
Jones, Black Dirt, Ya ha Hadjo, the Mad Wolf, Coa Hadjo, Halatoochee,
Abram, the negro chief, Passac Micco, and many others. Behind them
stood one hundred warriors, tall, clean-built fellows, lithe and
sinewy, their bare legs as hard and smooth as those of bronze statues.
Concealed in a hammock, but a short distance away, was another body of
warriors held in reserve by Coacoochee, who had thought it best not to
display the full strength of his force at once.

The old men, women, and children had been left in camp not far from the
trader's store. Here everything was prepared for instant flight in case
the council should terminate in an outbreak.

The proceedings were opened by General Thompson, who stated that he had
thus called the Indians together that they might decide upon a day
when they would fulfil their promise contained in the treaty of Payne's
Landing, and set forth for their new home in the west. He had prepared
a paper setting forth the conditions of removal, which he now wished
all the chiefs to sign.

Then Otee the Jumper, who was one of the most fluent speakers of the
tribe, arose and calmly but firmly stated that his people did not
consider themselves as bound by that treaty to remove from their
country, and had decided in solemn council not to do so.

At this point the Seminole speaker was rudely interrupted by General
Thompson, who, flushed and furious, sprang to his feet and demanded
by what right the Indians interpreted the treaty differently from
the whites by whom it was drawn up. He accused them of treachery and
double-dealing, and ended by declaring that it made no difference
whether they were willing to remove or not, for they would be made to
go, alive or dead, and he for one did not care which.

This speech drew forth angry replies from the chiefs, and to these the
agent retorted with such bitterness that General Clinch was finally
obliged to interpose his authority to calm both sides. He told the
Indians how useless it would be for them to struggle against the power
of the United States, and how greatly he would prefer that they should
remove peaceably rather than oblige him to remove them by force.

At this the Indians smiled grimly and exchanged contemptuous glances.
They knew that there were only seven hundred soldiers in all Florida,
and the idea of compelling them to do anything they did not choose,
with a little army like that, was too absurd. It almost made them
laugh, but their native dignity prevented such a breach of decorum.

General Clinch talked long and earnestly and was listened to with
respect and close attention. The agent regarded his arguments as so
unanswerable that at their conclusion he called on the chiefs by name
to step forward and sign the paper he had prepared.

"Micanopy, you are head chief. Come up and sign first at the head of
the list."

"No, Micanopy will never sign."

"Then Coacoochee may sign first. He comes, I believe, as representative
of the wise and brave King Philip."

"No, Coacoochee will not sign either for his father or himself."

"Jumper, then; and when he signs, I will make him head chief."

"No."

"Alligator?"

"No."

"Sam Jones?"

"No."

"Abram?"

"By golly. No."

At these repeated refusals to comply with his request, and the evident
contempt with which his offers of promotion were regarded, the fat
agent became so angry as to entirely lose his self-control.

"If you will not sign," he shouted, "you are no longer fit to hold
your positions. I therefore declare that Micanopy, Coacoochee, Jumper,
Alligator, Sam Jones, and Abram, shall cease from this minute to be
chiefs of the Seminole nation, and their names shall be struck from the
roll of chiefs."

At this an angry murmur ran through the ranks of the Indians, who
considered that a grievous insult had thus been offered them. Those
chiefs who had been sitting sprang to their feet and fell back a few
paces. The warriors behind them moved up closer, and Coacoochee,
slipping unnoticed through the throng, hurried back to the hammock to
direct the flight of the women and children, and bring up his reserve
force of warriors.

In the meantime an Indian who had come from the camp was talking with
low, hurried words to Osceola, who listened to him like one in a dream
or who does not fully comprehend what he hears.

Suddenly he sprang forward, his face livid with passion, and crying in
a loud voice, "I will sign! I, Osceola the Baton Rouge, will sign
this paper of the white man."

[Illustration: IT SUNK DEEP INTO THE WOOD OF THE TABLE AND STOOD
QUIVERING AS THOUGH WITH RAGE.]

Then stepping up to the table, while both whites and Indians watched
him with breathless interest, the fierce warrior plucked the
scalping-knife from his girdle and drove it with furious energy through
the outspread paper. It sunk deep into the wood of the table, and stood
quivering as though with rage.

"There is my signature, General Wiley Thompson," he cried in a voice
that trembled with the intensity of his emotion. "There is the
signature of Osceola, and I would that it were inscribed on your
cowardly heart. Where is my wife? What have you done with her? Give
her back to me, I say, and as safe as when I left her in yonder grove.
If you do not, I swear by the white man's God, and by the Great Spirit
of my people, that not only your own vile life, but that of every
white man who comes within reach of Osceola's vengeance, shall be
forfeited. As you have shown no mercy, so shall you receive none. The
word shall be unknown to the Seminole tongue. You taunt me with being
a half-blood. I am one; but I am yet a man, and not a slave. With my
white blood I defy you, and with my Indian blood I despise you. Wiley
Thompson, where is my wife?"




CHAPTER XIV

OSCEOLA SIGNS THE TREATY


The group of white men on the opposite side of the table had left their
seats before Osceola stepped toward it. General Clinch exchanged a few
words with the agent and gave an order to the officer in command of the
troops. These were moved forward a few paces, though, blinded by the
intensity of his feelings, the half-breed failed to notice their change
of position.

Now, in obedience to a signal from the agent, they sprang forward
with fixed bayonets, and in an instant Osceola, cut off from his
friends, was hedged in by a wall of glittering steel. At the same
moment a sharp rattle of drums was heard within the fort, and the light
battery, dashing out from the gateway in a cloud of dust, was wheeled
into position with its murderous muzzles trained full on the startled
Indians.

With one forward movement the pitiless storm of death would have swept
through their crowded ranks. They knew this and stepped backward
instead.

Within two minutes after the council was so summarily dissolved,
not an Indian was to be seen. Within five minutes Osceola, heavily
ironed, was thrust into the strongest cell of the guard-house and the
door locked behind him. By this time, also, the troops had retired,
and General Thompson was inquiring in every direction what the crazy
half-breed meant by demanding a wife from him. He knew nothing about
the fellow's wife. Did not even know he had a wife, and was inclined to
think that Osceola was drunk, or else had trumped up this demand for
the purpose of exciting the Indians to resistance.

Finally, however, through Rogers, the trader, he discovered the real
facts of the case. Then he realized the awkward position in which his
careless giving of an order for the recovery of a runaway slave had
placed not only himself, but all the whites in that part of the country.

He visited the prisoner in his cell, and tried to quiet him by
explaining that it was all a mistake, and by assuring him that every
effort should be made to recover Chen-o-wah and bring her back; but all
to no purpose.

Osceola replied that his wife alone had been seized of all those who
visited the trader's store. Moreover, she had been seized upon a
written order from himself, for the paper had been read aloud in the
presence of several persons. No, there was no mistake, and as for the
agent's promise to restore Chen-o-wah to him, he would believe it when
he saw her, but not before.

For six days the forest warrior who had been struck this deadly blow
paced hopelessly up and down his narrow cell, dragging his clanking
chains behind him. During this time he hardly touched food nor would
he speak to a human being. No one save himself knew the bitterness of
his heart, or the terrible thoughts that seethed in his mind during
those six days. He appeared like one consumed by an inward fire, and it
even seemed as though his haughty spirit was about to escape from the
imprisoned body.

At length he sent for General Thompson, and expressed a willingness
to sign the paper that should commit him to emigration. "My spirit is
broken," he said; "your irons have entered my soul. I can hold out no
longer. By these chains I am disgraced in the eyes of my people, and my
influence over them is gone. It is better that I should go away and die
in a strange land. Bring me your paper; I will sign it."

But that was not sufficient. The paper must be signed in the presence
of other Seminoles, that they might be witnesses to the act, and spread
the great news abroad throughout the nation. Even to this humiliation
Osceola consented, and a messenger was despatched to bring in the
first band of Indians he should meet. This messenger was given a token
by Osceola, and thus provided, he had no difficulty in persuading
Coacoochee and some forty warriors, thirty of whom belonged to the
captive's own band, to again visit the fort.

Although they came to the fort, Coacoochee's caution would not allow
them to pass within its gates, and so the ceremony of signing was of
necessity performed outside.

General Clinch and his staff had returned to Tampa, but there still
remained enough of officers at Fort King to escort the agent and lend
an imposing effect to the ceremony.

Osceola was led to the place of signing, under guard and with the irons
still upon his ankles. He approached the table with downcast eyes,
apparently unmindful of the presence of either friends or foes. As he
took the pen preparatory to signing, the agent asked:

"Powell, do you acknowledge in the presence of these witnesses, that
you are about to sign this paper of your own free will, without fear or
compulsion?"

The half-breed regarded his questioner with a curious expression for a
moment, and then answered:

"I have no fear. No one could compel me. I sign because it pleases me
to do so."

Thus saying, he affixed his signature to the hated paper, with a steady
hand. Immediately afterwards his irons were struck off, and he was once
more a free man.

The agent now asked Coacoochee if he would not also sign, but that wily
young Indian refused to do so at that time. "When I have spoken with
Ah-ha-se-ho-la, and learned his reasons for signing, perhaps I may also
touch the white man's talking stick," he said.

When Osceola had retired with his friends to their camp, General
Thompson turned to one of his companions, and rubbing his hands
complacently, remarked:

"That is a capital stroke of business. I have been all along regretting
the unfortunate affair of that fellow's wife. Now, though, I begin to
think it was one of the best things that could have happened for us. It
has brought him to terms as I don't believe anything else would, and
though he is not a chief, his influence is the most powerful in the
tribe."

"You may be right," replied Lieutenant Smith, the young army officer
to whom this remark was addressed, "but it was an outrageous thing,
all the same, to steal the poor chap's wife. It makes me feel ashamed
to be mixed up in this wretched business, and if I were not dependent
on my profession for a living, and so forced to obey the orders of my
superiors who have sent me here, I'd have nothing more to do with it.
The idea of stealing a man's wife and selling her into slavery! I don't
wonder it drove him so nearly crazy that he was willing to sign or do
anything else. Under the circumstances I wouldn't give a fig for his
signature."

"Nonsense!" replied the agent; "you don't know these people as I do.
He is only an Indian in spite of his mixture of white blood, and they
don't feel about such things as we do. I'll guarantee that in less than
a month he will have forgotten all about this wife and will have taken
another or maybe two of them, in her place."

At this same time Coacoochee and Osceola were walking apart from the
other Indians and talking earnestly.

"Was there no way for my brother to save his life but by signing the
white man's paper?" inquired the former.

At this Osceola broke into a hard and bitter laugh. "Does my brother
regard me so meanly as to think that to save my life alone, or to save
a thousand lives such as mine, I would have signed?" he asked. "No.
It was not to save life that Osceola put pen to paper, but to take
it. It was that he might be revenged on those who have wronged him
far deeper than by killing him, that he did it. When his vengeance is
accomplished, then will he gladly die; but he will never go to the
western land."

"Listen," he continued, noting the other's look of bewilderment at
these words: "once the Indian fought with bows and arrows, while the
white man fought with guns. Did he continue to do this when he found
that his weapons were no match for those of the white man? No; he threw
away his bows and arrows, and got guns in their place. Once Osceola
was honest, his tongue was straight, he would not tell a lie. Are the
white men so? No, their tongues are crooked; they say one thing and
mean another; they have cheated the Indian and lied to him from the
first day that they set foot on his land. They have laughed at his
honesty and said, 'The Indian is a fool who knows no better.' Now
Ah-ha-se-ho-la is fighting them with their own weapons. For them his
tongue is no longer straight. It is as crooked as their own. Does my
brother now understand why I signed?"

This style of reasoning was new to Coacoochee, and he pondered over it
for a minute before replying. "It is true," he thought, "that the white
man gains many advantages over the Indian by cheating and lying to him.
If they do those things, why should not the Indian do them as well? In
the present instance how could Osceola have gained his liberty by any
other means? Yes, it must be right to fight the white man with his own
weapons."

So Coacoochee acknowledged that Osceola was justified in the course he
had pursued, and congratulated him on his escape from the white man's
prison. He was also rejoiced to learn that his friend was to remain
and aid them in the coming war rather than to leave them and go to the
far-off western land.

Thus answered Coacoochee. At the same time deep down in his heart the
young war-chief hoped that he might never find it necessary to fight
any enemy with so dangerous a weapon as a crooked tongue.

Now the two young men laid their plans for the future. They agreed
that as much time as possible should be gained before open hostilities
were declared, in order that the Indians might make all possible
preparations for war. With this end in view, Osceola was to remain near
the fort, and while still expressing a willingness to emigrate whenever
the others of his tribe should come in, was to procure such supplies as
he could, especially ammunition, that might be stored for the coming
struggle.

Coacoochee was to visit the scattered bands and induce them to provide
safe hiding-places for their women and children, that the warriors
might be free to fight.

While confined in the fort, Osceola had learned that the chief Charlo,
who styled himself "Charlo Emathla," was disposing of his cattle
preparatory to emigrating, and now the young men agreed that in his
case it was necessary to show both whites and Indians the earnestness
of their purpose by carrying out the decisions of the chiefs and
putting him to death.

This, Osceola undertook to do, and Coacoochee was glad to be relieved
of the unpleasant duty.

Thus matters being arranged, the friends separated; and while
Coacoochee with his ten warriors took their departure, Osceola with
his thirty followers remained near the fort, to carry out his plan for
averting war as long as possible, and to watch for the revenge against
those who had robbed him of his wife, that had now become the object of
his most intense desire.

Thus matters stood for several months. At the end of that time, the
agent becoming suspicious of the Indians on account of their purchasing
such quantities of powder, peremptorily forbade the further sale of
ammunition to them. Thereupon Osceola sent out runners to carry the
news to every Seminole band from the Okeefenokee to the Everglades, and
from the Atlantic to the Gulf, that the time for action had arrived,
and that the first blow of the war was about to be struck.




CHAPTER XV

LOUIS PACHECO BIDES HIS TIME


Tampa Bay was filled with transports waiting to carry the Seminoles
to New Orleans on their way to the Indian Territory. On shore, the
soldiers' encampment beneath the grand old live-oaks of Fort Brooke
swarmed with troops, newly arrived from the north, and hoping that the
Indians would at least make a show of resistance. Of course, no one
wanted a prolonged war; but a brisk campaign with plenty of fighting,
that would last through the winter, would be a most pleasing diversion
from the ordinary monotony of military life. It was not supposed,
however, that the Seminoles would fight. Major Francis Dade was so
certain of this, that he volunteered to march across the Indian country
with only a corporal's guard at his back.

Among those who prayed most earnestly for a taste of fighting, in
which they might prove the metal of which they were made, were several
lieutenants recently emancipated from West Point and ordered to duty on
this far southern frontier.

A few days before Christmas, 1835, a jovial party of three young
officers was assembled in the hospitable house of a planter, a few
miles from Fort Brooke. They were to dine there, and at the dinner
table the sole topic of conversation was the impending war. The Indians
had been given until the end of December to make their preparations
for emigration, and to assemble at the appointed places of rendezvous.
On the first day of January, 1836, their reservation was to be thrown
open to the throngs of speculators already on hand, and with difficulty
restrained from rushing in and seizing the coveted lands without
waiting for the Indians to vacate them.

General Clinch had decided to send Major Dade, not, indeed, with a
corporal's guard, but with two companies of troops, to reinforce the
garrison at Fort King. From that post, which was well within the
reservation, he was to move against the Indians and compel them to move
promptly on January 1, if they showed a disinclination to do so of
their own accord.

Several of the young officers assembled about the planter's dinner
table were to accompany this expedition, and their anticipations of the
pleasures of the campaign were only equalled by the regrets of those
who were to be left behind.

Some one suggested that there might be some fighting before the troops
returned, and that their march might be attended with a certain amount
of danger.

"Danger?" cried Lieutenant Mudge, the gayest spirit of the party, and
the most popular man at the post. "Let us hope there will be some
danger. What would a soldier's life be without it? A weary round of
drill. Hurrah, then, for danger! say I. Louis, fill the glasses. Now,
gentlemen, I give you the toast of 'A short campaign and a merry one,
with plenty of hard fighting, plenty of danger, and speedy promotion to
all good fellows.'"

The toast was hailed with acclamation and drunk with a cheer; while
after it the calls for Louis grew louder, more frequent, and more
peremptory than ever. It was "Here, Louis!" "Here, you nigger!"
"Step lively now!" from all sides, and the bewildering orders were
so promptly obeyed by the deft-handed, intelligent-appearing young
mulatto, who answered to the name of Louis, that he was unanimously
declared to be a treasure. Those of the officers who were to remain at
Fort Brooke, envied the planter such a capital servant, and those who
were to accompany the expedition to Fort King, wished they might take
him with them to wait on their mess.

"Well, I don't know but that can be arranged," remarked the planter,
thoughtfully. "Major Dade was asking me to-day where he could obtain a
reliable guide, and Louis, who overheard him, has since told me that he
is intimately acquainted with the country between here and Fort King.
Isn't that so, boy?"

"Yes, sir," replied the mulatto; "I was born and brought up in this
country, and I know every foot of the way from here to Fort King like I
know the do-yard of my ole mammy's cabin."

This answer was delivered so quietly, and with such an apparent air
of indifference, that no one looking at the man would have suspected
the wild tumult of thought seething within his breast at that moment.
For months he had waited, planned, hoped, and endured, for such an
opportunity as this. At last it had come. He was almost unnerved by
conflicting emotions, and to conceal them, he flew about the table more
actively than ever, anticipating every want of his master's guests, and
waiting on them with an assiduity that went far to confirm the good
impression already formed of him.

Once, Lieutenant Mudge, happening to glance up at an instant when Louis
was intently regarding him, was startled by a fleeting expression that
swept across the man's face. For a second his eyes glared like those
of a famished tiger, and his lips seemed to be slightly drawn back
from the clinched white teeth. Although the devilish look vanished
as quickly as it came, leaving only the respectful expression of a
well-trained servant in its place, it gave the young soldier a shock,
and filled him with a vague uneasiness that he found hard to shake off.
He spoke of it afterwards to his host, but the latter only laughed and
said:

"Nonsense, my dear boy! It must have been the champagne. I have had
that nigger for nearly a year now, and a more honest, faithful,
intelligent, and thoroughly reliable servant I never owned. If Dade
will pay a fair price for him, I will let him go for a few months, and
thus you will secure a reliable guide and a capital table servant, both
in one."

In answer to some further inquiries concerning Louis, he said: "I'd no
idea he was born in this part of the country or knew anything about it,
but as he says he does, it must be so, for I have never known him to
tell a lie. He knows it would not be safe to lie to me. I got him from
a trader in Charleston last spring, and only brought him down here a
couple of months ago, when I came to look after this plantation. But
you can depend on Louis. He don't dare deceive me, for he knows if he
did I'd kill him. I make it a rule to have none but thoroughly honest
servants about me, and they all know it."

The reader has doubtless surmised ere this that the servant whom his
master praised so highly was no other than Louis Pacheco, friend of
Coacoochee, the free dweller beside the Tomoka, whom the slave-catchers
had kidnapped and carried off.

Inheriting the refinement of his Spanish father, well educated, and
accomplished, Louis would have killed himself rather than submit to
the degradation of the lot imposed upon him, but for one thing--the
same spirit that actuated Osceola during his imprisonment restrained
Louis from any act against his own life. He lived that he might obtain
revenge. So bitter was his hatred of the whole white race, that at
times he could scarcely restrain its open expression.

He managed, however, to control himself and devoted his entire energies
to winning the confidence, not only of the man who had bought him, but
of all the other whites with whom he was thrown in contact. Thus did
he prepare the more readily to carry out his plans when the time came.
He saw his aged mother die from overwork in the cotton-fields, without
betraying the added bitterness of his feelings, and was even laughingly
chided by his master for not displaying greater filial affection. He
planned a negro insurrection, but could not carry it out. Then he
conceived the project of inducing a great number of negroes to run away
with him, and join his friends the Seminoles, but this scheme also came
to naught. He was planning to escape alone and make his way to Florida,
where he hoped to find some trace of the dearly loved sister from whom
he had been so cruelly separated, when chance favored him, and his
master brought him to the very place where he most desired to be.

In Tampa, he quickly learned of the condition of affairs between the
Indians and whites, and he looked eagerly about for some means of
aiding his friends in their approaching struggle.

The proposed expedition of Major Dade, for the relief and reinforcement
of Fort King, was kept a secret so far as possible, for fear lest it
should delay the coming in of numbers of Indians, who were supposed to
be on their way to the several designated points of assembly. It was,
however, freely discussed in the presence of Louis Pacheco, for he was
supposed to be so well content with his present position, and to have
so little knowledge of Indian affairs, that it could make no difference
whether he knew of it or not.

So Louis listened, and treasured all the stray bits of information thus
obtained, and put them together until he was possessed of a very clear
idea of the existing state of affairs, and of what the whites intended
doing.

Through the field hands of the plantation he opened communication with
the free negroes who dwelt among the Indians. Thus he soon learned that
his friend Coacoochee was now a war-chief and an influential leader
among the Seminoles.

Now the hour of his triumph, the time of his revenge, had surely come.
If he could only obtain the position of guide to Major Dade's little
army, what would be easier than to deliver them into the hands of
Coacoochee? What a bitter blow that would be to the whites, and how
it would strengthen the Seminole cause! How far it would go toward
repaying him for the death of his mother, the loss of his beautiful
sister, his own weary slavery, and the destruction of their happy home
on the Tomoka! Yes, it must be done.

The day after that of the dinner party his master concluded
arrangements with Major Dade, by which Louis was engaged as guide to
the expedition and steward of the officers' mess. So the slave was
ordered to hold himself in readiness to start on Christmas Day.




CHAPTER XVI

OSCEOLA'S REVENGE


In the meantime, Osceola had carried out his part of the arrangement
with Coacoochee in regard to the traitor, Charlo Emathla. Although
warned of the fate in store for him in case he persisted in
disregarding the wishes of his people and the commands of the other
chiefs, this Indian, dazzled by sight of the white man's gold,
flattered by his praise, and assured of his protection, persisted in
his course.

Osceola waited until certain that he had accepted a considerable sum
of money from the agent, and then prepared an ambush beside a trail
along which the doomed man must return to his camp. It was completely
successful; the victim fell at the first fire, and covering his face
with his hands, received the fatal blow without a word. Tied up in his
handkerchief was a quantity of gold and silver. This, Osceola declared
was the price of red men's blood, and, sternly forbidding his followers
to touch it, he flung it broadcast in every direction.

When news of this summary punishment of a renegade was received at
Fort King, it created a serious feeling of anxiety and alarm for the
future. This was shared by all except the agent, who declared, in his
pompous manner, that he knew the Indians too well to fear them. They
might murder one of their own kind here and there, but they would never
muster up courage to attack a white man. Oh no! the rascals were too
well aware of the consequences of such an act.

Another report that reached the fort about the same time increased the
uneasiness of its inmates. It was of six Indians who had been brutally
and wantonly set upon by a party of white land-grabbers. The Indians
were in camp, quietly engaged in cooking their supper, when the whites
rode up, made them prisoners, took away their rifles, and examined
their packs, appropriating to their own use whatever they fancied, and
destroying the rest. Then they tied the Indians to trees and began
whipping them.

While they were thus engaged, four other Indians appeared on the scene
and opened an ineffective fire upon the aggressors. The whites answered
with a volley from their rifles that killed one Indian and wounded
another. Both parties then withdrew from the field, the whites carrying
with them the rifles and baggage that they had stolen.

This outrage was termed an Indian encroachment, and a company of
militia was at once ordered out to chastise the Indians and protect
citizens.

By such acts as these the land-grabbers hoped to hasten the movements
of the Seminoles and compel them to evacuate the coveted territory the
more rapidly.

It was with gloomy forebodings that the little garrison of Fort King,
who, from long experience, had gained some knowledge of the Indian
character, heard of these and similar brutalities. They knew that
such things would drive the savage warriors to acts of retaliation,
and precipitate the crisis that now appeared so imminent. Their fears
were heightened by the fact that early in December the Indians ceased
visiting the fort, and it was reported that all their villages in that
part of the country were abandoned.

So the month dragged slowly away. Christmas Day was passed quietly
and without the usual festivities of the season. The anxiety of the
garrison would have been still further increased had they known that on
that very day Osceola and a band of picked warriors took up a position
in a dense hammock from which they could watch every movement in and
about the fort.

Osceola's object was the killing of the agent, whom he believed to be
directly implicated in the abduction of Chen-o-wah. So determined was
he to accomplish this, that he had decided if no better opportunity
offered to venture an attack against the fort itself, desperate as he
knew this measure to be.

Coacoochee at this time was gathering the warriors of the tribe and
preparing them for battle in the depths of the great Wahoo Swamp, the
hidden mysteries of which no white man had ever explored. It lay a
day's journey from Fort King, and to it were hastening many chiefs with
their followers.

On the morning of Christmas Day a negro runner, well-nigh exhausted
with the speed at which he had travelled, reached the swamp encampment
and asked to be led at once to Coacoochee, the war-chief. The moment he
had delivered his message the young warrior, trembling with excitement,
sought the other chiefs and made known to them the wonderful news he
had just received.

"This very day," he said, "the white soldiers have left Tampa to march
through the Seminole country. At the end of four days they hope to
reach Fort King. They are guided by one whom I thought dead, but who
sends word that he is alive. He is my friend and may be trusted. He
will bring them by this road. Shall we allow them to pass by us and
join their friends? Or shall we meet them in battle and prove to them
that our words were not empty boastings, when we said the Seminole
would fight for his land? The white man laughs at us and whips us as
though we were dogs. He takes from us that which pleases him, and gives
us nothing but blows in return. The Indian and the wolf together are
marks for his rifle. Let us show him that we are men and warriors.
Let us strike a blow that he will never forget. It may be that when
he finds the Seminole ready to fight, he will let us alone to dwell
peaceably in our own land. Are the words of Coacoochee good in the ears
of the tribe? Are his warriors glad when they hear them?"

A long discussion followed; but when it was ended, the counsel of the
young war-chief had been accepted.

Then through the dim forest aisles echoed the hollow booming of the
kasi-lalki, or great war-drum. Fleet runners were despatched in all
directions, some to hasten the incoming bands, and some to watch the
movements of the advancing troops. One was sent to bear the great news
to Osceola, and bid him hasten if he would take part in the first
battle of the war.

When this messenger reached those secreted in the hammock near Fort
King, and delivered his tidings, Osceola bade him return and tell
Coacoochee that if at the end of one more day his purpose had not been
accomplished, he would abandon it for the present and hasten to join
him.

On the following afternoon two figures were seen by the eager watchers
to leave the fort and stroll toward the trader's store a mile away.
Osceola's keen eye was the first to recognize them, and he knew that
the hour of his vengeance had arrived.

The two who strolled thus carelessly, apparently unconscious of danger,
were the agent, General Wiley Thompson, and his friend, Lieutenant
Constantine Smith. They were smoking their after-dinner cigars and
talking earnestly. Their subject was the rights and wrongs of the
Indian. As they reached the crest of a slight eminence, these words,
uttered in Wiley Thompson's most emphatic tone, reached the ears of
Osceola, who, with flashing eyes and compressed lips, peered at the
speaker from a thicket not ten yards away.

"I tell you, sir, the Indian is no better than any other savage beast,
and deserves no better treatment at our hands."

They were the last words he ever spoke; for at that instant there burst
from the thicket a blinding flash and the crashing report of thirty
rifles, discharged simultaneously. Both men were instantly killed, and
with yells of triumph the Indians rushed from their hiding-place, each
intent upon procuring a scalp or some other trophy of the first event
of the contest so long anticipated and now so sadly begun.

But Osceola's vengeance did not rest here. There were others within
reach who had aided in the stealing of his wife, and he bade his
warriors follow him to the store of the trader. A few minutes later
Rogers and his two clerks had been added to the list of victims. After
helping themselves to all the goods they could carry, the Indians set
fire to the store and started toward the Wahoo Swamp, where they hoped
to join Coacoochee in time to participate in the battle of which he
had sent them notice.

The little garrison of fifty men at Fort King heard the firing and the
war-cries, and saw the smoke from the blazing store rise above the
hammock. They knew only too well what these things meant; but supposing
the Indians to be in force and about to attack the post, they dared not
venture beyond its limits. They waited anxiously for the coming of the
promised reinforcements from Tampa, but weary days passed, and no word
came from them.




CHAPTER XVII

ON THE VERGE OF THE WAHOO SWAMP


On the afternoon of Christmas Day, Major Dade's little command of two
companies of troops, numbering one hundred and ten souls, marched
gaily out from Fort Brooke on Tampa Bay and started for Fort King,
one hundred miles away, near where the city of Ocala now stands. Both
officers and men were in the highest spirits, and regarded their
present expedition as a pleasant relief from the monotony of garrison
life. It was not at all likely they would be called upon to do any
fighting; for, although the Indians had been acting suspiciously for
some time, nobody believed they would dare come into open conflict with
the whites. And what if they did! Was not one white man equal to five
Indians at any time? To be sure, the soldiers were unfamiliar with the
country, but then they had a guide who knew every foot of it.

Louis Pacheco was one of the most popular members of the expedition. He
was not only a good guide, but he was polite, obliging, and attentive
to the wants of the officers. He certainly was a treasure, and they
were fortunate to have secured his services. So the lieutenants said to
one another.

For two days the command moved steadily forward, its one piece of light
artillery and its one baggage wagon bumping heavily over the log-like
roots of the saw-palmetto, and threatening to break down with each
mile, but never doing so. They experienced no difficulty in crossing
the dark, forest-shaded Withlacoochee; for Louis led them to the best
ford on the whole river, and the officers agreed that they were making
much better progress than could have been expected.

On the third night they had skirted the great Wahoo Swamp and were
camped near its northern end. As this place was known to be a favorite
Indian resort, the sentinels of that night were cautioned to be
unusually vigilant. The corporal of the guard was instructed to inspect
every post at least once an hour, and oftener than that towards
morning, when an attack was supposed to be most imminent. As the
officer of the day was equally on the alert, and visited the sentries
many times during the night, the camp was deemed securely guarded.

All that day Louis, the guide, had been unusually silent. More than
once he was observed to direct long, penetrating glances toward the
dense forest growth of the great swamp, as though it held some peculiar
fascination for him. It seemed as though he were conscious of the keen
eyes, that, peering from its dark depths, watched so exultingly the
march of the troops. It seemed as though he must see the lithe figures
that, gliding silently from thicket to thicket, or from one mossy
covert to another, so easily kept pace with the slow-moving column.

In waiting on the officers' mess that evening, Louis was so
absent-minded that he made innumerable blunders, and drew forth more
than one angry rebuke from those whom he served.

At last one of these remarked that, if the nigger was not more
attentive to his duties, he would be apt to make an acquaintance with
the whipping-post before long.

Then there flashed into the man's face for an instant the same look
that Lieutenant Mudge had detected once before, and from that moment
his demeanor changed. He was no longer absent-minded. He was no longer
undecided. The time of his irresolution was passed.

That night he slept apart from any other occupant of the camp, beyond
the line of tents and on the side nearest the swamp hammock. For
hours after rolling himself in his blanket the man lay open-eyed and
thinking. This was either the last night of his life or the last of his
slavery, he knew not which. On the morrow he would be either dead or
free. On the morrow, if he lived, he would learn the fate of the dear
sister from whom he had heard no word since that terrible night on the
Tomoka. On the morrow would be struck a blow for liberty that should
be felt throughout the length and breadth of the land, and on the
morrow his score against the white man would be wiped out. The account
would be settled.

Louis had expected the attack to be made that day, and from each
hammock or clump of timber they passed, had dreaded, and hoped to hear,
the shrill war-whoop mingled with the crack of rifles. Now, he thought
it might be made during the night or just at dawn. At all events, it
must be made, if made at all, before the following sunset, for at that
hour the command expected to reach Fort King.

As he lay thinking of these things, the querulous cry of a hawk
suddenly broke the stillness of the night. It came from the swamp.
Again it sounded, and this time with a slight difference of tone. The
weary sentinels wondered for a moment at the strangeness of such a cry
at that hour, and then dismissed it from their minds.

Not so with Louis Pacheco. The second cry had confirmed the suspicion
aroused by the first. It was long since he had heard the signal of
Coacoochee; but he recognized and answered it. The gentle, quavering
cry of a little screech owl, though coming from the camp, alarmed no
one. It went straight to the ears of Coacoochee, however, as he lay
hidden in the saw-palmettoes, only a few rods beyond the tents, and he
was content to wait patiently, knowing that his friend had heard and
understood his signal.

All the old forest instincts, long suppressed and almost forgotten,
were instantly aroused in Louis. No Indian could have crept more
cautiously or silently toward the line of sentries than he, and none
could have slipped past them more deftly. A few minutes later the owl's
note was sounded at the edge of the hammock and immediately answered
from a spot but a short distance away. Then there came a rustle beside
the motionless figure and a whispered:

"Louis, my brother?"

"Coacoochee, is it you?"

For a few minutes they whispered only of their own affairs, and Louis
learned of Nita's escape from the slave-catchers, of her flight to
Philip Emathla's village, and of her betrothal to Coacoochee, all in
a breath. He longed to fly to her at that very moment; but a weary
journey lay between them, and before he could undertake it a stern and
terrible duty remained to be performed. He must return to the camp of
soldiers and remain with them to the bitter end. Otherwise the plan for
their destruction might yet miscarry.

Coacoochee told him the reason why the attack had not already been made
was that the Indians had awaited the arrival of Osceola and Micanopy.
The latter had come in that evening, and it was decided to wait no
longer, but to begin the fight at daylight.

Louis opposed this plan, saying that Major Dade expected an attack to
be made at daylight, if made at all, and would be particularly on guard
at that time. He also seemed to feel that if he were attacked, it would
be from that swamp. Therefore, the mulatto advised that the attack be
made at a point some miles beyond the swamp, where nothing of the kind
would be anticipated.

Coacoochee acknowledged the soundness of this advice, and agreeing to
follow it, the two separated, one to lead his warriors to the appointed
place and prepare them for battle, the other to work his way with
infinite caution back into the camp of sleeping soldiers. Fortunately
for him the night was intensely dark, and though at one time a sentry
passed so close that he could have touched him, by lying flat and
almost holding his breath he escaped discovery.

He had barely reached his sleeping-place and rolled himself again
in his blanket, when an officer came along, and stumbling over his
prostrate form, exclaimed:

"Hello, Louis! Is that you?"

Upon receiving an affirmative answer, he continued: "Well, I must
confess that it is a great relief to find you. I missed you, and have
been searching for you. I really began to think you had deserted and
left us to find our own way out of this wilderness. Where have you
been?"

"The major's horse got loose, sir, and came very near stepping on me,"
replied Louis. "And I just took him over to the cart, where I tied him
up again. Sorry to have caused you any anxiety, sir."

"Oh, that's all right," answered the officer. "I'm glad your excuse is
such a good one, for these are times when we can't be too careful, you
know."

With this he walked away to visit the line of sentries, while Louis,
bathed in a profuse perspiration in spite of the chill of the night,
shuddered as he realized the narrowness of his escape.




CHAPTER XVIII

COACOOCHEE'S FIRST BATTLE


The next morning's sun ushered in one of the fairest of Floridian days;
the air was clear, cool, and bracing. It was filled with the aromatic
odors of pines and vibrant with the songs of birds. All was life and
activity in the camp of soldiers, who were preparing for an early start
on the long day's march that they hoped would bring them to their
destination that same evening.

"We are past all the bad places now, boys," cried Major Dade, cheerily,
as he rode to the head of the column. "This swamp is our last danger
point, and beyond this there is nothing to apprehend. The cowardly
redskins have let a good chance slip by, and it will be long before
they will be given another."

Then the bugles sounded merrily, and with light hearts the command
resumed its march. But the Indians had moved earlier than they.

At daylight that morning one hundred and eighty warriors glided like
shadows out from the dark recesses of the swamp, and, following the
lead of Coacoochee, advanced some four miles beyond it. Where they
finally halted in the open pine woods there was a thick growth of scrub
or saw-palmetto.

A pond bounded the road on the east at this point, and the entire body
of Indians took positions on the opposite or western side. Each warrior
selected his own tree or clump of palmetto, and sank out of sight
behind it. Three minutes after their arrival nothing was to be seen nor
heard save the solemn pines and the sighing of the wind through their
branches.

There was so little to arouse suspicion that a small herd of deer
fleeing before the advancing troops and coming down the wind dashed
in among the Indians before discovering their presence. Even then the
hidden warriors made no sign, and the terrified animals pursued their
flight unmolested.

Besides Coacoochee, the chiefs in command of the Seminole force were
Micanopy, Jumper, and Alligator. It had been determined that Micanopy,
as head chief, should fire the first shot of the contest, and as
the old man was timid and undecided, Coacoochee stood beside him to
strengthen his courage.

At length about nine o'clock the troops appeared in view. They marched
easily in open order, the bright sunlight glinted bravely on their
polished weapons, and many were the shouts of light-hearted merriment
that rose from their ranks. Louis, the guide, was not to be seen, as on
some trifling pretext he had dropped behind the column.

The advanced guard reached the pond and passed it unmolested. It was
not until the main body was directly abreast the Indian centre that
the wild war-whoop of Otee the Jumper rang through the forest. The
next instant Micanopy's trembling fingers, guided by Coacoochee's
unflinching hand, pulled the trigger of the first rifle. With its flash
a great sheet of flame leaped from the roadside, and half of Major
Dade's command lay dead, without having known from where or by whom the
fatal blow was struck.

The survivors, confused and demoralized by the suddenness and
unexpectedness of this attack from an unseen foe, still made a brave
effort to rally and return the pitiless fire that seemed to leap from
every tree of the forest. Their one field-piece, a six-pounder, was
brought up and discharged several times, but its gunners presented an
attractive target to the hidden riflemen, and it was speedily silenced.

A small company of soldiers managed to fell a few trees in the form
of a triangular barricade. Behind this they took shelter, and from it
maintained a stout fire for some hours; but early in the afternoon
their last gun was silenced, and only the shadows of death brooded over
the terrible scene.

During the fight the Indians had kept up an incessant yelling, but
now they appeared stunned at the completeness of their success and
contemplated their victory in silence.

With Louis Pacheco, who had joined the Indians immediately after
the first fire, Coacoochee walked slowly and thoughtfully over the
battle-field. He sternly forbade his warriors to mutilate or rob
the dead, and speedily withdrew them to their encampment in the
great swamp, from which they had emerged with such mingled hopes and
apprehensions that morning.

Soon after their departure a band of fifty negroes, who had been
summoned from a distance to take part in the battle, rode up to
the scene of slaughter. Disappointed at having arrived too late to
participate in it, they made an eager search among the heaps of
slain, for any who should still show signs of life. If such were
discovered, they were immediately put to death, while even the dead
bodies were mutilated and stripped. After thus gratifying their
bloodthirsty instincts, these, too, laden with scalps and plunder of
every description, followed their Indian allies to the swamp, and on
the blood-soaked field an awful stillness succeeded the wild tumult of
battle.

As darkness shrouded the pitiful scene, two human figures, the only
living survivors of "Dade's Massacre," slowly disengaged themselves
from the dead bodies by which they were surrounded. They were wounded,
and faint from the loss of blood, but they dragged themselves painfully
away and were lost in the night shadows of the forest. Five days
later they reached Fort Brooke and there gave the first notice of the
terrible blow by which the despised Seminole had defied the power of
the United States.

The Indian loss in this battle was three killed and five wounded.

That same night, Osceola and his warriors, laden with trophies and
plunder, reached the encampment in the Wahoo Swamp. They had much
to tell as well as much to hear, and the whole night was devoted to
feasting, dancing, drinking, and every species of savage rejoicing over
their successes.

Coacoochee, though filled with a sense of exultation, took no part in
these excesses. He preferred talking with Louis and several of the
graver chiefs regarding the future conduct of the war, and the chances
for its speedy termination. All were agreed that there would be no
further fighting for some time, and as both the young men were most
anxious to visit Philip Emathla's village, they determined to do so at
once.

At daylight, therefore, they left the swamp and started on their
journey. By noon they were threading an open forest many miles from
their point of departure. They were proceeding in silence, with
Louis following Coacoochee, and stepping exactly in his tracks. This
precaution was taken as a matter of habit, rather than from any idea
that there was an enemy within many miles of them.

Suddenly Coacoochee stopped, held up his hand in warning, and listened
intently, with his head inclined slightly forward. "Does my brother
hear anything?" he asked.

No; Louis heard nothing save the sound of wind among the tree-tops. His
ears were not so sharp as those of Coacoochee, nor, for the matter of
that, was any other pair in the whole Seminole nation. So marvellously
keen was the young war-chief's sense of hearing, that his companions
deemed it unsafe to utter a word not intended for his ears within
sight of where he stood. They believed him to be able to hear ordinary
conversation as far as he could see. Although this was undoubtedly an
exaggeration, his powers in this respect were certainly remarkable, and
excited astonishment in all who were acquainted with them.

Now, after standing and listening for a moment with bent head, he threw
himself to the ground, and placing one ear in direct contact with the
earth, covered the other with his hand. He also closed his eyes, the
better to concentrate all his powers into the one effort of hearing.

He lay thus for several minutes, and then slowly regained his feet.
There was now an anxious expression on his face. Louis could no longer
restrain his curiosity. "What is it, Coacoochee? What do you think you
hear?"

The asking of this question would have at once betrayed Louis to be
of other than Indian blood; for no Seminole would have exhibited the
slightest curiosity until the other was ready to disclose his secret of
his own accord.

So Coacoochee smiled slightly at his comrade's impatience as he
answered:

"I hear more white men coming from that way"--here he pointed to the
north; "they are many. Some of them are soldiers, and some are not.
They travel slowly, for they have much baggage. They fear no danger and
are careless. They have no cannon, but they have many horses. They know
nothing of yesterday's battle. Let us go and look at them, where my
brother will see that Coacoochee has heard truly."

Louis gazed at his companion, in amazement. "How is it possible for you
to hear these things when I can hear nothing at all?" he asked. "I am
not deaf. My ears are as good as those of most men, but they detect no
sound. You must be making game of me. Is it not so?"

For answer Coacoochee persuaded him to lay his ear to the ground and
listen as he had done a moment before.

When Louis rose, he said: "I do indeed hear something in the ground,
but it is only a confused murmur. I cannot tell what it is or where it
comes from."

Coacoochee smiled, and said: "My brother's ears are good. He has heard
more than would most men; but Coacoochee's are better. No sound is
withheld from them. He can hear the grass grow and the flowers unfold.
The murmur that my brother hears is the sound of an army marching.
They are white men because they tread so heavily. Some of them are
soldiers because they blow bugles and because they keep step in their
marching. More of them are not, for they walk as they please, and
many of them ride on horses. They have much baggage, for I hear the
sound of many wagons. They fear no danger and are careless, for they
run races with their horses and fire pistols. They have not learned
of yesterday's battle, or they would be sorrowful and quiet. Now they
laugh and are merry."

Half an hour later, as Coacoochee and Louis occupied positions among
the spreading, moss-enveloped limbs of a large tree, the eyesight of
the latter confirmed all that his comrade's marvellous hearing had
already told them.

From their perch they could overlook a broad savanna, across which
slowly moved a small army of white men. They counted nearly one
thousand, two hundred of whom were regular troops; the rest were
ununiformed militia, many of them mounted and exhibiting but little
discipline. These rode hither and thither, as they pleased, ran races,
fired their pistols at stray birds, and shouted loudly. They were a
cruel, rough set, and the heart of Coacoochee grew heavy with the
thought of such a powerful and merciless invasion of the Seminole
country.




CHAPTER XIX

RALPH BOYD AND THE SLAVE-CATCHER


The army so unexpectedly discovered by Coacoochee was under the
immediate command of General Clinch, and was largely composed of
Florida volunteers. Most of these were land-hunters, slave-hunters, or
other reckless adventurers, who had taken advantage of this opportunity
for gaining a safe entrance into the Indian country and examining its
best lands before it should be thrown open to general occupation. The
majority of them had no idea that the Indians would dare resist this
occupation by the whites, or that they would be called upon to do any
fighting. At the same time they expressed a cheerful willingness to
kill any number of redskins, and loudly declared their belief in the
policy of extermination.

This motley throng of freebooters, together with four companies of
regular troops, having been collected at Fort Drane, some twenty-five
miles from Fort King, General Clinch decided to march them into and
through the Indian country for the purpose of hastening the movements
of the Seminoles, and show them how powerful a force he could bring
against them. Even he had no idea that any armed resistance would be
offered to his progress.

While Coacoochee and Louis watched in breathless silence the passing
of this army of invaders, whose openly declared object was to rob them
of their homes, they were startled by the sound of voices immediately
beneath their tree. Looking down, they saw two men who had straggled
from the main body and sought relief from the noontide heat of the sun,
in the tempting shade.

At first our friends did not recognize the newcomers; but all at once
a familiar tone came to the ears of Louis Pacheco; then he knew that
the man whom he hated most on earth, the man who had sold him and his
mother into slavery, the dealer, Troup Jeffers, had once more crossed
his path.

The two men had not ridden up to the tree in company, but had
approached it from different divisions of the passing column, though
evidently animated by a common impulse. It was quickly apparent that
they did not even know each other; for Mr. Troup Jeffers, who reached
the tree first, greeted the other with:

"Good-day, stranger. Light down and enjoy the shade. Hit's powerful
refreshing after the heat out yonder."

As the other dismounted from his horse, and, still retaining a hold on
the bridle, flung himself at full length on the scanty grass at the
foot of the tree, Jeffers continued:

"This appears to be a fine bit of country."

"Yes."

"But they tell me it ain't a circumstance to the Injun lands on the far
side of the Withlacoochee."

"No?"

"No. Them is said to be the best lands in Floridy. I reckin you're
land-hunting. Ain't ye, now?"

"No."

"Must be niggers, then?"

"No sir. I am after neither land nor negroes; I have come merely to see
the country."

"Wal, that seems kinder curious," remarked Jeffers, reflectively.
"Strange that a man like you should take all this trouble and risk his
life--not that I suppose there's a mite of danger--just to look at a
country that he don't kalkilate to make nothing out of."

"Yet some people have the poor taste to enjoy travel for travel's
sake," replied the other. "But I suppose you have come on business?"

"You bet I have," answered Mr. Jeffers. "I've come after niggers, and
I don't care who knows it. Hit's a lawful business, and as good as
another, if I do say it. You see, thar's lots of 'em among the Injuns,
and they're all described and claimed. Now I've bought a lot of these
claims cheap, and the gineral has promised that jest as soon as the
Injuns is corralled for emigration, all the claimed niggers shall be
sorted out, and restored to their lawful owners. Owing to my claims,
I'm the biggest lawful owner there is. So I thought I'd jest come
along with the first crowd, and be on hand early to see that I wasn't
cheated."

"A most wise precaution," remarked the stranger, sarcastically.

"Yes," continued Jeffers, unmindful of his companion's tone; "you
see there is niggers and niggers. While some of them is worth their
weight in silver as property, I wouldn't have some of the others as
a gift. There's Injun niggers, for instance--half-bloods, you know;
they're so wild that you have to kill 'em to tame 'em. Why, I lost
more'n a hundred dollars in cash, besides what I reckoned to make, on a
half-blood that I got up to Fort King a few months ago. She was wild as
a hawk, and fretted, and wouldn't eat nothing, and finally died on my
hands afore I got a chance to sell her."

"Certainly a most inconsiderate thing to do," remarked the stranger.

"Wasn't it, now? The only kind I want to deal with is the full bloods
or them as is mixed with white. The best haul I ever made from the
Injuns was about a year ago over on the east coast. He was wild and
ugly as they make 'em when I first got him, but I soon tamed him down
and sold him for one thousand dollars. I've heard that he hain't never
showed a mite of spirit since I broke him in, and he makes one of the
best all-round servants you ever see. Louis is his name, and I'd like
to get hold of a dozen more just like him. What! you ain't going to
start along so soon, be ye?"

From the moment that Louis recognized this man and realized that his
cruellest enemy was at last completely within his power, it had been
difficult to refrain from sending a rifle bullet through the brute's
cowardly heart. It is doubtful if he could have withheld his hand had
it not been for a warning look from Coacoochee and a gentle pressure of
his hand. The young Indian himself was visibly affected as he listened
to the cold-blooded tone with which the ruffian told of the death
of Chen-o-wah, the beautiful wife of Osceola, and his hand twitched
nervously as he fingered the handle of his scalping-knife; but he was
able to restrain his own inclinations, even as he had restrained those
of his companion. He knew that he had a duty to perform vastly more
important than the punishment of the slave-catcher, and that for its
sake even this enemy must be allowed to escape for the present.

In reply to Mr. Jeffers' exclamation of surprise at his sudden
departure from the cool shade in which they rested, the stranger
answered:

"Yes, Mr. Slave-catcher, I am going; for I have no desire to cultivate
the further acquaintance of a scoundrel. You are therefore warned
to keep your distance from me so long as we both accompany this
expedition."

With this, the speaker sprang into his saddle, and as his horse
started, he took off his hat with a profound bow of mock courtesy,
saying: "I am very sorry to have met you, sir, and I hope I may never
have the misfortune to do so again."

As the young man dashed away, the slave-trader gazed after him in
open-mouthed amazement. Then he muttered, loud enough for Coacoochee to
hear: "Wal, if that don't beat all! You're a nice, respectable, chummy
sort of a chap, ain't you, now? Jest a leetle too nice to live, and
I shouldn't be surprised if you was to get hurt by some one besides
Injuns, if ever we have the luck to get into a scrimmage with the red
cusses."

These remarks were particularly interesting to Coacoochee; for, as the
stranger removed his hat on riding away, the mystery of his voice,
which had haunted the young chief with a familiar sound, was explained.
The face, as revealed by the lifting of the drooping sombrero, was that
of his acquaintance and preserver, Ralph Boyd the Englishman.

It is more than likely that Coacoochee would have seized the present
opportunity for rendering Mr. Troup Jeffers forever powerless to injure
any man, white, red, or black, but for an interruption that came just
as he was contemplating a sudden descent from the tree. It appeared in
the form of a lieutenant of regulars, who commanded the rear guard of
the little army, and whose duty it was to drive in all stragglers.

So Mr. Troup Jeffers rode away, utterly unconscious of the imminent
danger he had just escaped. He was, however, full of an ugly hate
against the man who a few minutes before had treated him with such
scorn, and was determined to discover his identity at the first
opportunity.

As the rear guard of the army disappeared from the view of the two
watchers, they slipped to the ground from their hiding-place, more than
glad of an opportunity to stretch their cramped limbs. Coacoochee was
the first to speak, and he said:

"They go to the Withlacoochee, and will seek to cross at Haney's ferry.
They must be delayed until our warriors can be brought to meet them.
We are two. One must return to the Wahoo Swamp, tell Osceola of this
thing, and bid him hasten with all his fighting men to the ford that is
by the Itto micco [magnolia tree]. This shall be your errand, Louis my
brother, and I pray you make what speed you may, for our time is short.
I will hasten to reach the ferry before the soldiers, and in some way
prevent their using the boat. Then must they go to the ford, for there
is no other place to cross."




CHAPTER XX

AN ALLIGATOR AND HIS MYSTERIOUS ASSAILANT


Late that same evening the watchers of Osceola's camp in the great
swamp were startled by the sudden appearance of a human form almost
within their lines. He was instantly surrounded and led to the
camp-fire in front of the chieftain's lodge, that his character might
be determined. The surprise of the Indians upon discovering him to be
Louis Pacheco, whom they supposed to be a long day's journey from that
place, was forgotten in that caused by his tidings.

It seemed incredible that, while they had just destroyed one army
of white men, another should already be on the confines of their
country and about to invade it. But Louis had seen and counted them.
Coacoochee's plan was a wise one, and they would follow it. So the
bustle of preparation was immediately begun. The fight of the day
before had nearly exhausted their ammunition. Bullets must be moulded,
and powder-horns refilled from a keg brought from a distant, carefully
hidden magazine, a supply of provisions must be prepared, for on the
war-trail no fires could be lighted and no game could be hunted.

When all was ready, Osceola caused his men to take a few hours' sleep;
but with the first flush of daylight they were on the march, swiftly
but silently threading the dim and oftentimes submerged pathways of the
swamp. There were two hundred and fifty in all, of whom the greater
number were warriors under Osceola, and the balance were negroes led by
Alligator.

On the following morning they reached the appointed place, and
concealed themselves in the forest growth lining the bank on the
south side of the ford. As this was the only point along that part of
the river at which it was possible to cross without boats, they were
satisfied that the attempt to enter the Indian country would be made
here, and that here the expected battle must take place.

Still, the troops should have arrived by this time, and as yet there
was no sign of them. Neither had Coacoochee appeared, though this
was where he had promised to meet them. Osceola had just decided to
send a scouting party to the ferry to make sure that Coacoochee had
completed his self-imposed task, when a remarkable incident arrested
his attention and caused him to withhold the order.

A green bush was floating slowly down the river toward the ford, and
several of the Indians were commenting on a peculiarity of its motion.
Instead of floating straight down with the current of the stream, it
was unmistakably moving diagonally across the river toward them. When
first noticed it had been in the middle of the channel, but now it was
decidedly nearer their side.

The Withlacoochee abounded in alligators that grew to immense size,
and just at this time one of the largest of these seemed strangely
attracted toward the floating bush. His black snout, and the protruding
eyes, set back so far from it as to give proof of his great length,
were all that he showed above the surface. These, however, were
observed to be moving cautiously nearer and nearer to the bush, until
finally they almost touched it.

All at once the monster sprang convulsively forward, throwing half his
length from the water. For a moment his huge tail lashed the waves
into a foam that appeared tinged with red. At the same time, a hideous
bellowing roar of mingled rage and pain woke the forest echoes. Then,
with a sullen plunge, the brute sank and was seen no more.

The strangest thing of this whole remarkable performance was not the
disappearance of the great reptile, but the sudden appearance close
beside it, at the very height of the flurry, of a round black object
that looked extremely like a human head.

It was only seen for a second; then the sharp report of a rifle rang
out from across the river, and the object instantly disappeared. With
this, a white man, tall, gaunt, and clad in the uniform of a United
States dragoon, stepped from the thick growth, and scanned intently
the surface of the water as he carefully reloaded his rifle. He stood
thus for several minutes, and then, apparently satisfied that his shot
had been effective, he turned and vanished among the trees.

It would have been an easy matter for the concealed warriors to kill
him while he stood in plain view, and several guns were raised for the
purpose, but Osceola forbade the firing of a shot. The appearance of
that one soldier satisfied him that the others would soon arrive, and
he did not wish to give them the slightest intimation of his presence
until they should begin crossing the river.

Suddenly he and those with him were startled by the cry of a hawk twice
repeated in their immediate vicinity. They recognized it as the signal
of Coacoochee; but where was he? As they gazed inquiringly about them,
there was a rustling among the flags and lily-pads growing at the
river's edge. Then, so quickly that he was exposed to view but a single
instant, Coacoochee, naked except for a thong of buckskin about his
waist, sprang from the water to the shelter of the bushes on the bank
and stood among them.

The young war-chief had taken a long circuit around General Clinch's
army, and reached the ferry toward which they were evidently marching,
well in advance of them, the evening before. He already knew that the
ferryman, alarmed by the impending Indian troubles, had abandoned his
post and removed with his family to a place of safety.

What he did not know, however, was that the great scow used as a
ferryboat lay high and dry on the bank, where a recent fall in the
waters of the river had left it. He had expected to find it afloat and
to either set it adrift, or sink it in the middle of the stream.

Now he was at a loss what to do. He could not move the clumsy craft
from its muddy resting-place. His time was limited, and he had no
tools, not even a hatchet, with which to destroy it. There was but
one thing left, and that was fire. As he looked at the massive,
water-soaked timbers of the scow, Coacoochee realized that to destroy
it by fire would be a tedious undertaking. However, he set resolutely
to work, and within an hour flames were leaping merrily about the
stranded boat. He had torn all the dry woodwork that would yield to his
efforts from the ferryman's log cabin which stood at some distance back
from the river. He had gathered a quantity of lightwood from dead pine
trees, and had built three great fires, one at each end of the scow and
one in the middle.

When all this was accomplished to his satisfaction, the youth became
conscious that he was faint and weak from hunger, as he had eaten
nothing that day. Visiting the ferryman's deserted cabin, he finally
discovered half a barrel of hard bread and a small quantity of
uncooked provisions secreted in a dark corner of the little loft that
had served the family as a storeroom.

As he was selecting a few articles of food to carry away and eat at his
leisure in some snug hiding-place from which he might also watch the
operations of the expected troops, the young chief was alarmed by the
sound of voices.

The next moment several soldiers entered the cabin, calling loudly upon
its supposed occupants, of whose recent departure they were evidently
unaware. Receiving no reply to their shouts, they ransacked the two
lower rooms. One even climbed the rude ladder leading to the little
loft and peered curiously about him. Crouched in its darkest corner
and hardly breathing, Coacoochee escaped observation, and the trooper
descended to report that no one was up there. "It's clear enough that
the folks have lit out," he added.

"There must be somebody around to start that smoke down by the river,"
said another voice.

"Well, I reckon we'd best go and see what's burning as well as who's
there," was the reply.

With this they left the house, and Coacoochee heard some one order two
of them to stay and look after the horses; while the others went to
ascertain the cause of the fire.

He determined to make a bold dash for liberty, and risk the shots that
the two men would certainly fire at him; but when he was half-way down
the ladder, the sound of fresh voices caused him hurriedly to regain
his hiding-place. Now there was much talking, and he knew that the main
body of troops had arrived.

As it was nearly sunset, the soldiers went into camp between the
house and the river, and a number of them took possession of the
house itself. Fortunately the hot, stuffy little loft did not offer
sufficient attractions to tempt any of them to occupy it, though
several peered into its gloom from the ladder. As they did not discern
the crouching form in the corner, the young Indian began to fancy that
he might remain there in safety so long as he chose.

He was rejoiced to learn, from fragments of conversation that his fires
had rendered the scow useless. He also learned to his dismay that an
old canoe had been discovered, and was even then being patched up so
that it would float. In it the troops would cross the river, a few at a
time, on the following morning.

Coacoochee passed a weary night, not daring to sleep, lest he should
make some movement that would betray his presence to those in the rooms
below. Occasionally he was forced by the pains in his cramped limbs to
change his position, but he did this as seldom as possible and with the
utmost caution.

At length, just as daylight was breaking, and certain sounds indicated
that the camp was waking up, one of these cautious movements dislodged
a hard biscuit that lay on the floor beside him. Slipping through a
crevice in the rude flooring, it fell plump on the face of one of the
sleepers below.

The man thus suddenly wakened sprang up with a cry of alarm. He laughed
when he discovered the cause of his fright, and exclaimed in Ralph
Boyd's well-remembered voice:

"Hello! There's hard bread up-stairs, boys, and the rats are at work on
it. I'm going to stop their fun, and secure my share."

With this he started toward the ladder, and Coacoochee nerved himself
for the discovery that he knew was now unavoidable.




CHAPTER XXI

BATTLE OF THE WITHLACOOCHEE


The man who had been so rudely roused from his sleep slowly climbed the
ladder leading to the loft, and began cautiously to feel his way across
the uneven flooring. The place in which the Indian crouched and awaited
his coming was still shrouded in utter darkness; but by the uncertain
light coming up from below, the approaching figure was faintly outlined.

This man had proved himself Coacoochee's friend, and the young chief
had no intention of harming him. Still, he could not allow himself to
be captured, even by Ralph Boyd. He dared not trust himself in the
hands of the whites after what had so recently happened. Besides,
it was now more than ever necessary that he should be at liberty to
communicate with Osceola and inform him of the proposed movements of
the troops. These thoughts flashed through his mind during the few
seconds occupied by Boyd in groping his way toward the dark corner.

Suddenly from out of it a dim figure sprang upon the white man, with
such irresistible force that he was hurled breathless to the floor.
With one bound it reached the aperture through which the ladder
protruded, and slid to the room below. The half-awakened men who
occupied this, startled by the crash above them, were scrambling to
their feet, and, as Coacoochee dashed through them toward the open
door, several hands were stretched forth to seize him. They failed to
check his progress, and in another moment he was gone.

With the swiftness of a bird he darted across the open space behind the
house, and disappeared in the forest beyond. So sudden and unexpected
was this entire performance that not a shot was fired after him, and
the young Indian could hardly realize the completeness of his escape as
he found himself unharmed amid the friendly shadows of the trees.

Had he chosen to continue his flight directly away from the river, it
would have been an easy matter to gain a position of absolute safety,
so far as any pursuit was concerned. But he must reach the ford and
those whom he supposed to be there awaiting him. Therefore, after
making a long detour through the forest, he again approached the
Withlacoochee, at a point several miles above where he had left it.

In the meantime, the presence of an Indian in the very heart of their
camp had occasioned the greatest excitement throughout General Clinch's
army. He was the first they had encountered, and his boldness,
together with the manner in which he had eluded them, invested him with
an alarming air of mystery. It was the general opinion that there must
be others on that side of the river in the immediate vicinity, and
scouts were sent out in all directions to ascertain their whereabouts.
At the same time the crossing of the Withlacoochee by means of the
single canoe was begun and prosecuted with all possible rapidity.

Coacoochee was greatly embarrassed in his attempt to gain the ford by
the presence of the scouting parties, and was more than once on the
eve of being discovered by them. Even though he might reach the river
without attracting their notice, he feared they would detect him in the
act of crossing it.

Finally he hit upon an expedient that he believed might prove
successful. Cautiously gaining the bank at some distance above the
ford, he hastily bound together four bits of dry wood in the form of a
square by means of slender withes of the wild grape. For this purpose
he choose green vines that were covered with leaves. He also cut a
number of leafy twigs, and inserting their ends beneath the lashing
of vines produced a fair imitation of a green bush. The deception was
heightened as he carefully placed his rude structure in the water,
where it floated most naturally.

Then concealing his rifle and clothing, and thrusting the trusty
knife, which was now to be his only weapon, into the snakeskin sheath
that depended from a buckskin thong about his waist, the youth slipped
gently into the water and sank beneath its surface. When he rose, his
head was inside the little square of sticks and completely screened
from view by its leafy canopy. Thus floating, and paddling gently with
his hands, he caused the mass of foliage to move almost imperceptibly
out from the shore, while at the same time he and it were borne
downward with the sluggish current.

Coacoochee had no fear of alligators. He had been familiar with them
ever since he could remember anything, and was well acquainted with
their cowardly nature. Thus when he had successfully passed the middle
of the river, and was gently working his way toward its opposite bank,
the near approach of one of these monsters did not cause him any
uneasiness. He knew that he could frighten the great reptile away,
or even kill it, though he feared that by so doing he might expose
himself to a shot from those who still scouted along the bank he had so
recently left.

Finally the monster approached so close that he was sickened by its
musky breath, and it became evident that he was about to be attacked.
Drawing his long knife, the young Indian allowed himself to sink
without making a sound or a movement. A single stroke carried him
directly beneath the huge beast, and a powerful upward thrust plunged
the keen blade deep into its most vulnerable spot through the soft skin
under one of the fore-shoulders.

In spite of the danger from the creature's death flurry, Coacoochee was
compelled to rise for breath close beside it.

This was the moment waited for by a white scout on the further bank,
who had for some time been directing keenly suspicious glances at the
mysterious movements of the floating bush. More than once his rifle had
been raised for the purpose of sending an inquiring leaden messenger
into the centre of that clump of foliage, but each time it had been
lowered as its owner determined to watch and wait a little longer.

Now the bullet was sped, and only the great commotion of the water
caused it to miss its mark by an inch. As the head at which he had
fired immediately disappeared, and was seen no more, the rifleman
fancied that his shot had taken effect, and that there was one Indian
less to be removed from the country.

Swimming under water with the desperation of one conscious that his
life depends upon his efforts, Coacoochee did not again come to the
surface until he touched the stems of the great "bonnets," or leaves of
the yellow cow-lily on the further side of the river, and could rise
for a breath of the blessed air beneath their friendly screen.

Here he lay motionless for several minutes, recovering from his
exhaustion. At length he ventured to give the hawk's call as a warning
to his friends of his presence. Then, gathering all his strength, he
made the quiet rush for safety that carried him among them.

It did not take many seconds to inform them that the enemy for whom
they were watching so anxiously was even then crossing the river,
unconscious of danger, a mile below that point.

The report had hardly been made before the eager warriors who crowded
about the speaker were in motion. Coacoochee was quickly provided with
clothing, a rifle, and ammunition, and fifteen minutes later the entire
Indian force was within hearing of the sounds made by the soldiers as
they crossed the river. Here a halt was made while Osceola himself
crept forward with the noiseless movement of a serpent to discover the
enemy's exact location and disposition.

To his dismay, he found that a force equal in number to his own had
already crossed the river, with others constantly coming. There must
not be a minute's delay if he would fight with the faintest hope of
checking their advance.

Hastily the forest warriors chose their positions, and a crashing
volley from their rifles was the first announcement given the soldiers
of their presence. Although staggered for a moment, the regulars
quickly recovered, fixed their gleaming bayonets, and with a wild yell
charged into the cloud of smoke. The Indians fell back; but only long
enough to reload their guns, when they advanced in turn, pouring such a
deadly fire into the white ranks that their formation was broken, and
the soldiers were driven back to the river's bank.

Here they were reformed by the general himself, and led to a second
charge with results similar to the first. This time the Indians did
not give way so readily, nor fall back so far. Under the frenzied
leadership of Alligator and Osceola, who urged them with wild cries and
frantic gestures to stand firm, they contested with knives, hatchets,
and clubbed rifles each step of the way over which they were slowly
forced.

In order to shelter themselves against the Indian fire, the soldiers
adopted their plan of fighting, and each, selecting a tree, took his
position behind it. Here an exposure of the smallest portion of a body
was certain to draw a shot, and the whites were soon made aware by
their rapidly increasing number of wounded, that at this game they were
no match for the Indian marksmen.

Coacoochee and half a dozen warriors had concealed themselves on the
river bank above the ferry, so that their rifles commanded it, and
their fire so effectually dampened the ardor of the five hundred
volunteers remaining on the other side that not one of them crossed or
took part in the battle, except by firing a few scattering shots from
their own side of the river.

For more than an hour the battle raged. Osceola was wounded, and the
Indian ammunition was giving out. They were becoming discouraged and
were about to retire. All at once Coacoochee, who, on hearing of
Osceola's wound, had left his little band of sharpshooters to guard the
crossing, appeared among them. The effect of his presence and inspiring
words was magical. Loud and fierce rang out his battle cry:

"Yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!"

With the last grains of powder in their rifles and led by their
dauntless young chief, the entire body of warriors, yelling like
demons, dashed madly through the forest toward the line of troops.

"They must have been heavily reinforced," shouted the bewildered
soldiers to each other. "There are thousands of them!"

From every bunch of palmetto, from every tuft of grass, and from behind
every tree, a yelling, half-naked, and death-dealing Indian seemed to
spring forth. A heavy but ill-aimed fire did not check them in the
slightest. The soldiers began to fall back from one tree to another.
Some of them ran. The wounded were hurriedly removed to the river bank.
Perhaps some were overlooked. There was no time to search for those who
were not in plain view. The dead were left where they had fallen.

With the first sign of this yielding, the frenzied yelling of the
Indians increased, until the whole forest seemed alive with them. The
retreat of the soldiers became a flight. A scattering volley from
behind hastened their steps. The battle of the Withlacoochee was ended.




CHAPTER XXII

THE YOUNG CHIEF MAKES A TIMELY DISCOVERY


Without ammunition the warriors of Coacoochee could not be persuaded to
remain on the field of battle, and the frightened soldiers had hardly
reached the river bank before the Indians were also in full retreat
toward their strongholds in the great swamp.

Of this the soldiers knew nothing, nor did they stop to inquire why
they were not pursued. They were thankful enough to be allowed to
re-embark, a dozen at a time, in their one canoe and recross the
river without molestation. They imagined the forest behind them to be
swarming with Indians, and they trembled beneath the supposed gaze of
hundreds of gleaming eyes with which their fancy filled every thicket.

Late that afternoon General Clinch and his terrified army were in
full retreat toward Fort Drane, with their eyes widely opened to the
danger and difficulty of invading an enemy's country, even though that
enemy was but a band of despised Indians. They carried with them fifty
wounded men and left four dead behind them, besides several others
reported as missing. They had killed three of the enemy and wounded
five. When they reached the safe shelter of the fort, they reported
that they had gained an important victory.

Upon the retreat of the Seminoles, Coacoochee and Louis, who had
rejoined him that day, remained behind to watch the troops and discover
what they might of their plans for the future. They supposed, of
course, that with the cessation of the Indian fire, the soldiers would
again advance, and finding no further opposition offered, would proceed
with their invasion of the country. They could hardly believe their own
eyes, therefore, when they saw that the troops were actually recrossing
the river, as evidently in full retreat as were the Seminole warriors
in the opposite direction at that very moment.

Upon beholding this marvellous sight, Louis was in favor of hastening
after their friends and bringing them back to follow and harass General
Clinch's retreating army; but Coacoochee said that without ammunition
they could do nothing, and that it was better, under the circumstances,
to let affairs remain as they were. At the same time, he desired Louis
to hasten up to the ford, cross the river at that point, and, coming
cautiously down on the other side, discover if the soldiers were really
in retreat, or if they still had their position near the ferryman's
house. While the mulatto was thus engaged, he himself would remain
where they were, to follow the troops, should they recover from their
panic, and decide, after all, to continue their invasion of the Indian
country.

After Louis had been despatched on this mission, Coacoochee, satisfied
that the soldiers were too intent upon recrossing the river and gaining
a place of safety to disturb him, ventured to revisit the battle-field,
in the hope of finding a stray powder-flask or pouch of bullets.

So successful was his search, that he not only found a number of these,
but several rifles that had been flung away by the soldiers in their
hurried flight.

While busy collecting these prizes, the young chief was startled by
hearing a faint groan. He looked about him. There was nobody in sight;
but again he heard a groan. This time he located it as proceeding from
a clump of palmettoes a few paces distant.

Approaching these, and cautiously parting their broad leaves, he
discovered the body of a white man lying face downward. The man was
evidently severely wounded, for he lay motionless in a pool of blood,
but that he was also alive was shown by his occasional feeble groans.

Coacoochee's first impulse was to leave him where he lay. He would soon
die there. At any rate, the wolves would make short work of him that
night. It was contrary to the policy of the Indians to take prisoners,
and he certainly could not be burdened with one,--a wounded one, at
that.

His second impulse, which was urged by pity, of which even an Indian's
breast is not wholly void, was to put the wretch out of his misery by
means of a mercifully aimed bullet. He knew that his savage companions
would ridicule such an act. They would either leave the man to his
fate, after making sure that he could not possibly recover, or they
would revive him sufficiently to comprehend their purpose and then kill
him. They would never be so weak as to kill an unconscious man merely
to save him from suffering. Still this was what Coacoochee was about to
do, and he felt a kindly warming of the heart, as one does who is about
to perform a generous deed.

Slowly he raised his rifle and took a careful aim at the head of the
motionless figure before him. His finger was on the trigger. An instant
more and the deed would have been accomplished.

But there is no report. The brown rifle is slowly lowered, and the
young Indian's gaze rests as though fascinated upon something that
caught his eye as it sighted along the deadly tube.

It is only a peculiar seam in the white man's buckskin hunting-tunic,
but it runs down the middle of the back from collar to the bottom
of the shirt. There are other noticeable features about that
hunting-shirt. The little bunches of fringe at the shoulders are of a
peculiar cut, and all of its stitching is in yellow silk.

With a low cry of mingled horror and anticipation, Coacoochee dropped
his rifle, and springing forward, turned the unconscious man over so
that his face was exposed. It was that of Ralph Boyd, the man who
had twice saved his life; the man to whose noble scorn of one of the
cruellest enemies of an oppressed race he had listened with such
pleasure only two days before.

Indian and stern warrior though he was, Coacoochee turned faint at
the thought of how nearly he had taken this precious life, for the
saving of which he would willingly risk his own. The hunting-shirt
worn by Boyd was the very one in which Coacoochee had paid his last
memorable visit to St. Augustine. It was the one that had been slit
from top to bottom by Fontaine Salano's knife, and stripped from him,
in preparation for the whipping the brute proposed to administer. The
thought of that shameful moment caused Coacoochee's blood to boil again
with rage. At the same time the sight of this noble-hearted stranger
who had saved him from that bitter indignity moved him to greatest pity.

Kneeling beside the unconscious man, the young Indian sought to
discover the nature of his wound. To his amazement, it was caused by a
bullet that had been fired from _behind_. How could such a thing be?
None but white men were behind Boyd during the battle. Suddenly the
muttered words of Troup Jeffers flashed into his mind. Now all was
clear. To gratify his own petty revenge the slave-catcher had committed
this cowardly act.

The young chief was busily engaged in stanching the flow of blood, and
binding a poultice of healing leaves, mixed with the glutinous juice of
a cabbage palm, on the wound, when Louis returned and stood beside him.

The whites were in full retreat from the scene of their recent
discomfiture, and Louis had returned in the very canoe they had used
and abandoned. Now he and Coacoochee bore the wounded man tenderly to
it, crossed the river, and carried him to the ferryman's cabin, where
both he and the young chief had passed the previous night, unconscious
of each other's presence. Here they made him as comfortable as
possible, and here for awhile we must leave them.




CHAPTER XXIII

SHAKESPEARE IN THE FOREST


Like a fire sped by strong winds across a prairie of brown and
sun-dried grasses, so did the flames of war sweep across the entire
breadth of Florida. For a year had the Indians been preparing for it.
Now they were ready to gather in numbers, and fight armies, or scatter
in small bands, to spread death and destruction in every direction. The
Seminole was about to make a desperate defence of his country, and to
teach its invaders that they might not steal it from him with impunity.

Express riders carried news of the war in every direction. Everywhere
cabins, farms, and plantations were abandoned, while their owners
flocked into forts and settlements for mutual protection and safety.

One day, some two weeks after the events narrated in the preceding
chapter, a novel procession was to be seen wending its slow, dusty way
along one of the few roads of those times that led from the St. John's
River to St. Augustine. The procession presented a confused medley of
horsemen, pedestrians, wheeled vehicles, and cattle, and might have
reminded one of the migration of a band of Asiatic nomads.

It was indeed a migration, though one directed rather by force of
circumstances than by choice. It was a white household, with its
servants, cattle, and readily portable effects, fleeing from an
abandoned plantation towards St. Augustine for safety against the
Indians. None of the party had seen an Indian as yet, but they were
reported to be ravaging both banks of the river from Mandarin to
Picolata.

At first the young mistress of this particular estate had discredited
the reports, for it was only rumored as yet that the Seminoles had
really declared war. Her brother being absent from home, she for some
time resolutely declined to abandon the house in which he had left her.
The neighboring places on either side had been deserted for several
days, and their occupants had entreated her to fly with them, but
without avail.

"No," she replied; "here Ralph left me, and here I shall stay until he
comes again, or until I am driven away by something more real than mere
rumors."

At length that "something" came. All night the southern sky was
reddened by a dull glow occasionally heightened by jets of flame and
columns of sparks.

At daylight a frightened negro brought word that the Indians were but
a few miles away, and had burned the deserted buildings on three
plantations during the night.

Now was indeed time to seek safety in flight, and "Missy" Anstice,
as the servants called her, ordered a hurried departure. Her own
preparations were very simple. A small trunk of clothing and a few
precious souvenirs were all that she proposed to take. With only
herself, Letty her maid, and these few things in the carriage that old
Primus would drive, and the servants in carts or on muleback, they
ought to travel so speedily as to reach St. Augustine some time that
same night.

But while Anstice was quite ready to start, she found to her dismay
that no one else was. Confusion reigned in the quarters; there was
a wild running hither and thither, a piling on the carts of rickety
household furniture, bedding, and goods of every description; a loud
squawking of fowls tied by the legs, and hung in mournful festoons from
every projecting point, and a confused lowing, bleating, and grunting
from flocks and herds.

In vain did the young mistress command and plead. All the servants
on that plantation were free. Many of them owned the carts they
were loading, and nothing short of the appearance of Indians on the
spot could have induced them to relinquish their precious household
treasures. "Lor, Missy Anstice!" one would say reproachfully, "yo
wouldn' tink ob astin' a ole ooman to leab behine de onliest fedder bed
she done got?"

"But I am going to leave all mine, aunty."

"Yah, honey; but yo'se got a heap ob 'em, while I've ony got jes' dis
one."

And so it went. Useless articles taken from overloaded carts, at
Anstice's earnest solicitation, were slyly added to others when she was
not looking. Her brother acted as his own overseer, so there were no
whites on the plantation to aid her. She alone must order this exodus,
and beneath its responsibilities she found herself well-nigh helpless.

At length, in despair, and having wasted most of the morning in useless
expostulations, she entered the heavy, old-fashioned coach, with Letty
the maid, and gave Primus the order to set forth.

As the carriage passed the quarters, there was a great cry of:

"Don' yo leab us, Missy Anstice! Don' yo gway an' leab us to de Injins!
We'se a comin'."

So Primus was ordered to drive slowly, and under other circumstances
the English girl would have been vastly amused at the motley procession
that began to straggle along behind her; but the danger was too
imminent and too great to admit of any thoughts save those of anxiety
and fear.

[Illustration: "TO LEAB BEHINE DE ONLIEST FEDDER BED SHE DONE GOT."]

An hour or more passed without incident. The sun beat down fiercely
from an unclouded sky, and the shadows of the tall pines seemed
to nestle close to the brown trunks in an effort to escape his
scorching rays. A sound of locusts filled the air. The grateful
sea-breeze that would steal inland an hour later was still afar off,
and but for the urgency of their flight, the slow-moving cavalcade
would have rested until it came. The tongues of the cattle hung from
their mouths, and a cloud of dust enveloped them. The heads of horses
and mules were stretched straight out, and their ears drooped. Old
Primus nodded on the carriage seat. Letty was fast asleep, and even her
young mistress started from an occasional doze.

Unobserved by a single eye in all that weary throng, another cloud of
dust, similar to that hanging above and about them, rose in their rear.
It approached rapidly, until it was so close that the clouds mingled.
Then from out the gray canopy burst a whirlwind of yells, shots,
galloping horses, and human forms with wildly waving arms.

In an instant the fugitives were roused from their drowsiness to a
state of bewildered terror. Men shouted and beat their animals, women
screamed, horses plunged, mules kicked, and carts were upset.

The first intimation of this onset that reached the occupants of the
carriage, was in the form of madly galloping cattle that, with loud
bellowings, wild eyes, and streaming tails, began to dash past on
either side. Then their own horses took fright, and urged on by old
Primus, tore away down the road.

All at once the terrified occupants of the flying vehicle looked up at
the sound of a triumphant yell, only to behold fierce eyes glaring at
them from hideously painted faces at either door. The muzzle of a rifle
was thrust in at one of the open windows, and at sight of it Anstice
Boyd hid her face in her hands, believing that her last moment had come.

When she recovered from her terror sufficiently to look about her once
more, Letty was sobbing hysterically on the floor, but there was no
motion to the carriage, and all was silent around them. Primus was no
longer on the box, and the carriage was not in the road.

Determined to discover their exact situation, Anstice opened one of
the doors, with a view to stepping out. At that moment a loud and
significant "ugh!" coming from beneath the carriage, caused her to
change her mind and hastily reclose the door, as though it were in some
way a protection.

A few moments later two mounted Indians rode up to the carriage, and
each leading one of its horses, it began to move slowly through the
trackless pine forest. As it started, the Indian who had been left to
guard it sprang to the seat lately occupied by old Primus.

For hours the strange journey was continued, and it was after sunset
when it finally ended near the great river at a place some miles below
the plantation they had left that morning. Now the wearied prisoners
were allowed to leave their carriage, and were led to where several
negro women were cooking supper over a small fire.

Anstice was provided with food, but she could not eat. Terror and
anxiety had robbed her of all appetite, and she could only sit and
gaze at the strange scene about her, as it was disclosed by the fitful
firelight.

Piles of plunder were scattered on all sides. A lowing of cattle,
grunting of hogs, cackling and crowing of fowls, the spoils of many a
ravaged barnyard, rose on the night air. There was much laughing and
talking, both in a strange Indian language that still seemed to contain
a number of English words, and in the homely negro dialect.

As the bewildered girl crouched at the foot of a tree, and recalling
tale after tale of savage atrocities, trembled at the fate she believed
to be in store for her, she started at the sound of a heavy footfall
close at hand.

"Bress yo heart, honey! hit's ony me!" exclaimed the well-known voice
of old Primus, who, after a long search, had just discovered his young
mistress. "Hyar's a jug o' milk an' a hot pone, an' I'se come to
'splain dere hain't no reason fo' being scairt ob dese yeah red Injuns.
Ole Primus done fix it so's dey hain't gwine hut yo. Dey's mighty
frienly to de cullud folks, and say ef we gwine long wif 'em, we stay
free same like we allers bin; but ef we go ter Augustine, de white
folks cotch us an' sell us fo pay in de oxpenses ob de wah.

"Same time I bin makin' 'rangement wif 'em dat ef we'se gwine long er
dem, dey is boun ter let yo go safe to Augustine, whar Marse Boyd'll be
looking fer yo. Yes'm, I'se bin councillin' wif 'em an' settle all dat
ar."

"But, Primus, I thought you were scared to death of the Indians, and
didn't understand a word of their language," interrupted Anstice.

"Who? me! Sho, Missy Anstice, yo suttenly don't reckin I was scairt.
No'm, I hain't scairt ob no red Injin, now dat I onerstan'in deir
langwidge an' deir 'tenshuns. Why, missy, deir talk's mighty nigh de
same as ourn when yo gits de hang ob hit. So, honey, yo want to chirk
up and quit yo mo'nin', an' eat a bit, and den come to de theayter, foh
it sholy will be fine."

"What do you mean by the theatre?" asked the bewildered girl; whereupon
Primus explained that at one of the plantations raided by the Indians
a company of actors on their way to St. Augustine had been discovered,
captured, and brought along with all their properties. These people
were at first informed that they were to be burned to death at the
stake. Afterwards it was decided that they should be given their lives
and freedom if they would entertain their captors with an exhibition
of their art that very evening. This contract stipulated that the
performance should be as complete and detailed as though given before a
white audience, and that any member of the company failing to act his
part in a satisfactory manner would render himself liable to become a
target for bullets and arrows.

Under the circumstances it is doubtful if a play was ever presented
under more extraordinary conditions, greater difficulties, or by actors
more anxious to perform creditably their respective parts, than was
this one given in the depths of a Florida wilderness. The stage was an
open space, roofed by arching trees, and lighted by great fires of pine
knots constantly replenished. The wings were two wagons drawn up on
either side.

The play selected for this important occasion was Hamlet, and for
awhile everything proceeded smoothly. Then the audience began to grow
impatient of the long soliloquies, and to the intense surprise of the
captives, a gruff voice called out:

"Oh, cut it short an' git to fightin'!"

"No, give us a dance," shouted another, "an' hyar's a chune to dance
by."

With this a pistol shot rang out, and a ball struck the ground close to
Horatio's feet. The frightened actor bounded into the air, and as he
alighted, another shot, coupled with a fierce order to _dance_, assured
him that his tormentors were in deadly earnest. So he danced, and the
others were compelled to join him. To an accompaniment of roars of
laughter from the delighted savages, the terrified actors, clad in all
the bravery of tinsel armor and nodding plumes, were thus compelled to
cut capers and perform strange antics until some of them fell to the
ground from sheer exhaustion.

The humor of the savages now took another turn, and with fierce oaths,
mingled with threats of instant death if the players were ever seen in
that country again, they drove them from camp and bade them make their
way to St. Augustine.

As these fugitives disappeared in the surrounding darkness, a big,
hideously painted savage who wore on his face the uncommon adornment of
a bristling beard, advanced to Anstice Boyd, and in a jargon of broken
English bade her follow them if she valued her life.

As the frightened girl started to obey this mandate, old Primus
interfered and began to remonstrate with the savage, whereupon he was
struck to the ground with so cruel a blow that blood gushed from his
mouth. Filled with horror at these happenings, and believing her life
to be in peril if she lingered another minute, the fair English girl
sprang away, and was quickly lost to sight in the black forest shadows.




CHAPTER XXIV

BOGUS INDIANS AND THE REAL ARTICLE


As Anstice Boyd fled blindly from the presence of the savage who had
just struck down her faithful servant, she had no idea of the direction
she was taking, nor of what haven she might hope to reach. She knew
only that she was once more free to make her way to friends, if she
could, and her greatest present fear was that the savages might repent
their generosity, and seek to recapture her. So, as she ran, she
listened fearfully for sounds of pursuit, and several times fancied
that she heard soft footfalls close at hand, though hasty glances over
her shoulder disclosed no cause for apprehension.

At length, she came to the end of her strength, and sank wearily to the
ground at the foot of a giant magnolia. Almost as she did so, a low cry
of despair came from her lips, for with noiseless step the slender form
of a young Indian stood like an apparition beside her. She had not then
escaped, after all, but was still at the mercy of the savages whose
cruelty she had so recently witnessed. This one had doubtless been sent
to kill her. Thus thinking, the trembling girl covered her face with
her hands, and, praying that the fatal blow might be swift and sure,
dumbly awaited its delivery. Seconds passed, and it did not fall. The
agony of suspense was intolerable. She was about to spring up as though
in an effort to escape, and thus precipitate her fate, when, to her
amazement, she became aware that the Indian was speaking in a low tone,
and in her own tongue.

"My white sister must not be afraid," he said. "Coacoochee has come
far to find her and take her to a place of safety. Ralph Boyd is his
friend, his only friend among all the millions of white men. He is
wounded, and lies in a Seminole lodge. After a little we will go to
him. There is no time now to tell more. I have that to do which must
be done quickly. Let my sister rest here, and in one hour I will come
again."

As he concluded these words, which had been uttered hurriedly, and in
a voice but little above a whisper, the Indian turned and disappeared
as noiselessly as he had come, seeming to melt away among the woodland
shadows.

The bewildered girl, thus again left alone, tried to collect her dazed
senses and fix upon some plan of action. Should she still attempt to
escape, or should she trust the youth who had just announced himself to
be Coacoochee, the friend of her brother? Of course, he must belong to
the band that had recently held her captive, though she had not seen
him among them. What should she do? Which way should she turn?

In her terror, Anstice was unconsciously asking these questions
aloud, though her only answers were the night sounds of the forest.
Suddenly there came to her ears the crash of rifles, accompanied by the
blood-chilling Seminole war-cry, and followed by fierce yells, shrieks
of mortal agony, and the other horrid sounds of a death-struggle
between man and man, that was evidently taking place but a short
distance from her.

The girl sprang to her feet, but, bound to the spot by the horror of
those sounds, she listened breathlessly and with strained ears. Had the
savages been attacked by a party of whites? It might be. She knew that
troops of both regulars and militia were abroad in every direction.
Had not she and her brother entertained one of these small war-parties
hastening from St. Augustine to join the western army only a short
time before? It had been commanded by their friend, Lieutenant Irwin
Douglass, who had easily persuaded Ralph Boyd to accompany him as far
as Fort King, that he might learn for himself the true state of affairs
in the Indian country. Might it not be that one of these detachments,
even, possibly, that of Douglass himself, had tracked this band of
savages to their hiding-place, and were visiting upon them a terrible
but well-merited punishment? In that case, to fly would be folly; for,
with the Indians defeated, as of course they must be, she would find
safety among the victors.

Thus thinking, and filled with an eager desire to learn more of the
tragedy being enacted so near her, the girl began to advance, fearfully
and cautiously, in the direction of those appalling sounds. As she
approached the scene of conflict, its noise gradually died away, until
an occasional shout and a confused murmur of voices were borne to her
on the night air. The short battle was ended, and one side or the other
was victorious; which one, she must discover at all hazards. A gleam of
firelight directed her steps, and she continued her cautious advance
to a point of river bank, from which, though still concealed by dark
shadows, she could command a full view of the beach below. There, by
the light of the rising moon, aided by that of the fires, she beheld a
scene so strange that for some minutes she could make nothing of it.

Two large flat-boats, such as were used by planters along the river
for the transportation of produce to waiting vessels at its mouth, lay
moored to the bank. One of them seemed to be piled high with plunder,
while the other was filled with a dark mass of humanity, from which
came a medley of voices speaking with the unmistakable accent of
negroes. Anstice could see that these had been captives, as, two at a
time, they stepped ashore, where the ropes confining them were severed
by flashing knives in the hands of dusky figures, apparently Indians.
A number of motionless forms lay on the beach, and some of the others
seemed to be examining these, going from one to another, and spending
but a few moments with each one.

The girl gazed anxiously, but full of bewilderment and with a heavy
heart, at these things. Where were the whites she had so confidently
expected to see? She could not discover one. All of those on the beach,
dead as well as living, appeared to be either Indians or negroes. What
could it mean? Did Indian fight with Indian? She had never heard of
such a thing in Florida.

As she looked and wondered with ever-sinking heart, and filled with
despairing thoughts, she was attracted by the voice of an Indian who,
near one of the fires, was evidently issuing an order to the others.
She imagined him to be the one who had appeared to her a short time
before, and called himself "Coacoochee," but she could not be certain.
In striving to obtain a better view of his face, she incautiously
stepped forward to a projecting point of the bank. In another moment
the treacherous soil had loosened beneath her weight, and with frantic
but ineffective efforts to save herself, she slid down the sandy face
of the bluff to its bottom.

At her first appearance, the startled savages seized their guns, and
nerved themselves for an attack; but, on discovering how little cause
there was for alarm, they remained motionless, though staring with
amazement at the unexpected intruder.

Poor Anstice was not only filled with fresh terrors, but was covered
with confusion at the absurdity of her situation. Ere she could regain
her feet, the Indian who seemed to be in command sprang forward and
assisted her to rise.

"My white sister came too quickly," he said gravely; "she should
have stayed in the shadow of the itto micco [magnolia] till the time
for coming. It is not good for her to see such things." Here the
speaker swept his arm over the battle-ground. "Since she has come," he
continued, "Coacoochee will deliver the words of Ralph Boyd--"

At this moment he was interrupted by a joyful cry, a rush of footsteps,
and Letty, the maid, sobbing and laughing in a breath, came flying
up the beach, to fling her arms about the neck of her beloved young
mistress. She was followed by old Primus, hobbling stiffly, and
uttering pious ejaculations of thankfulness. Behind him crowded the
entire force of the plantation, men, women, and children, all shouting
with joy at the sight of "Missy Anstice."

The stern-faced warriors watched this scene with indulgent smiles,
for they knew that the sunny-haired girl, looking all the fairer in
contrast with the sable-hued throng about her, was the sister of the
white man who had so befriended their young war-chief.

"What does it all mean?" cried Anstice, at length disengaging herself
from Letty's hysterical embrace. "What was the cause of the firing I
heard but a short while since? Who are those yonder?" Here she pointed
with a shudder at the motionless forms lying prone on the sands.
"Surely they must be Indians, and yet, I knew not that the hand of the
red man was lifted against his fellows."

"They are not of the Iste-chatte [red man], but belong to the
Iste-hatke [white man]," answered Coacoochee, gravely.

"Dey's white debbils painted wif blackness," muttered old Primus.

"They are white men, Miss Anstice, disguised like Injuns," explained
Letty, whose style of conversation, from long service as lady's maid,
was superior to her station. "And oh, Miss Anstice! they were going to
take us down the river to sell us into slavery. We wouldn't believe
they could be white men, but the paint has been washed from the faces
of some of them, and now we know it is so."

Gradually, by listening to one and another who volunteered information,
Anstice Boyd learned that the supposed savages, whose prisoner she
had been, were indeed a party of white slave-catchers, disguised in
paint and feathers, so that their deeds of rascality might be laid
to the Seminoles. Coacoochee, to relieve the anxiety of Ralph Boyd,
who lay wounded and helpless in an Indian village, had set forth with
a small band of warriors to escort his friend's sister to a place of
safety, among people of her own race. He found the plantation deserted,
and, coming across the trail of the marauders who had captured its
occupants, quickly discovered their true character by many unmistakable
signs.

When they encamped for the night, the vengeful eyes of his warriors
were upon them; and when, for their own safety, they freed their white
prisoners and drove them away to spread the report of this fresh
_Indian_ outrage, these were allowed to pass through the Seminole line
without molestation. Coacoochee alone followed Anstice Boyd beyond
ear-shot of the camp, to assure her of friendly aid and safety; then
he returned to deal out to the white ruffians their well-deserved
punishment.

He would not fire on them while they and the blacks whom they proposed
to turn into property were mingled together; but when the latter were
bound and driven into the boats, he gave the terrible signal. More than
half the painted band fell at the first fire; the remainder, with the
exception of the leader and two others, who escaped in a canoe, were
quickly despatched, and the deed of vengeance was completed.

In view of these occurrences, and with the certainty that troops
would be sent in pursuit of Coacoochee's band, to which all the recent
aggressions would of course be credited, the young chief no longer
deemed it prudent to attempt to escort his friend's sister to the
vicinity of any white settlement. He proposed instead to carry her to
her brother.

The girl accepted this plan, provided she might be accompanied by her
maid Letty, a condition to which the young Indian readily agreed.

During the few hours that remained of the night, Anstice and her maid
slept the sleep of utter weariness in the carriage that had brought
them to that place, and with the earliest dawn were prepared to start
toward the Seminole stronghold, deep hidden among Withlacoochee swamps.




CHAPTER XXV

A SWAMP STRONGHOLD OF THE SEMINOLES


On the morning following that midnight tragedy of the wilderness, the
Indians made haste to retreat to that portion of the country which they
still called their own. The flat-boats were used to carry themselves,
their negro allies, and such of the plunder as could be readily
transported to the opposite side of the river; the cattle and horses
were made to swim across. Such of the plunder collected by the white
renegades as must be left behind was burned. Among all the property
thus acquired by the Indians, none was more highly prized than the
gorgeous costumes of the theatrical company. The unfortunate actors
had been forced to abandon these in their hurried flight, and now
Coacoochee's grim-faced warriors wore them with startling effect.

Anstice Boyd could not help smiling at the fantastic appearance
thus presented by her escort, though feeling that the circumstances
in which she was placed warranted anything rather than smiles or
light-heartedness. Was her brother really wounded, and was she being
taken to him, or were those only plausible tales to lure her away
beyond chance of rescue?

"Can we trust him, Letty? Has he told us the truth?" she asked of her
maid, indicating Coacoochee with a slight nod.

"Law, yes, Miss Anstice! You can always trust an Injun to tell you the
truth, for they hasn't learned how to lie; that is, them as has kept
away from white folks hasn't. As for that young man, he has an honest
face, and I believe every word he says. He'll take us straight to Marse
Ralph, I know he will."

Comforted by this assurance, Anstice crossed the river with a lighter
heart than she had known for days. When, on the other side, and mounted
on a spirited pony she was allowed to dash on in advance of the strange
cavalcade that followed her, she began to experience an hitherto
unknown thrill of delight in the wild freedom of the forest life
unfolding before her.

Soon after leaving the river, the Indians began to divide into small
parties, each of which took a different direction, thus making a number
of divergent trails well calculated to baffle pursuit. The negroes
also separated into little companies, all of which were to be guided
to a common rendezvous, where, under the leadership of old Primus,
they promised to remain until "Marse" Boyd should again return to the
plantation and send for them.

Thus Anstice and her maid finally found themselves escorted only by
Coacoochee and two other warriors. Pushing forward with all speed, this
little party reached, at noon of the second day, the bank of a dark
stream that flowed sluggishly through an almost impenetrable cypress
swamp. One of the Indians remained here with the horses, while the rest
of the party embarked in one of several canoes that had been carefully
hidden at this point.

Urged on by the lusty paddles of Coacoochee and his companion, this
craft proceeded swiftly for nearly a mile up the shadowy stream.
Not even the noonday sun could penetrate the dense foliage that
arched above them. Festoons of vines depended like huge serpents
from interlacing branches, and funereal streamers of gray moss hung
motionless in the stagnant air. The black waters swarmed with great
alligators, that showed little fear of the canoe, and gave it reluctant
passage. Strange birds, water-turkeys with snake-like necks, red-billed
cormorants, purple galinules, and long-legged herons, startled from
their meditations by the dip of paddles, flapped heavily up stream in
advance of the oncoming craft, with discordant cries.

Upon such slender threads hang the fate of nations and communities as
well as that of individuals, that, but for these brainless water-fowl,
flying stupidly up the quiet river and spreading with harsh voices
the news that something had frightened them, the whole course of the
Seminole war might have been changed. As it was, a single Indian, who
was cautiously making his way down stream in a small canoe, hugging the
darkest shadows, and casting furtive glances on all sides, was quick to
make use of the information thus furnished.

As the squawking birds redoubled their cries at sight of him, he turned
his canoe quickly and drove it deep in among the cypresses at one side,
so that it was completely hidden from the view of any who might pass up
or down the river.

This Indian, who was known as Chitta-lustee (the black snake), had
hardly gained the hiding-place from which he peered out with eager
eyes, before the craft containing Coacoochee and his little party swept
into view around a bend, and slipped swiftly past him. The keen eye
of the young war-chief did not fail to note the floating bubbles left
by the paddle of the spy, but attributed them to an alligator, or to
some of the innumerable turtles that were constantly plumping into the
water from half-submerged logs as the canoe approached. So he paid no
attention to them, but a minute later guided his slender craft across
the river, and into an opening so concealed by low-hanging branches,
that one unfamiliar with its location might have searched for it in
vain.

This was what Chitta-lustee had been doing, and for the discovery, made
now by accident, he had been promised a fabulous reward in _whiskey_.
There were renegades among the Seminoles as well as among the whites,
and of these the Black Snake was one. Seduced from his allegiance to
those of his own blood by an unquenchable thirst for the white man's
fire-water, he had sold himself, body and soul, to the enemies of his
race.

General Scott, who had succeeded to the command of the army in Florida,
was bending all his energies toward breaking up the Indian strongholds
amid the swampy labyrinths of the Withlacoochee. Of these, the most
important was that of Osceola. No white man had ever seen it, and but
few Seminoles outside of the band occupying it had penetrated its
mysteries. Therefore the entire force of renegades, _friendly Indians_
the whites called them, some seventy in number, drawn from the band of
that traitor chief who had been bribed to agree to removal, were now
engaged in a search for these secluded camps, while liberal rewards had
been promised for the discovery of any one of them. Goods to the amount
of one hundred dollars, and one of the chiefships from which General
Wiley Thompson had deposed the rightful holders, would be given to him
who should lead the troops to the stronghold of Osceola. Chitta-lustee
cared little for the honor of chiefship, but dazzled by a vision of one
hundred dollars' worth of fire-water, which was the only class of white
man's goods for which he longed, he made up his mind to discover the
hidden retreat of the Baton Rouge, or perish in the attempt.

For many days had he skulked in the swamps, repeatedly passing the
concealed entrance to which Coacoochee had now unwittingly guided
him, without seeing it. As he noted the marks by which it might be
identified, he gloated over the prize that seemed at length within his
grasp and awaited impatiently the evening shadows that should enable
him to make further explorations.

In the meantime, the canoe from which Anstice Boyd was casting
shuddering glances at the sombre scenes about her, continued for a
short distance up a serpentine creek, so narrow as to barely afford it
passage, and was finally halted beside a huge, moss-grown log. This,
half-buried in the ooze of the swamp, afforded a landing-place, at
which the party disembarked. As they did so, Coacoochee turned to the
English girl, and said:

"The eye of the Iste-hatke has never looked upon this place. Ralph
Boyd knows it not, for he was brought here in darkness. Will my sister
keep its secret hidden deep in her own bosom, where no enemy of the
Iste-chatte shall ever find it?"

To this query Anstice replied: "Coacoochee, as you deal with me, so
will I deal by you. Take me in safety to my brother, and your secret
shall be safe with me forever."

"Un-cah! It is good," replied the young Indian. "Now let us go. Step
only where I step, and let the black girl step only where you step, for
the trail is narrow."

And narrow it proved. Other logs, felled at right angles to the first,
and sunk so deep in treacherous mud that their upper surface was often
under water, formed a precarious pathway to a strip of firmer land.
This natural causeway, to step from which was to be plunged in mud
as black and soft as tar, besides being almost as tenacious, led for
nearly half a mile to an island that rose abruptly from the surrounding
swamp.

This island was apparently completely covered with an impenetrable
growth of timber and underbrush laced together by a myriad of thorny
vines. The only trail by which the formidable barricade might be
penetrated was not opposite the end of the causeway, but lay at some
distance, to one side, where it was carefully concealed from all but
those who would die rather than reveal its secret. Even when it was
once entered, its windings were not easy to trace. But its perplexities
were short, and after a few rods the pathway ended abruptly in a scene
so foreign to that from which it started, that it seemed to belong
to another world. Instead of the funereal gloom, the slime, the rank
growth, and crowding horrors of the great swamp, here was a cleared
space, acres in extent, bathed in sunlight, and alive with cheerful
human activity.

On the highest point of land, beneath a clump of stately trees, stood a
cluster of palmetto-thatched huts, some open on all sides, and others
enclosed; but all raised a foot or two from the ground, so as to allow
of a free circulation of air beneath them. In and about these swarmed
a happy, busy population. Warriors, whose naked limbs exhibited the
firm outlines of bronze statues, cleaned or mended their weapons.
Groups of laughing women, cleanly in person, attractive to look upon,
and modestly clad, prepared food or engaged in other domestic duties;
while rollicking bands of chubby children shouted shrilly over games
that differed little from those of other children all over the world.
Stretching away from the village were broad fields of corn and cane,
amid which yams, pumpkins, and melons grew with wonderful luxuriance.
These fields were cared for by negroes, who dwelt in their own
quarters, and worked the productive land on shares, that frequently
brought larger returns to them than to the red-skinned proprietors of
the soil.

This was the swamp stronghold of Osceola, to which Coacoochee and Louis
had retreated after the battle of the Withlacoochee, bringing with
them the unconscious form of Ralph Boyd, the Englishman friend of the
enslaved and champion of the oppressed.

In common with most of the whites, this young man had underrated both
the numbers and courage of the Seminoles, and had not believed they
would dare fight, even for their homes, against United States troops.
It was only upon penetrating their country with General Clinch's army
that Ralph Boyd realized how bitter was to be the struggle and that it
was already begun. He had been shot down quite early in the battle at
the river-crossing and lay on the field unnoticed until found by the
one Indian who was inclined to save his life rather than take it.

When the wounded man next opened his eyes, he found himself lying on
a couch of softest skins, amid surroundings so foreign to anything he
had ever known that for awhile he was confident he was dreaming. Then
as the well-remembered form of Coacoochee bent anxiously over him, a
memory of recent events flashed into his mind. He realized that an
Indian war with all its attendant horrors was sweeping over the land,
and recalled the fact that his sister Anstice was alone and unprotected
on the plantation by the St. John's. Weakly he strove to rise, but fell
back with a groan.

"My brother must rest," said Coacoochee, chidingly. "He is among
friends, and there is no cause for uneasiness. Here there is no white
man to shoot him from behind."

"I care not for myself," murmured the sufferer. "It is my sister, left
without one to protect her or guide her to a place of safety. I must go
to her."

Again he attempted to rise, but was gently restrained by the young
Indian, who said:

"Let not my brother be troubled. Coacoochee will go in his place and
guide the white maiden to a safe shelter."

"Will you, Coacoochee? Will you do this thing for me?" exclaimed Boyd,
a faint color flushing his pale cheeks.

"Un-cah," answered the young war-chief. "This very hour will I go, and
when I come again I will bring a token from the white maiden who dwells
by the great river."




CHAPTER XXVI

TWO SPIES AND THEIR FATE


Coacoochee had fulfilled his promise, and conducted the sister of his
friend to a place of safety. As he entered the village followed closely
by the first white girl that many of its inmates had ever seen, they
gazed wonderingly and in silence at the unaccustomed spectacle. Even
the voices of the children were so suddenly hushed that Ralph Boyd,
tossing wearily on his narrow couch in one of the enclosed huts, noted
the quick cessation of sounds to which he had become wonted, and
awaited its explanation with nervous impatience. The old Indian woman
who acted as his nurse stepped outside, and for the moment he was
alone. Filled with an intense desire to know what was taking place,
the wounded man strove to rise, with the intention of crawling to the
door of the hut; but ere he could carry out his design, the curtain of
deerskins that closed it was thrust aside, and Coacoochee stood before
him.

With a feeble shout of joy at sight of his friend, the sufferer
exclaimed tremulously: "Is she safe? Have you brought a token from
her?"

"The white maiden is safe, and I have brought a token," answered the
young Indian, proudly.

As he spoke, he moved aside, and in another moment Anstice Boyd,
sobbing for joy, was kneeling beside her brother, with her arms about
his neck.

From that moment Ralph Boyd's recovery was sure and rapid, for there
are no more certain cures for any wound than careful nursing and a
relief from anxiety. Within a week he was not only able to sit up, but
to take short walks about the village, the strange life of which he
studied with never-failing interest. So well ordered and peaceful was
it, so filled with cheerful industry, that it was difficult to believe
it a dwelling-place of those who were even then engaged in fighting
for their homes and rights. But evidences that such was the case were
visible on all sides. War-parties were constantly going and coming.
Osceola, now head chief of this particular band, and one of the leading
spirits of the war, was away most of the time, hovering about the
flanks of some army, cutting off their supplies, killing, burning, and
destroying; here to-day, and far away to-morrow, spreading everywhere
the terror of his name.

Coacoochee would fain have been engaged in similar service; but his own
band of warriors under the temporary leadership of Louis Pacheco, was
operating far to the eastward, between the St. John's and the coast,
while he felt pledged to remain with his white friends until Ralph
Boyd could be removed to a place of greater safety. He feared to leave
them; for among the inmates of the camp were certain vindictive spirits
who so hungered for white scalps that they made frequent threats of
what would happen to the brother and sister, whom they regarded as
captives, in case they had their way with them. So the young war-chief
restrained his longings for more active service, and devoted himself to
collecting great quantities of corn and other supplies, which he stored
in this swamp stronghold for future use.

When not waiting on her brother, Anstice amused herself by observing
the domestic life of the village and in cultivating an acquaintance
among its women and children. The former were so shy that she made but
little headway with them. In fact, her maid Letty was far more popular
among the Indian women than she. With the children, however, Anstice
became an object for adoration almost from the moment of her appearance
among them. So devoted were they to her that she could not walk abroad
without an attendant throng of sturdy urchins or naked toddlers.

One drowsy afternoon, leaving her brother asleep in a hammock woven
of tough swamp grasses, Anstice, accompanied by her usual escort of
children and with a slim little maiden clinging to each hand, visited
a dense thicket near the pathway leading out to the great swamp, in
search of bead-like palmetto berries, which she proposed to string
into necklaces. Seating herself on the edge of the forest growth, she
despatched several of the children in search of the coveted berries.
Diving under the bushes and threading their tangled mazes like so many
quail, these quickly disappeared from view, though shouts of laughter
plainly indicated their movements.

Suddenly a scream of childish terror was uttered close at hand, and a
little lad, trembling with fright, came running back to where Anstice
was sitting. Filled with a dread of wild beasts or deadly serpents, the
girl sprang to her feet, and making use of the few Seminole words she
had acquired while in the village, called loudly:

"At-tess-cha, che-paw-ne! At-tess-cha, mas-tchay!" (Come here, boys!
come here quickly!)

The quality of terror in her voice rather than the words themselves
must have attracted attention, for while there came no answer, the
children's shouts were suddenly hushed. Each embryo warrior dropped to
the ground where he was, and like hunted rabbits, lay motionless, but
keenly alert, until they should learn from which direction danger might
be expected. Those who had remained with Anstice clung to her skirts,
and the urchin who had given the alarm glanced fearfully behind him.

As the girl stood irresolute, there came a movement in the bushes
close at hand. Then to her amazement, her name was called softly, but
in a voice whose accents she would have recognized anywhere and under
all circumstances. It needed not the parting of the leafy screen and a
glimpse of the anxious face behind it, to tell her that Irwin Douglass,
the lieutenant of dragoons, who had so often shared the hospitality
of her brother's table, had, by some inconceivable means, penetrated
the secrets of this Indian stronghold and ventured within its deadly
confines.

"Oh, Mr. Douglass!" she cried, in a voice trembling with apprehension.
"How came you here? Do you not realize your awful peril? You will be
killed if you stay a minute longer! Fly, then! Fly, I beg of you, while
there is yet time."

"But, Miss Boyd! Anstice! Why are you here instead of safe in Augustine
as we thought? Are you not in equal, or even in greater, peril? Come
with me, and I will gladly beat a retreat, but I cannot leave you to
the mercy of the savages. This place is infested by an overwhelming
force of troops, who only await my return to make an attack. The
Indians will surely kill you rather than allow you to be rescued."

"No! No! I am in no peril!" replied the agitated girl. "I am here of my
own free will, and shall be safe in any event. But you! If you value
your life! If you love--"

Just then two grim warriors appeared as though they had dropped from
the sky, one on either side of Douglass, and in spite of a mighty
struggle for freedom, made him their prisoner. One of the children had
sped to the village. Coacoochee, with several followers, had taken the
trail, and closed in from two sides on Anstice and the lieutenant,
while they were too full of amazement at each other's presence in that
place to note the stealthy approach.

As two of the Indians seized the young officer, the others sprang after
a retreating form they had just discovered skulking through the forest.
It was that of Chitta-lustee, the spy, who had carried the news of his
finding of this stronghold to Fort King. From there he had guided a
body of troops back to the log landing, whence he had been sent, in
company with Lieutenant Douglass, to note the exact state of affairs in
the village before an attack should be ordered. Together they had crept
undetected to a place from which they could command a fair view of the
village, and estimate the force of its defenders, which at that moment
did not number more than a dozen warriors.

The spies were about to retire from their dangerous position when
prevented by the approach of Anstice and her retinue of children.
One of these had chanced upon their hiding-place, and while Douglass
pleaded with the English girl to seize this opportunity for escape from
what he imagined to be a terrible captivity, his companion was trying
to secure his own safety by slowly and noiselessly creeping away. He
had gained a fair distance, and was beginning to move more rapidly,
when discovered by Coacoochee, who, followed by the other warriors,
immediately sprang in pursuit.

Down to the edge of the swamp and out on the narrow causeway fled the
spy, and after him, like hound in full view of his quarry, leaped the
avenger. It was a terrible race along that slender path, slippery with
slime and water. Chitta-lustee flung away his rifle, and, with breath
coming in panting gasps, ran for his life. A few rods more, and he
would be safe.

Coacoochee, reckless of consequences, and filled with a fierce
determination to destroy, at all hazards, this most dangerous enemy of
his people, only clenched his teeth more tightly, and leaped forward
with an increase of speed, as he detected a glint of weapons directly
ahead, and realized that the farther end of the causeway was already
occupied by troops. He bore only a light spear that he had snatched up
at the first alarm, and, with all his skill, he must be at least within
twenty yards of a mark ere he could hurl it effectively.

He was still one hundred yards away, and now he could distinguish the
uniforms of those who were advancing to meet the panting fugitive.
Those who followed the young chief were halting doubtfully. To them
it seemed that he was rushing toward certain destruction. They could
not restrain him. To follow his example and throw their lives away
uselessly would be worse than folly. So they stayed their steps, and
watched the fearful race with fascinated gaze.

Only for a moment, and then all was over. Chitta-lustee slipped and
stumbled on one of the water-soaked logs at the end of the causeway.
As he recovered himself, there came a flash of darting steel, and the
keen blade of a hurtling spear, flung with the utmost of Coacoochee's
nervous strength, sunk deep between his shoulders. With a choking cry,
and out-flung arms, the traitor pitched headlong into the black waters,
and disappeared forever, while cries of horror came from the advancing
soldiers whose protection he had so nearly gained.

Even as the young war-chief delivered his deadly blow, and without
waiting to note its effect, he turned and fled toward his own people. A
dozen angry rifles rang out behind him, and the whole swamp echoed with
fierce yells from the enraged soldiers, but no bullet struck him, and
no taunt served to stay his steps.

The three Indians fled swiftly as hunted deer, back along the
treacherous trail, while the troops followed with what speed they
might. It was so difficult a path, and so dangerous, and the
heavy-booted soldiers slipped from its narrow verge so often, that
those whom they pursued reached the island and disappeared among its
thickets ere they had more than started. Then back through the heavy
air came mockingly and defiantly the Seminole war-cry:

"Yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!"

Thus they knew that a surprise of the stronghold they had so labored to
gain was no longer possible.

Still with a courage worthy of a nobler cause the troops pushed
forward, unguided save by instinct and a burning desire to avenge the
death of their well-loved lieutenant, whom they supposed the savages
had already killed. With all their efforts it was a full half-hour
ere the advance drew near to the wooded island that rose silent and
mysterious before them, and they began to feel firmer ground beneath
their feet.

Before they reached its encircling forest wall, flashes of flame began
to leap from the dark thickets, and before the deadly fire of an unseen
foe the advance was staggered and halted. It was only for a moment, and
then they sprang forward with a cheer to charge the fatal barricade.

A dozen troopers had fallen ere the Indian fire was silenced, and
as yet the soldiers had not caught a glimpse of their foe. In the
thick-set undergrowth they were tripped and flung to the ground by
snake-like roots, encircled and held fast by tough vines, clutched and
drawn backward by stout thorns curved and sharp as a tiger's claws.
No human being save a naked Indian could thread that forest maze, and
as the soldiers could discover no opening through it, they decided to
make one. Swords, axes, and knives were called into requisition. Every
now and then a rifle shot from the unseen foe proved the Indians to be
still watchful and defiant.

It was not until another half-hour had been expended in this exhausting
effort at road-cutting that the trail lying well to one side was
discovered.

Wearied by their futile efforts, made furious by opposition, and galled
by the fire from unseen rifles that had been steadily thinning their
numbers ever since they reached the island, the troops rushed with
fierce shouts to the opening, streamed through it, and gained the
central, cleared space in which stood the Seminole village. Here, for a
moment, the tumultuous advance was checked, and each man clutched his
weapon with a closer grip, in expectation of an attack.

But none was made. The peaceful village, all aglow with the light of a
setting sun, was silent and deserted. No voices came from it, nor from
the broad fields that lay clothed in luxuriant verdure beyond. There
was no sound of busy workers, no laughter of children. A raven with
glossy plumage, iridescent in the sunlight, croaked a hoarse challenge
from a lofty tree-top, and a solitary buzzard circled overhead on
motionless pinions, but no other signs of life were to be detected.

After a minute of irresolution Captain Chase, the officer in command of
the expedition, deployed his men as skirmishers, and was about to give
the order "Forward!" when this strange thing happened:

From one of the thatched huts of the village three human beings
emerged and advanced slowly toward the motionless line of soldiers.
Two were men, evidently white men, and one of these wore a uniform.
Between them walked a young girl whose shapely head was crowned with
a mass of gold-red hair. As she drew near, a murmur of admiration at
her beauty passed along the stern line of blue-coated troops. Then an
irrepressible tumult of cheers rent the air, for in one of the girl's
companions the soldiers recognized their own beloved lieutenant, Irwin
Douglass. But curiosity got the better of enthusiasm, and as the noise
subsided, each trooper waited in breathless silence for an explanation
of this strange encounter.




CHAPTER XXVII

ANSTICE BOYD SAVES THE LIFE OF A CAPTIVE


While Coacoochee was engaged in his fierce pursuit of the traitor
Seminole across the black causeway, Irwin Douglass was led to the
village, where he was securely bound to one of the great trees by which
it was shaded. Here his captors left him, and seizing their rifles
hastened back to the edge of the swamp.

The moment Anstice realized that the young soldier, though a captive,
was not doomed to instant death, she flew back to the hut occupied by
her brother, whom she found still quietly sleeping in his grass-woven
hammock. Roused into a startled wakefulness by her abrupt entrance, the
convalescent was for some moments at a loss to comprehend what she was
saying or what had caused her excitement.

"Who do you say is captured? and what has happened, dear, to frighten
you?" he asked, in a bewildered tone.

"Irwin Douglass, and they are going to kill him, and the village
is about to be attacked, and we shall all be murdered!" cried the
terrified girl.

"Douglass captured and about to be killed? Impossible!" exclaimed
Boyd, rising and starting toward the doorway. "But I will go and see.
Surely Coacoochee would never murder a prisoner in cold blood. As for
ourselves, you know we are safe so long as we are his guests. Wait
here, sister, and I will bring Douglass back with me, if, as you say,
he is in the village."

But the frightened girl clung to him and would not be left. So they
set forth together, and had hardly gained the outer air before a sound
of firing from the causeway warned them that fighting of some sort was
begun. The same sounds created vast excitement among the inmates of the
village, and the crowd of negroes, who, at the first note of alarm,
had come swarming up from the fields. These so occupied the entire
foreground that the brother and sister could get no sight of him whom
they sought. Neither was their friend the young war-chief to be seen.
They attempted to make way through the throng, but were impatiently
pushed back, the crowd scowling and muttering at them angrily.

One huge, coal-black negro even advanced upon them with a drawn knife
and so ugly an expression, that Ralph Boyd instinctively thrust his
sister behind him, and nerved himself to receive an attack. Unarmed and
weakened by illness as he was, the outcome of such a struggle could
readily be foreseen, and the white man cast a despairing glance about
him in search of some weapon. There was none, and the gleaming knife
was already uplifted for a deadly stroke, when, with a shrill cry, a
black woman sprang betwixt the two, snatched the knife from the negro's
hand, and flourishing it in his face, poured out such a furious torrent
of angry, scornful, and threatening words, that the brute slunk away
from her, completely cowed.

Now, turning and almost pushing Boyd and his sister before her,
Letty--for the black Amazon was no other than Anstice's own
maid--succeeded in getting them back inside the hut before their
assailant had time to rally from his discomfiture. Then, still
clutching the knife she had so adroitly captured, the black girl stood
guard before the entrance, deaf alike to those of her own color, who
taunted her with being a traitor to her race, and to the entreaties of
her young mistress, that she should attempt a rescue of the prisoner
about whom the crowd of Indian women and negroes still swarmed.

"Cayn't do it, Miss Anstice," replied the black girl, firmly, but
without turning her head. "I'se powerful sorry for Marse Douglass, but
when it's him or you, I know which one I'se bound to look after."

"But, Letty, they will murder him!"

"No, Miss Anstice, not till Coacoochee says so. They das'n't kill him,
not till the chief gives the word."

"But supposing Coacoochee does not come? He may be killed or captured
himself, you know."

"There ain't no use speculating on that, Miss Anstice, because he's
come already. I can see him out there now, talking to the crowd. Looks
like he's in a powerful hurry, too, and I spec's the end of time has
come for poor Marse Douglass. Oh Lord, Miss Anstice! Stop up your ears,
quick!"

At these ominous words, the brave English girl, instead of complying,
darted from the hut so swiftly, that ere Letty could interfere to
prevent her, she had gained the centre of the village. There she came
upon a scene well calculated to freeze the blood in her veins. Irwin
Douglass, bound to a tree, with his pale, resolute face turned toward
the setting sun, gazed with unflinching calmness into the black muzzles
of four levelled rifles, that in another moment would pour their deadly
contents into his body. The pitiless warriors who held them, and only
awaited a signal from their young chief to press the fatal triggers,
scanned the face of their victim in vain for the faintest trace of
fear. There was none; and they were filled with regrets that so brave
a man could not be reserved for a more lingering and trying form of
death. But there was no time to spare. The soldiers were even now upon
them, and whatever was to be done must be done quickly. Already murmurs
of impatience could be heard among the spectators.

As Coacoochee was about to give the dread command, there came a quick
rush, and the girlish figure of Anstice Boyd stood full in front of the
cruel rifles, between them and their human mark. Her wonderful hair,
half loosed from its coil, glinted like spun gold in the red sunlight.
Her eyes were big with terror, and her face was bloodless, but her
voice rang out clear and strong, as she cried:

"Coacoochee, you must not do this thing! You dare not!"

"He is an enemy," answered the young chief, calmly; and without
betraying his annoyance at this interruption. "If we should not kill
him, he would kill us."

"He might in battle or in fair fight, but he would never shoot down a
helpless prisoner," replied the girl, in scornful tones. "Set him free,
place a weapon in his hands, and fight him man to man, if you dare."

"Gladly would I," answered the young Seminole, "if there was time, but
there is not. Thy people have hunted us like wolves to our den, and
even now are upon us. In another minute must we fly for our lives. Our
friends we can leave to their friends. Our captive we cannot take, and
dare not release. He is a spy. The white man puts a spy to death; why
should not the Indian? Coacoochee has spoken. The spy must die. Let my
white sister stand aside."

Very stern was the young war-chief, and very determined. A murmur of
approbation rose from the dusky throng about him as his words fell upon
their ears.

A wave of despair surged over Anstice Boyd. Her face flushed, then
became deadly pale. Her voice was well-nigh choked as she answered:

"Then, oh, Coacoochee, if you will not yield to the dictates of
humanity, still listen to me. In the name of Allala, thy spirit sister,
in the name of her who still lives, and is most dear to thee, in the
name of Ralph Boyd, who, by his deeds, has proved himself thy friend, I
plead for this man's life. If this is not enough, I demand it for yet
another reason." Here, with face crimsoned like the rising sun, the
girl stepped close to the young chief, and spoke a few words in a tone
so low that none but he could catch their import.

His stern face softened, and for a moment he looked curiously at her.
Then drawing his own silver-mounted knife from its sheath, he handed it
to her, saying:

"The words of the white maiden have sunk deep into the heart of
Coacoochee. Let her lead him whom she has saved to the lodge of her
brother. Keep him there, close hidden from my people, so long as a
voice is heard in this place. Then, and not till then, will it be safe
for the Iste-hatke to venture forth. Farewell, my sister! Thank not
the wild cat that his claws are sheathed. Thank rather Allala, Nita,
and Ralph Boyd. _Hi-e-pas! Hi-e-pas!_"

[Illustration: THE GIRL STEPPED CLOSE TO THE YOUNG CHIEF AND SPOKE A
FEW WORDS.]

The last two words were uttered in ringing tones of command to his own
people, and, supplemented as they were by a crashing volley of musketry
from the edge of the swamp, they produced an instant effect.

Although many glances of hate were flashed at the white girl and
the prisoner, whom she freed from his bonds with two strokes of
Coacoochee's keen knife, they were allowed to pass unharmed to the hut
occupied by Ralph Boyd. He walked with them; for, without his sister's
knowledge, he had stood close by her side while she pleaded for the
life of Irwin Douglass, ready to strike a blow in her defence, or to
share her fate.

The three entered the hut together, and as its curtain of deerskin was
drawn so as to exclude all prying eyes, the overwrought girl fell into
her brother's arms, weeping hysterically. The young soldier, who but
a moment before stood within the shadow of death, gazed curiously and
awkwardly for a second on this scene, and then turning away, sat down
with his face buried in his hands.

Ralph Boyd sought to calm his brave sister with loving words. So filled
was each of the three with crowding emotions that they took no note
of time nor of outside sounds, until at length the girl ceased her
sobbing and gazed with a smile into her brother's face. Then, with a
weight lifted from his heart, he began to talk to her in a cheerful
strain.

"It was nobly done, sister mine," he said, "and as a special pleader I
will name you before any barrister in the land. What argument, though,
was it you used at the last? I failed to catch the words, but they must
have been of powerful force."

Again a tide of crimson mantled the girl's fair cheeks, as she replied:
"Coacoochee knows, and I know; but let it suffice you, brother, that
they were effective; for more than that I can never tell."

At this juncture, the young soldier, looking as guilty as though he
had been caught at eavesdropping, rose, drew aside the curtain at the
entrance, and stepped outside. As he did so, he uttered an exclamation
that quickly brought the others to his side.

The village, recently so populous and filled with busy life, was
deserted. Not a soul was to be seen. Even the pigs and chickens had
disappeared. An unbroken silence, as of an impending doom, brooded over
the place, and, as the three who were now its sole occupants walked
among the vacant habitations, they felt impelled to lower their voices,
as though in presence of the dead. They had gone but a short distance
when their attention was attracted by the sound of many voices and the
tramp of armed men. Turning in that direction, they beheld a body of
troops pouring from the pathway leading to the swamp, and toward these
they at once directed their steps.

As the three whose recent experiences had been so thrilling walked
slowly down the grassy slope, Douglass strove to find words with
which to thank Anstice Boyd for the gift of his life; but the girl
interrupted him at the outset, and begged him never to mention the
subject again.

"Very well," he replied, "since that is your desire, I will strive
to obey. I do so the more readily that mere words fail to express my
feelings; but I shall live in hope of the time when by some service I
may be able to indicate my gratitude."

Whatever else the grateful young soldier might have said was
interrupted by cheers from the troops, who at that moment recognized
the comrade whom they had mourned as lost to them forever. As quiet was
restored, his brother officers crowded about him with a hearty welcome
and an avalanche of questions.

"That will do for the present, gentlemen," interposed Captain Chase.
"Excuse a soldier's abruptness, madam," he added, bowing to Anstice,
"but in this stern business of war, duty must precede even the ordinary
courtesies of life. Now, Mr. Douglass, since you are so happily
restored to us, please tell me what to expect in yonder den of swamp
devils? Are we to be attacked? Shall we charge. What force opposes us?
What is the meaning of this ominous silence?"

"I hardly know how to answer you, sir," replied the lieutenant, "for I
am as ignorant concerning the enemy's movements as yourself. So far as
I know, there is not a soul in yonder village, though but a few minutes
ago it was swarming with life."

"What has become of them, then?" demanded the officer, impatiently.

"I do not know, sir."

"You can at least tell in which direction they went."

"No, sir, I cannot even do that; for I did not see them go, nor do I
know when they departed."

"Upon my soul, this is a most extraordinary state of affairs!"
exclaimed the officer, flushing angrily. "I must confess that I had not
heretofore credited you with blindness. Perhaps, sir, you can give us
the desired information?" he added, turning to Ralph Boyd.

Upon the young Englishman claiming an equal ignorance with the
lieutenant, the irate captain said in a tone of suppressed anger: "This
matter shall be investigated at a more convenient time, but at present
it seems that we must make discoveries for ourselves. To your places,
gentlemen. Forward! Double quick! March!"

With this the line of blue-coated troops advanced swiftly up the slope
and charged the empty huts of the deserted village.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE MARK OF THE WILDCAT


In vain did the soldiers ransack the empty huts of the village, and
scour the island from end to end. Not a single human being or evidence
of life did they discover, nor were they fired upon from the belt of
timber surrounding the cleared fields. The hundreds of men, women, and
children, Indians and negroes, who had been at home in this place less
than an hour before, had vanished as mysteriously and completely as
though the earth had opened and swallowed them. Even the secret place
of exit through the swamp, provided for just such an emergency as
the present, had not been discovered when darkness put an end to the
search, and the troops camped in and about the Indian village for the
night.

The officer commanding the expedition was furious. He had expected
to destroy or capture the entire force of the enemy gathered at this
point. Instead of so doing, he had not only failed to capture a single
prisoner, but could not discover that his fire had resulted in the
killing or even wounding of a single warrior. On the other hand, the
dead of his own command numbered seven, while a score of others were
more or less severely wounded. His anger was in nowise diminished
by what he was pleased to term the culpable ignorance of Lieutenant
Douglass concerning the strength and movements of the Indians.

When questioned on these points, the young officer, with a delicacy
that forbade the part taken by Anstice Boyd in his rescue becoming
common talk of the camp, would only say that, having been confined in
a closed hut, he had no opportunity of knowing what was taking place
outside.

"Were you bound, blind-folded, or in any other way deprived of the use
of your faculties?" demanded the commander.

"No, sir, I was not."

"In that case it is incredible that you could not have found some
opportunity for making observations of what was taking place about
you; and that you failed to do so, must be regarded as a grave neglect
of duty. The very fact that the savages, having you in their power,
presented you with both life and liberty, would seem to argue a closer
sympathy between you and them than is permissible between an officer of
the United States army and the enemies of his Government. Therefore,
sir, I shall take it upon myself to suspend you from duty, and shall
prefer charges against you which you will be allowed to meet before a
court martial. That is all, sir. You may go."

"Very good, sir," replied the younger officer, bowing, and retiring
with a pale face, and a mind filled with bitter thoughts.

That night the island seemed a very abode of malicious spirits.
Low-hanging clouds covered it with a veil of darkness so intense as to
be oppressive. A strong wind moaned among the forest trees, and borne
on it from the surrounding swamp came blood-chilling shrieks and yells,
weird and foreboding, but whether produced by wild beasts or wild men,
the shuddering listeners, gathered closely about flaring camp-fires,
could not determine. So terrible were some of these wind-borne
cries, that certain among those who listened declared them to be the
despairing accents of lost souls; for which sentiment they were derided
by the bolder of their comrades. But when the midnight relief went its
round of the outposts, and found four of them guarded only by corpses,
even the scoffers were willing to admit that in the rush of the night
wind they had heard the wings of the angel of death.

As, one after another, the dead sentinels were brought in to the
firelight, they were found to be without wounds, unless a scratch of
five fine lines on each pallid forehead could be called such. In each
case the cause of death was a broken neck. From this and the scratches,
that looked as though they might have been made by the brushing of a
mighty paw, it was at first thought that the unfortunate soldiers
might have been done to death by one of the more powerful beasts of the
forest.

This belief was, however, quickly upset by an old frontiersman who
accompanied the troops as a scout. Pointing out that all the scratches
were located in the same place, and all had been made with equal
lightness of touch, he declared them to be the mark of Coacoochee the
Wildcat.

Already the terror of this name had spread so far, that when Ralph Boyd
asserted that Coacoochee was indeed leader of the band just driven from
that stronghold, a great fear fell upon the soldiers, and to a man they
refused to perform outpost duty beyond the limit of firelight.

To enlarge this lighted circle, one hut after another was set on
fire, until the whole village, including the great storehouses full
of provisions and the granaries of corn, was one roaring, leaping
mass of flame. The leafy crowns of the giant oaks that had shaded it,
shrivelled, crackled, and burst into a myriad tongues of fire; while to
render the destruction of the forest monarchs more certain, some of the
soldiers seized axes and girdled their trunks.

So bright was the circle of light in which the troops foolishly sought
for safety, that had Coacoochee been leader of one hundred warriors at
that moment, he could have wiped out the entire force of invaders; but
he was alone, and from the black recesses of a thicket he gazed upon
the scene of destruction in impotent wrath.

Having seen the band intrusted to his care safely across the great
swamp, and well on their way to another place of refuge, he had
returned alone to watch the invasion of Osceola's stronghold. With the
noiseless movements of a gliding shadow he had skirted the camp of the
soldiers, and four times had he left silent but terrible witnesses of
his presence. With a heavy heart he now watched the burning of the
great stores of food that he had gathered for the support of his people
during months of fighting; for he knew that with this destruction a
heavy blow had been dealt against the Seminole cause.

With the earliest coming of daylight, the troops, impatient to finish
their task and leave that place of terror, began to destroy the growing
crops beyond the village. Safe hidden among the spreading branches
of a live-oak, where he was screened by great clusters of pale-green
mistletoe, Coacoochee watched them tear up acres of tasselled corn, and
laden vines, cut down scores of trees heavy with ripening fruit, and
burn broad areas of waving cane.

At length, the work of destruction was completed, all stragglers were
called in by a blast of bugles, a parting volley was fired over the
single long grave, in which a dozen dead soldiers lay buried; and,
taking their wounded with them, the blue-coated column marched gladly
away from the place they had so little reason to love.

Descending from his post of observation, the young Indian followed
them, until he had seen the last trooper disappear along the narrow
causeway, amid the sombre cypresses of the Great Swamp. Then slowly and
thoughtfully he retraced his steps, walking now in the full glare of
sunlight, until he stood again beneath the clump of dying trees that,
but a few hours before, had shaded the peaceful village. As he gazed
about him on charred embers, and smoking ruins, deserted fields, and
prostrate orchards, the bold heart of the young war-chief sank like a
leaden weight within him.

"Thus must it be to the end," he said half aloud, as though his
brimming thoughts were struggling for expression. "Ruin and destruction
follow ever the tread of the Iste-hatke. He is strong, and we are weak.
He is many, and we are few. We may kill his hundreds, and he brings
thousands to devour us. We may plant, but he will gather the fruit. The
Seminole may starve, and at the cry of his children for food the white
man will make merry. My father was right when he said that to fight
the white man was like fighting the waves of the great salt waters.
What now shall be done? Shall we continue to fight, and die fighting
in our own land, or shall we again trust to the lying tongue of the
Iste-hatke, and go to the place in which he says we may dwell at peace
with him? Oh, Allala! my sister, hear me, and come to me with thy words
of wisdom."

At that moment, as though in answer to his prayer, Coacoochee caught
sight of a figure advancing hesitatingly towards where he stood. It was
that of a warrior, whom he recognized even at a distance as belonging
to his own band. The newcomer cast troubled glances over the pitiful
scene of ruin outspread on all sides. Until now he had not noted the
presence of his chief; but, when the latter uttered the cry of a hawk,
which was the familiar signal of his band, the warrior quickened his
steps, and came to where the young man stood.

He proved to be a runner, sent out by Louis Pacheco, to notify
Coacoochee that Philip Emathla with all the people of his village had
been captured and conveyed to St. Augustine, whence it was proposed
to remove them to the unknown land of the far west. The old chief had
begged so earnestly for an interview with his eldest son, that the
general in command had sent out a written safe-conduct for the latter
to come and go again in safety. This the runner now delivered to
Coacoochee, assuring him at the same time that Louis Pacheco had looked
at it and pronounced it good.

The young chief took the paper, regarded it curiously, and thrust it
into his girdle, then without delay, he set forth on his long journey
to the eastern coast. The runner was able to inform him of the present
location of Osceola, and accordingly he first directed his steps to the
camp of that fiery young chieftain to apprise him of the destruction of
his swamp stronghold.

Here he found a delegation of Cherokees, bearing an address from John
Ross, their head chief, to Coacoochee and Osceola, who were regarded as
the most important leaders of the Florida Indians. This address prayed
the Seminoles to end their fruitless struggle against the all-powerful
whites. It assured them that should they consent to removal, the
promises made by the latter would be kept, and that the Cherokees, as
their nearest neighbors in the western land, would ever be their firm
allies in resistance to further oppression.

The conference was long and earnest. Osceola, discouraged by the
loss of his stronghold, and by the destruction of its great store of
provisions, which he foresaw would entail much suffering among his
people during the coming winter, was inclined to make peace, though
still resolutely opposed to removal.

Coacoochee, filled with thoughts of his aged father and Nita Pacheco
held captives by the whites, was even more anxious to make an honorable
peace than was his brother chieftain. So it was finally decided that
he should take advantage of his safe-conduct, to visit St. Augustine,
advise with Philip Emathla, talk with the general in command, so as to
ascertain the exact views of the whites, and return to Osceola with
his report.

Thus, three days later the young war-chief, clad as befitted his rank,
and bearing a superb calumet as a present from Osceola, presented
himself boldly before the gates of St. Augustine, exhibited his
safe-conduct, and demanded to be taken to the general.

The manly beauty of his features, his haughty bearing, and gorgeous
costume attracted universal admiration, as he strode proudly through
the narrow streets of the quaint old city. Before he reached the house
in which the commandant was lodged, he was surrounded by a curious
throng of citizens, through which the corporal's guard escorting him
found some difficulty in clearing a passage.

The general greeted the son of Philip Emathla with honeyed words,
and caused him to be treated with the consideration due his rank and
importance. His father was brought to welcome him, and the two were
allowed to depart together to the encampment of the captives, which was
in the plaza, or central square of the city, where it was surrounded
by a cordon of soldiers. Here, after a separation of many months, the
young chief met her to whom he had plighted his troth by the blue
Ahpopka Lake. In his eyes she appeared more lovely than ever, and he
longed ardently for the time of peace that should enable him to make
for her a home in which they might dwell together in safety.

So much was there to tell and to hear, and so many grave questions to
be discussed, that the night was spent in talking, and the dawn of
another day found them still seated about the cold embers of a small
fire in front of King Philip's lodge.

The old man advised earnestly for peace, even at the cost of removal,
though at the same time declaring that with leaving his own land his
heart would break, so that he should never live to reach the strange
place set apart for his people.

Nita, happily content to sit close beside her lover, only leaving him
now and then to replenish the fire, refill the pipes, or to bring from
the lodge some dainty morsel of food, had little to say; but such words
as she uttered were in favor of peace.

Thus was the mind of Coacoochee the Wildcat turned from thoughts
of fighting and vengeance, to those of peace and happiness for his
loved ones, his oppressed people, and himself. So convinced was he
that the war must be ended, that he readily consented to go again to
Osceola, and persuade him to come in, with such other chiefs as could
be gathered, to attend a solemn council, with a view to the speedy
settlement of all existing troubles. On leaving the city, he was laden
with presents, both for himself and Osceola, and promising to return in
ten days, he set forth with a lighter heart than he had known for more
than a year.

Alas for human nature, that they who trust most should be most often
deceived! By the swift turning of affairs that gave the army in
Florida a new commanding general every few months during the Seminole
War, General Scott had been succeeded by General Jesup. From him the
commandant at St. Augustine had recently received a despatch which,
could Coacoochee have known its contents, would have filled the young
chief's heart with renewed bitterness, and turned his peaceful longings
into a fierce resolve for a fight to the death.




CHAPTER XXIX

TREACHEROUS CAPTURE OF COACOOCHEE AND OSCEOLA


To the great satisfaction of the general of militia commanding at St.
Augustine, Coacoochee, unsuspicious of evil, and intent only upon
carrying out his avowed purpose of arranging for a new treaty of peace,
returned to the city on the exact date he had named. With an honest
pride at the success of his negotiations he announced that Osceola,
Coa Hadjo, Talmus Hadjo, and others would come in on the following
day, and, camping a short distance outside the city, would there await
the white commissioners. He also brought information that the Cherokee
peace delegation had gone to the westward for a conference with
Micanopy and other chiefs.

The general, still treating the young chief with a lofty consideration,
thanked him profusely for his services, and asked as a favor that he
would guide a wagon-load of provisions, intended as a present for
Osceola and his people, to the place selected for their encampment.
This, he said, was a small portion of the supply he was collecting for
his Indian friends; and, when he went to meet them on the morrow, he
should take with him several other wagons laden with provisions, that
they might have plenty to eat in case the negotiations were extended
over a number of days.

Much pleased by this proof of the white man's thoughtful kindness,
Coacoochee willingly consented to act as guide to the first wagon, and
then asked that he might visit Philip Emathla's camp while it was being
got ready,--a request that was granted, though with evident reluctance.

As the young Indian turned away from the general's quarters, he almost
ran into the arms of Ralph Boyd, who had come to St. Augustine with his
sister but two days before, intending to remain there until the end of
the war should render it safe for them to return to their plantation.
While Coacoochee was delighted to thus encounter the only white man
whom he could call friend, the young Englishman was more than amazed to
meet him amid such surroundings.

"Coacoochee!" he exclaimed. "How is this? why are you here? Is it as a
prisoner? Or have you decided to join the winning side, and become an
ally of the Americans?"

"I am here neither as a prisoner or a traitor," answered the other,
proudly, "but to help in making a peace for my people while they are
yet strong enough to insist upon honorable terms."

"And do you trust the man whom you have just left?" asked Boyd,
indicating by a gesture the quarters of the general.

"Yes," replied Coacoochee, slowly. "I trust him, for I must trust him.
Without trust on both sides there could be no treaty. Without a treaty
the Seminole must be wiped out. My father and others of my people are
even now held here as captives, and only through a treaty can their
liberty be restored. I go now to see them. Will my white brother go
with me?"

"With pleasure. I knew there were Indian prisoners here, but had no
idea that your father was among them, or I would have visited him ere
this, to congratulate him on having so fine a son. Ah! here is their
camp now; but I say, Coacoochee, who is that white girl sitting among
the Indian women? By Jove! she is the most beautiful creature I ever
saw."

"Her name is Nita Pacheco," answered the young chief, gazing fondly at
the girl, who, intent on a bit of sewing, was as yet unaware of his
presence.

"Not your Nita! Not the one that you-- Why, confound it, man! You never
told me she was white. You said she was a--"

"So she is," admitted Coacoochee, very quietly. "She is one of the
Iste-lustee, as you were about to say. Her mother was an octoroon,
and of every sixteen drops in Nita's veins, one is black. Although
she was born free as you or I, she has been claimed as a slave; and
Philip Emathla was obliged to pay a large sum of money to establish her
freedom. With the ending of this war she will become my chee-hi-wah, or
what you would call wife."

"In which case I don't wonder that you are so keen for peace. If I were
in your place, I would have it at any price, and I only hope I may
speedily have the pleasure of dancing at your wedding. Won't Anstice be
pleased, though? Ever since she discovered that you had a sweetheart,
she has wished to meet her."

"Would the white maiden take the hand of her who is of the
Iste-lustee?" asked Coacoochee, abruptly.

"Oh bother your Iste-lustees! of course she would," cried Boyd. "Not
only that, but she would love her dearly. Why, the girl is as white as
Anstice herself, and even if she were not, do you suppose that would
make any difference? Don't you know that any one precious to you must
also be dear to us, who owe you everything, including our lives. Don't
you know the meaning of the word 'gratitude'? And don't you suppose we
know it, too, you confoundedly proud Seminole, you?"

Ere he finished this speech the Englishman was left alone; for, at
the sound of his raised voice, Nita looked up, and flushed so rosily
at sight of her lover, that he was drawn to her side as irresistibly
as needle to magnet. Then, forgetful of all save each other, they
strolled among the lodges of the little encampment.

Suddenly while they walked, Coacoochee started as though he had
been shot. In a whisper he bade the girl at his side return to
her companions, and as without comment she obeyed him, he stood
motionless, his face black with rage, and his whole frame quivering
with excitement. The cause of this emotion was a voice coming from the
opposite side of a tent that had been appropriated to the especial use
of Philip Emathla. The voice was saying:

"They tell me, old man, that you don't savey American; but I reckin you
can understand enough to know what I mean when I say that if you've
got any niggers to sell, I'm the man that'll buy them of you, of co'se
at a reasonable figger. As things stand now, your travelling expenses
are likely to be heavy, and there's two or three wenches in your camp
that I'd be willing to stake you something handsome for. There ain't no
drop of Injun blood in ary one of them, and they are certain to be took
from you, anyway. So you, might as well make something out of 'em while
you've got the chance. One of 'em, that Pacheco gal, is mine by rights,
anyhow; but if--"

At this point the speaker uttered a yell of terror, and instinctively
reached for his pistol, as with a bound like that of a panther and
blazing eyes, Coacoochee leaped upon him. Mr. Troup Jeffers was
hurled, to the ground with such force that for a moment he lay stunned
and motionless. As the Wildcat glared about him for some weapon with
which to complete his task, two of the guards rushed in and dragged
the slave-trader beyond the lines of the camp. At the same time, Boyd,
who had witnessed the scene from a distance, came hurrying up from an
opposite direction.

"For Heaven's sake Coacoochee! What does this mean?" he cried; "you'll
have a war on your hands right here if you don't look out."

Without answering him, the young Indian turned to Philip Emathla, who
was sitting before the tent, and uttered a few hurried words in his own
tongue, the purport of which was, "Look well on this man, my father;
for he is my friend, whom you can trust as you would me. If he comes to
thee for Nita, let her go with him."

Then he and Ralph Boyd hurried away in the direction from which they
had come. As they passed the group of women, Coacoochee stopped to
whisper in the ear of Nita Pacheco, who was also bidden to trust the
white man now before her, and then they passed on.

"That dog, whom I would I had killed," said the young Indian, when
they were safely beyond the camp, "is a catcher of slaves, who seeks
to steal my promised wife. For this night, I cannot protect her, for
I must meet Ah-ha-se-ho-la. If I do not, he will not stay, and there
will be no peace. Before the setting of to-morrow's sun Coacoochee will
be free to protect his own. For this night, then, I would have you and
the white maiden, thy sister, give to Nita the shelter of thy lodge;
or, if that be not possible, watch over her and see that she is not
stolen away."

"Certainly, my dear fellow! Of course we will look out for her as long
as you like, and glad of the chance to thus repay some portion of
our indebtedness," interrupted Ralph Boyd, heartily. "But who is the
rascally beggar?"

"His name I know not," replied the other; "but certain things
concerning him I do know. He, more than any other, caused this war
between the Iste-chatte and the white man. He broke up the home of the
Pachecos and sold the mother and brother of Nita into slavery, as he
would now sell her. He stole and sold into slavery the wife of Osceola."

"The scoundrel!" exclaimed Boyd.

"When my white brother was shot down at the battle of the
Withlacoochee, the bullet came from behind, and from the rifle of this
man."

"What!"

"When the home of my white brother was attacked by white men, painted
to look like the Iste-chatte, this man was leader of the band. He it
was who took the white maiden, thy sister, captive and left her to
perish in the forest."

"Good Heavens, man! Do you know what you are talking about? Can all
this be true?"

"The tongue of Coacoochee is straight. He would not lie to his white
brother."

"Yes, but may you not be mistaken? I did not know I had an enemy in the
world, who would thus injure me. Who can it be?"

"What I have said is true. Does my brother remember talking with a man
under a tree the day before the white soldiers reached the ferry of the
Withlacoochee, and speaking scornful words to him?"

"Yes, though I don't see how you could know of that. I inquired about
him and found out his name, which proved to be the same as that of the
last overseer on my plantation. I had heard bad accounts of the man,
and had him discharged before taking possession."

"This man is the same who talked with my brother under the tree."

"Well, whoever he is, you may be very certain that I shall look into
this thing thoroughly, and if I find him to be guilty of half of these
things, I will make him suffer sweetly. Meantime, my lad, do you rest
easy about your sweetheart. Anstice shall go to her, and for your sake,
if not for her own, her safety shall be guarded with our lives."

By this time they had reached again the general's quarters, and the
wagon that Coacoochee was to guide stood in readiness. So, with a warm
handclasp, the friends parted, one to go on a mission that he fondly
hoped would bring a lasting peace to his people, and the other to take
measures for the safety of Nita Pacheco.

According to promise Osceola, escorted by some seventy warriors,
all mounted, and preceded by a white flag, in token of the peaceful
nature of their mission, arrived promptly at the appointed place of
encampment. There they were met by Coacoochee with a welcome supply of
provisions.

Long and earnestly did the two young chieftains talk together that
night, in planning for the morrow, on which they believed the fate of
their nation would be decided. On one point they were fully agreed. The
negro allies, who had fought so bravely with them, and who were as free
as themselves, must be considered as equal with them, and must, in any
negotiations, be granted the same terms as themselves. If this should
not be allowed, they would refuse to make peace, and would return under
protection of their white flag, whence they came.

At ten o'clock on the following morning a blare of trumpets announced
the coming of the general. He was accompanied by a staff of uncommon
gorgeousness, and escorted by one hundred mounted militiamen, all
armed to the teeth. Behind these rumbled several large, covered wagons
similar in appearance to the one that had brought provisions the
evening before. These were halted a short distance away, where they
were partially hidden in the palmetto scrub.

Coacoochee, Osceola, Coa Hadjo, and Talmus, arrayed in such finery as
befitted the occasion, stood forth to meet the newcomers, while their
handful of warriors clustered close behind them. Above their heads
fluttered the white flag of truce.

Approaching to within a few yards of them, and utterly ignoring the
formalities usual at such a time, and so dear to the heart of an
Indian, the general began abruptly to read a list of questions from a
paper that he held in his hand. The first of these struck like a blow:

"Are you prepared to deliver up at once all negroes taken from citizens?

"Why have you not done this already?

"Where are the other chiefs, and why have they not surrendered?"

There were other questions of a similar nature, and realizing from
these, as well as from the tone of the speaker's voice, that the whites
had not come there with any thought of discussing a treaty, Osceola,
with a quick glance about him, like a stag brought to bay, attempted to
speak, but his voice choked and failed him. He looked appealingly at
Coacoochee, as though requesting him to frame an answer; but the son of
Philip Emathla stood like one who is stunned.

"You, Powell," continued the general, harshly, "having signed the
treaty of Fort King, shall be made to abide by it.

"As for you, Wildcat, I have learned of your recent outrages in the
Withlacoochee Swamp. Never again shall you have a chance to murder
white men, like the cowardly beast whose name you bear."

Thus saying, the speaker waved his arm, a loud command rang out, there
came a rush through the palmettoes, a clash of weapons, and the too
trusting Seminoles found themselves hemmed in on all sides by a hedge
of glittering bayonets.

A strong body of infantry, brought in the supposed provision wagons,
had gathered in a circle about the unsuspecting Indians. Thus, within
ten minutes after the arrival of the troops, under the very shadow of a
truce flag, was this most shameful deed of treachery accomplished.

Disarmed and bound like so many slaves, and guarded by double ranks of
soldiers, the forest warriors were driven, like sheep, to the city and
through the massive gateway of its frowning fortress. Here Coacoochee
was separated forever from Osceola, who was soon afterwards taken to
Fort Moultrie in Charleston harbor. There, a few weeks later, he died
of a broken heart, far away from his friends and from the dear land for
which he had fought so bravely.

With only Talmus Hadjo for a companion, the Wildcat was roughly thrust
into one of those narrow dungeons from the deadly gloom of which he had
shrunk with such horror on the occasion of his long-ago visit to the
fort in company with Louis Pacheco.




CHAPTER XXX

IN THE DUNGEONS OF THE ANCIENT FORTRESS


The capture of Coacoochee and Osceola created an extraordinary degree
of excitement in St. Augustine, where the news of this most important
event was hailed with extravagant joy and openly expressed sorrow.
Those who rejoiced were of that class who wanted the war ended, and the
Seminoles removed by any means, fair or foul, they cared not which.
To such persons an Indian was only a species of noxious animal, for
the trapping of which any deception was justifiable. On the other hand
were many honorable men and women whose indignation, at the deed of
treachery by which the fair name of the Government had been smirched,
knew no bounds. Of all these, none was so filled with righteous wrath
as were Ralph and Anstice Boyd.

"I was not wholly unprepared for some such rascality," said the former,
"and I tried to convey my suspicions to Coacoochee yesterday; though,
knowing nothing definite, I dared not speak plainly. He, poor fellow,
is so entirely honest and incapable of such a cowardly act himself,
that he failed to comprehend what I was driving at. To his simple
mind, a great chief must be an honorable man; otherwise he would not
be a great chief, or, indeed, a chief of any degree. Rather different
from the idea prevailing in most white communities, is it not?"

"I should say so, judging from what we have seen lately," cried
Anstice. "But I am too furious to talk about it. I am almost ashamed of
being white. I only wish I were a man!"

"What would you do in that case?" inquired her brother curiously.

"Do? I would fight, and devote my life to fighting just such outrageous
wrongs as this. That's what I would do."

"I don't doubt you would, you precious little spitfire, and a mighty
plucky fight you'd put up. You'd lose, though, every time; for, besides
pluck and pugnacity, it takes coolness and infinite patience to fight
the battle of right against might. But, to return to practical matters,
what is to become of our guest, now that Coacoochee is no longer in a
position to elope with her, or afford her other protection than that of
his prayers?"

"She is to stay with us, of course, for just as long as we can keep
her. In the meantime, we must manage in some way to get him out of that
terrible prison. Poor fellow! How he must be suffering at this minute.
I only hope he remembers that he still has some friends, and that there
are still a few faint sparks of honor and gratitude glowing in the
bosoms of the 'Iste-hatke,' as he calls us. We must get Irwin Douglass
to help us, and I only hope he will call to-day, so that we can begin
to plan at once."

"Hold hard, sister! Remember that the awkward situation Douglass is
already in is largely owing to us. If you take my advice, you will not
mention to him our desire that Coacoochee should escape, or disclose
to him the identity of our guest. I agree with you, that we are bound
to do whatever we can to aid our Indian friend, and that the forest
maiden shall make her home with us so long as she chooses to do so;
but, for the present, I beg that no one else, not even Irwin Douglass,
be admitted to our secret."

"Very well, Mr. wise man, I will let you have your own way for a time;
but don't try my patience too far, lest I do something desperate.
Red-headed girls aren't expected to be cool-headed as well, you know,
and so when I have once set my heart on having a thing done, I want it
done without delay."

Thus it happened that, when Lieutenant Douglass called on the Boyds
that evening, and was formally presented to a Miss Annette Felipe,
he did not, for a moment, doubt that she belonged to one of the old
Spanish-American families of the Territory. She had a darkly beautiful
face, was quietly but stylishly dressed, and was demurely silent.
That she spoke so little was explained by Anstice on the ground that
Spanish was her native tongue, and that she was visiting her in order
to improve her English.

As the lieutenant did not speak nor understand Spanish, he was more
than content to devote himself to Miss Anstice, leaving the stranger to
be entertained by Ralph Boyd. Douglass and the English girl discussed
his present prospects, and wondered how long he would be obliged to
wait in idleness before a court-martial could be convened to hear his
case, and of course dismiss the absurd charges preferred against him.
They talked of their recent exciting experiences, and finally Anstice
said:

"By the way, Mr. Douglass, I wish you would take us to visit the
prisoners in the old fort. I am so anxious to see that splendid
Osceola. Besides, we want to do everything we can to make Annette's
visit pleasant, and there is so little to amuse one in this stupid
place. I am sure she would be so interested in those Indians. Won't you
please arrange it, like a dear man?"

"Certainly, I will if I can," replied the young officer. "At the same
time, I am not at all sure that the general will regard with favor an
application for a permit from one in my peculiar position."

"Oh, I fancy he will. At any rate, you manage it for us somehow, and
make as early a date as possible; for Annette may be compelled to leave
us at any time, and I wouldn't have her miss seeing the interior of the
fort. She has never seen anything like it, you know. We are going to
take a walk to-morrow morning just to show her the outside of it, and
you may come with us if you choose."

So Douglass promised to do what he could, and when he joined the
walking party on the morrow, he announced that he had thought of a plan
which he believed would work. "You see," he said, "Mrs. Canby, wife
of Canby of the Rifles, has just arrived from the North, and as she
has never seen any Indians, of course she will be anxious to visit the
fort. So I will get Canby to secure the permit, and invite us all to
join his party."

While discussing this plan and deciding that it would be the very
thing, they reached the ancient fortress, and as they skirted its
frowning walls, Miss Felipe, who had hardly spoken since starting, and
then only to Anstice, became so visibly affected, that the English
girl threw an arm protectingly about her, exclaiming, "Annette is so
tender-hearted that she can't bear the thought of captives being shut
up in that gloomy place."

"It is tough luck," agreed the young officer. "And there is not the
slightest chance of their escaping either, for the only openings into
the cells are those small embrasures through which even a boy would
find it difficult to squeeze. They are some eighteen feet above the
floor, too, so that it would be impossible to reach them without a
ladder."

A few days later, a permit for a party of six to visit the fort having
been secured, Mrs. Canby, the Boyds, their guest, and Douglass set
forth, Mr. Canby being detained by urgent duty, and excusing himself
at the last moment. After passing the strong guard stationed at the
gateway, the sightseers found themselves in a large, open space, where
many of the captives were lounging or walking about. In these, the
Spanish girl showed not the slightest interest, but seemed inclined
to hasten on. She carried a light shawl thrown over her arm, of which
slight burden Douglass had politely but in vain attempted to relieve
her.

"Your friend seems very odd, and not at all like other girls," he
confided to Anstice Boyd.

"Yes. Isn't she?" replied the English girl, readily. "But then you must
remember her bringing up. I wonder if Osceola is among these Indians?"

"Oh no, miss," answered the sergeant who had been detailed to act as
guide. "The chiefs are only allowed out, one at a time, under guard,
after the others have gone in. They are in their cells now."

"Well, take us to them, then," said Anstice, "for they are the ones we
care most to see. Don't you think so, Mrs. Canby?"

"Yes, indeed," agreed that lady; "only I hope they will prove better
looking and more interesting than these creatures out here."

So the party was guided to the cell occupied by Osceola, in front of
which paced a sentry, and its massive door was swung back on creaking
hinges. The haughty chieftain, still clad in his most splendid
costume, was seated on a stool, gazing blankly at the opposite wall. He
roused slightly as the sergeant said:

"Here's some ladies come to visit you, Powell," and when Mrs. Canby and
Anstice expressed a wish to shake hands with him, he extended his hand
to them mechanically. When, however, the lieutenant also offered to
shake hands, a fierce flash of anger leaped into the eyes of the forest
warrior, and he drew back haughtily, exclaiming as he did so:

"No, sir! Never again shall the hand of Ah-ha-se-ho-la meet in
friendship that of one wearing the disgraced livery of a United States
officer."

"Horrid thing!" cried Mrs. Canby, as the party hurriedly withdrew from
the cell. "The idea of a mere savage daring to speak so to an army
officer! You did well, Miss Felipe, not to go near the wretch, and I
only wish I hadn't. I certainly don't want to see any more of them."

As the speaker absolutely refused to visit the remaining prisoners,
which the others were still desirous of doing, Douglass remained with
her, leaving but three of the party to inspect the cell occupied by
Coacoochee and Talmus Hadjo. It, like the other, was guarded by a
sentry, with whom the guide, after throwing open the door, stepped
aside to speak.

Although the Spanish girl had remained outside the other cell, she
pushed eagerly forward into this one, while Anstice and her brother
stood in the doorway. Talmus Hadjo lay on a pile of forage-bags that
served as a bed, while Coacoochee, the very picture of despair, stood
leaning, with folded arms, against one of the walls. He hardly noticed
his visitor, until in a low, thrilling tone she pronounced his name.
Then, as though moved by an electric shock, he sprang forward, gasped
the single word "Nita!" and clasped the girl to his breast.

A few murmured words passed between the two; then he released her,
and, stooping, she slipped something from her shawl beneath one of the
forage-bags lying on the floor.

When the sergeant reappeared at the doorway a second later, the
Spanish girl, looking perfectly composed, was standing quietly at
one side, Talmus Hadjo was regarding her with undisguised amazement,
while Coacoochee, with a new light shining in his face, was silently
exchanging hand-clasps with Ralph and Anstice Boyd.

"Rather a more decent and civil sort of a chap than the other,"
remarked the sergeant as he again locked the door, and the visitors
turned away. "Now there's only one more cell, and--"

"I don't think we care to inspect any more cells to-day," interposed
Anstice, hastily; and so a few minutes later the reunited party were
breathing once more the outer air of freedom, while Mrs. Canby
expressed very freely her opinion of Indians in general and of those
whom they had just seen in particular.

While the transformation of Philip Emathla's adopted daughter into
Miss Annette Felipe, clad in the costume of civilization, and guest of
Anstice Boyd, may appear as surprising to the reader as it did to the
captive war-chief whom she had just left filled with a new hope, it was
all brought about very simply. On the evening that Coacoochee confided
her to the protection of Ralph Boyd, that gentleman, accompanied by his
sister, strolled down to the Indian encampment. First they received
permission to speak with the aged chieftain, who was summoned to the
lines for that purpose. A few minutes later their strolling carried
them past the darkest corner of the camp, where they were joined by a
slender figure that had slipped through the lines without attracting
the attention of a guard. Over this figure Anstice threw a long cloak
that she had carried on her arm, and thus disguised, Nita Pacheco
accompanied her new friends to their home. Her absence from the Indian
camp was not discovered until two days later, when Mr. Troup Jeffers,
claiming her as his escaped slave, and armed with an authority from the
general for her recapture, visited the Indian camp in search of her.

The slave-catcher made a great outcry when he found that his prey had
again eluded him, but he was speedily silenced by a very unexpected
meeting with Ralph Boyd, who had been watching for the man who should
make that very claim.

At sight of him whom he had every reason to believe was long since
dead, the scoundrel's face turned livid, and he staggered back like one
who has received a knife-thrust.

"Drop this business, and leave town inside of an hour if you value your
wretched life!" hissed Boyd in his ear, and an hour later St. Augustine
was well rid of Mr. Troup Jeffers.




CHAPTER XXXI

A DARING ESCAPE


Not until his prison door was again closed, and the footsteps of his
visitors had died away in the distance, did Coacoochee turn from
listening, and stoop to see what it was that Nita had brought him. From
under the forage-bag he first drew a Spanish hunting-knife, beautifully
balanced, and with the keen edge of a razor. It was of dull blue Toledo
steel, and its shapely haft was exquisitely silver-mounted. At sight
of it the young Indian uttered an exclamation of joy, for it was his
own well-tried weapon, endeared by long association, and his unfailing
friend in many a combat with man and beast. It had been his father's
before him, and with it Anstice Boyd had severed the bonds confining
Irwin Douglass, when his life hung by a thread, in the swamp stronghold
of Osceola. She had kept it ever since, awaiting an opportunity to
restore it to its owner, and had now done so, by the hand of Nita
Pacheco.

While Coacoochee gloated over this treasure, his comrade in captivity
pulled aside the bag beneath which it had been concealed, and disclosed
another object of equal value with the precious knife. It was a coil
of rope, slender and finely twisted, but of a proved strength, capable
of supporting the weight of two men.

"Now, Talmeco," cried Coacoochee, in the Indian tongue, "we have
something to live for. Already do I breathe again the free air of the
forest, for want of which I had died ere many days. Now will we show
these dogs of the Iste-hatke that their cunning is no match for that of
the Wildcat. Again shall the war-cry of Coacoochee ring through hammock
and swamp, glade and savanna, and the Iste-hatke shall tremble at its
sound."

"But," said Talmus, "was it not one of the Iste-hatke who brought us
these things? Has my brother won the heart of a pale-faced maiden?"

"Ho, ho!" laughed the young chief. "Are the eyes of Talmeco grown so
dim from long gazing at stone walls that he did not see, through the
dress of the white squaw, the form of Nita Pacheco, daughter of Philip
Emathla, and the beloved of Coacoochee? She it was, and no other, who
found a way to this hole of rats, and brought the means of escape. Let
us hasten, then, to make use of them, that she may not be disappointed."

"How can we?" queried Talmus. "There is but one opening, and it is too
small for the passage of a warrior. A boy could hardly make his way
through it. Besides, it is too high for us to reach, and, even if we
got outside, would we not fall again into the hands of the soldiers?"

"Ho-le-wau-gus, Talmeco!" exclaimed the other. "Is thy man's heart
turned by thy captivity into that of Cho-fee [the rabbit], and art thou
become one who trembles at the sight of his own shadow? Listen, that
thy heart may again become strong. The Wildcat will climb to yonder
opening, and show his brother the way. It is small, but we will make
ourselves smaller. We will go when the Great Spirit has drawn his
blanket over the face of the sky, so that no light may shine from it,
and no man can see us. Is it well?"

"It is well, my brother. Let Coacoochee lead, and Talmus Hadjo will
follow in his steps."

For long hours during the weary days of captivity, had the young chief
lain on his bed of bags, and gazed hopelessly at the single narrow
opening in the wall far above him. He had believed that, if he could
only reach it, he could so reduce his body as to pass through the
aperture. Now he saw a way to reach it. Standing on his comrade's
shoulders, and using his knife, he soon worked its point into a little
crevice between the stones, just above his head. As Talmus could not
support his weight very long at a time, and as there came days of such
frequent interruptions that they dared not work, it was several weeks
before the crevice was so enlarged that it would receive the knife up
to its hilt. Then, by drawing himself up on it, Coacoochee found to
his delight that he could gain the narrow slit piercing the thick wall.
To his dismay, it was barely wide enough to permit his head to pass
through, but not his body.

The prisoners at once decided to starve themselves, and reduce their
flesh by taking medicine. This they did, until they became mere
skeletons, and their keeper began to fear that they would die on his
hands.

In the meantime they cut up many of the bags on which they slept, into
short lengths, which they bound closely, at intervals, about their
slender rope, so as to afford a grasp for their hands. When all was in
readiness, they were obliged to wait many days longer for a cloudless
and moonless night.

At length it came as dark as Erebus, with squalls of rain, and a
fierce wind that howled mournfully about the bastions and through the
embrasures of the old fort. Much to the disgust of the captives, one of
the prison keepers was in an unusually sociable mood that night, and
made repeated visits to their cell, talking and singing, until they
feared they would be compelled to kill him, in order to get rid of his
presence. Finally they pretended to be asleep when he entered, and upon
this he left them for good.

The time for action had arrived; and, taking one end of the rope with
him, Coacoochee, stripped to the skin, save for a breech-cloth,
mounted on his comrade's shoulders, felt for the deeply cut crevice,
thrust his knife into it, and, in another minute, had gained the
embrasure. Here, after first regaining and securing his precious knife,
he made the rope fast, by passing a loop about a projecting ledge, and
leaving only enough inside for his comrade to climb up by, he passed
the remainder through the opening, and let it drop, hoping that it
might be long enough to reach ground at the bottom of the moat.

With great difficulty, the young Indian thrust his head through the
narrow slit. Then, with the sharp stones tearing the skin from his
breast and back, he slowly and painfully forced his body through, being
obliged to go down the rope head foremost, until his feet were clear
of the opening. With each minute of this desperate struggle, it seemed
as though his weakened powers of endurance must yield to the terrible
strain, and that his grasp on the slender rope must relax; in which
case he would have pitched headlong into the yawning depths below.
But the indomitable will that had already aided him so often finally
triumphed over physical weakness, and after a half-hour of struggle,
the young war-chief slid in safety down the line that led to freedom,
and lay panting on the ground, twenty-five feet below the aperture that
had so nearly proved fatal.

Fortunately he lay in the deep angle of a bastion, where the shadows
were blackest, for just then two men, evidently officers, passed close
to him engaged in earnest conversation. He overheard one of them say
that arrangements were perfected for removing all the prisoners on the
morrow to Charleston, South Carolina, where they would be beyond a
possibility of rescue or escape.

So overjoyed was Coacoochee at thus learning of the timeliness of his
venture for liberty that he became filled with fresh vigor, and feeling
a movement of the rope, that he still held in one hand, he instantly
gave the signal that all was well, and the way clear for his comrade to
descend. As he waited in breathless anxiety, he could plainly hear the
struggle that was taking place far above him. At length it ceased, and
in a low, despairing voice Talmus informed him that having forced his
head through the embrasure, he could get no further, nor could he even
draw it back.

"Throw out thy breath, Talmeco, and try again! Throw out thy heart
and soul, if needs be, and tear the flesh from thy body," urged the
young chief, in a voice little above a whisper, but thrilling in its
intensity.

Thus adjured, Talmus Hadjo made one last desperate effort, with such
success that he not only forced his bleeding body through the aperture,
but lost his hold of the rope and came tumbling down the whole
distance.

[Illustration: HADJO LOST HIS HOLD OF THE ROPE AND CAME TUMBLING DOWN
THE WHOLE DISTANCE.]

With a smothered cry of horror, Coacoochee sprang to his side, and,
feeling a faint heart-beat in the stunned and motionless form, dragged
it to a near-by pool of water. This he dashed over the injured man with
such effect that, in a few minutes, his consciousness returned. He was,
however, so injured by his fall as to be unable to walk, and feebly
begged Coacoochee to save himself and leave him to his fate. For answer
the young chief, with an astonishing display of strength, considering
his condition, picked up his helpless friend, slung him across his
back, and thus bore him nearly half a mile, to where the palmetto scrub
afforded temporary concealment.

Daylight was now breaking, and some means must be devised for moving
rapidly. So, depositing his burden on the ground, Coacoochee turned
back to an open field in which he had seen several mules. Hastily
twisting some shredded palmetto leaves into a rude bridle, he had the
good fortune to capture one of the animals, on which he mounted both
himself and his comrade.

For several hours they rode through the trackless pine forest, and at
length reached a travelled road, which it was necessary they should
cross. Before doing so Coacoochee slipped from the mule to assure
himself that no enemy was in sight. He had gone but a few paces, when
the animal, with a loud bray, dashed into the open, and galloped madly
towards a small party of mounted volunteers, who happened to be making
their way towards the city.

The sight of a single naked Indian dashing toward them was too great
a temptation to be resisted. A dozen rifles poured forth their deadly
contents, both the mule and his helpless rider pitched headlong, and
in the death struggle of the animal, the dead face of Talmus Hadjo was
crushed beyond recognition. One of the white men, coolly and as neatly
as though well accustomed to the operation, took the scalp of the
fallen warrior. Then the party rode merrily forward, exchanging coarse
jests concerning the handsome manner in which the redskin had been
potted.

Filled with rage and grief at this loss of his companion, Coacoochee
also hastened from the scene, plunging deep into the recesses of a
near-by hammock and vowing a future but terrible vengeance upon the
cowardly perpetrators of this cold-blooded murder. Living on berries,
roots, and the succulent buds of cabbage palmettoes, sleeping naked on
the bare ground, and slinking from hammock to hammock like a wild beast
who is hunted, the fugitive worked his way southward for three days.

On the evening of the third day he walked into the camp of his own
band on the headwaters of the Tomoka River. By Louis Pacheco and his
warriors the young chief was greeted as one raised from the dead. When,
after they had fed and clothed him, they listened to his wonderful
tale of treacherous capture, long imprisonment, timely escape, and
the cruel death of Talmus Hadjo, they vowed themselves to a fiercer
resistance than ever of the white oppressors.

Within an hour runners were despatched to several bands who were known
to be contemplating surrender, urging them to abandon their intention
and continue the fight to its bitter end. Thus was the conflict which
General Jesup had just declared ended, renewed with a greater fury than
ever, and Coacoochee the Wildcat became the acknowledged leader of his
people.




CHAPTER XXXII

NITA HEARS THAT COACOOCHEE IS DEAD


Long and anxiously had the friends of Coacoochee in St. Augustine
awaited the result of their effort to aid him in regaining his freedom.
They dared not attempt to visit him again, lest by so doing they should
arouse suspicion and injure his cause; for the two principal chiefs
were so closely guarded that visitors were only admitted to them at
long intervals and as a great favor. So Nita was forced to endure a
weary period of suspense and feverish anxiety, that caused her to droop
like a transplanted forest lily.

Although Ralph Boyd sought daily for information concerning the
prisoners, he could gain little, save that of a depressing nature, much
of which he and Anstice dared not share with their guest. He heard
that Coacoochee's strength was so weakened on confinement that it was
believed he could not live much longer, and there was a rumor that he
and Osceola were to be hanged for their perversity in continuing the
war.

In the meantime, the number of Indians held captive in St. Augustine
had been greatly increased by the bands of Micanopy, Cloud, Tuskogee,
and Nocoosee, all of whom, urged to do so by the Cherokee delegation,
had accepted General Jesup's invitation to meet him for a peace talk.
Again was the flag of truce violated, again was treachery substituted
for honest fighting, and again were the too trusting savages seized,
disarmed, and sent to St. Augustine as prisoners of war.

So many captives were now crowded into the ancient city, that, in order
to secure them beyond all hope of escape, as well as to make room for
others who, it was hoped, might be enticed to _make peace_ in a similar
manner, it was deemed advisable to transfer them to Charleston. There
they could be detained in safety until the time came for their final
removal to the west. Preparations for this movement were made with
great secrecy, that the Indians might not learn of it until the last
moment. Transports were secured, and finally it was made known to the
officers of the post only that an embarkation would be effected on the
following day.

Rumors of the contemplated removal had reached the Boyds, and had, of
course, been communicated to Nita. She declared that, if Coacoochee
did not succeed in escaping before it took place, she should resume
her position as the adopted daughter of Philip Emathla, and so follow
her lover into exile. In this determination, Anstice warmly upheld
her friend, but begged her to wait until the latest possible moment,
before exchanging her present security for the uncertain fate of a
captive.

One evening, Lieutenant Douglass, who, having safely passed the ordeal
of a court-martial, and, honorably acquitted, had been restored to
duty, called on the Boyds. In course of conversation with Anstice he
casually remarked, that the morrow would probably offer the last chance
they would ever have of seeing their friend Coacoochee.

"What do you mean?" asked the startled girl.

"I mean that the Indians in St. Augustine are to be embarked for
Charleston to-morrow morning; and Coacoochee, poor fellow, is reported
to be in such wretched health that it is not probable he can live long,
especially in a climate so much colder than this."

Nita, who sat in another part of the room, listlessly engaged in a bit
of fancy-work, glanced up quickly as she caught the name of her captive
lover. She did not hear what else the young officer said, and waited
eagerly for his going, that she might question her friend. Anstice, on
her part, was so impatient to communicate to Nita the news she had just
learned, and became so absent-minded in her conversation with Douglass,
that he suspected something had gone wrong, and so took his departure
earlier than usual.

Long and earnestly did the two girls, who had grown to love each other
like sisters, talk together that night. Very early the next morning,
escorted by Ralph Boyd, they left the house and turned in the direction
of Philip Emathla's encampment. Nita had resumed her Indian dress, but
over it she wore the same long cloak that had served to disguise her on
a former occasion. Its hood was drawn over her head and about her face,
so that but little of her features could be distinguished.

As they hastened through the narrow streets of the quaintly built city,
their attention was attracted by a clatter of iron-shod hoofs, and a
mounted officer in service uniform came dashing toward them. It was
Irwin Douglass, and he reined up sharply at sight of his friends. As he
lifted his cap to the ladies, he exclaimed:

"Well, you are early birds this morning! I suppose you have heard the
great news and are come out to verify it?"

"No, we haven't heard any news; what is it?" asked Boyd.

"Coacoochee has escaped from the fort! got out somehow during the storm
last night, and made off. The general is in a terrible temper over it.
I am ordered out with a scouting party to see if we can pick up the
trail. So I must hurry on. Good-bye."

In another minute the bearer of this startling bit of news was
clattering away down the street, while the three who were left stood
staring blankly at one another.

Nita was saying over and over to herself, "Coacoochee has escaped, has
escaped, and is free. Oh! how happy I am! And that soldier is going to
try and recapture him. Oh, how I hate him! But he cannot. Coacoochee is
free, and will never let them take him again. Oh, how happy I am!"

As Anstice Boyd reflected upon the full meaning of what she had just
heard, her heart was crying out: "Coacoochee has escaped, and I aided
him. Now Irwin has gone to find him. They will meet and kill each
other. I know they will! Oh! why did I do it? Why did I do it?"

Ralph Boyd expressed his feelings aloud by exclaiming: "That is one
of the best bits of news I have heard in many a day. It will continue
the war, no doubt, but I don't care if it does. Serve the sneaks right
who thought to end it by treachery. They will get some greatly needed
lessons in honest fighting now."

"You don't mean Mr. Douglass, brother?"

"Douglass? No! Bless his honest soul! He's no sneak, but only an
unfortunate victim of circumstances. But never you fear, sister.
Douglass won't catch Coacoochee, even if he has to ride half around
the territory to avoid him. He is too honorable a fellow to do a mean
thing, or forget a debt of gratitude. If Douglass is the only one sent
after him, Coacoochee is all right. I am afraid, though, there are
others. I'll find out as soon as I get you two back to the house.
What! Not going back?"

"Not just yet, brother. Nita wants to be the first to tell the great
news to Coacoochee's father, so as to give the old man courage to bear
his exile and his sad journey. She wants to bid him good-bye too, for
of course she will not go with him now."

"Of course not, and I suppose we must let her do as she wishes," agreed
Boyd, reluctantly. "I hope, though, she will be very careful not to be
recognized."

"I will see that she is careful, brother."

So the three continued their way to the Indian camp, which they found
in a state of dire confusion on account of the order for removal just
received. There were already many white persons in the camp; soldiers
who were hastening the preparations, and mere curiosity-seekers who
were retarding them by their useless presence. All of these, as well
as the Indians themselves, gazed curiously at the two ladies and the
stalwart young Englishman, who walked directly to the tent of Philip
Emathla. The old man, who was sitting in a sort of a daze just outside,
recognized Ralph Boyd at once, and when Nita stooped and whispered
in his ear, he immediately rose and followed her inside the canvas
shelter. Anstice also went inside, and the flap curtaining the entrance
was dropped, leaving Boyd outside on guard.

As he gazed curiously on the novel scene about him, and even walked a
few steps to one side the better to observe it, a white man of sinister
aspect passed him twice, each time regarding him furtively but keenly.
Suddenly he darted to the tent, pulled aside the flap, and thrust his
head inside.

A startled cry from the interior attracted Boyd's attention, and, ere
the man had time for more than a glimpse, he was seized by the collar,
and jerked violently backward.

"What do you mean, scoundrel! by your rascally intrusion into other
folk's privacy?" demanded the young Englishman, hotly. "I've a mind to
give you the kicking you deserve."

"I didn't mean nothin', cap'n," whined the man, squirming in the
other's fierce clutch. "I didn't know thar was any privacy in thar. I'm
thought 'twas only Injuns; and I'm got orders to take that tent down
immejiate."

"Well, you won't take it down, not yet awhile; and you'll vanish from
here as quick as possible. So get!"

With the utterance of this expressive Americanism the speaker released
the man, and at the same time administered a hearty kick that caused
its recipient to howl with anguish. Ere he disappeared he turned a look
of venomous hate at his assailant and muttered:

"I'll git even with you for this, curse you! Anyway, I saw what I
wanted to see, and I know whar the gal's to be found."

He was Ross Ruffin, Mr. Troup Jeffers' human jackal, who, at the
bidding of his master, had been hanging about the Indian camp for
weeks, watching for the reappearance of Nita Pacheco. His suspicions
had just been aroused by the disappearance, into Philip Emathla's tent,
of two ladies, and in the single glimpse caught by his bold manoeuvre
they had been confirmed. He had seen Nita, whose cloak having fallen
to the ground, was fully revealed in her Indian costume, standing with
her hands on the old chieftain's shoulders and imparting to him the
glorious news of Coacoochee's escape from captivity. Now all that he
had to do was to discover whether the girl accompanied the Indians to
Charleston or remained behind, and this information he had acquired ere
nightfall.

Nita had not seen him, and it was Anstice who uttered the cry that
attracted her brother's attention. Of course neither of them recognized
the man, nor when, a little later, they returned to the house that Nita
had believed on leaving she should never see again, did they notice
that he was stealthily following them at a distance. After that he
watched the embarkation of the captives, to assure himself that Nita
Pacheco did not accompany them. As the transports sailed, Ross Ruffin
also left the city, and that night he held a conference with Mr. Troup
Jeffers.

The inmates of the Boyd house experienced mingled feelings of
satisfaction at Coacoochee's escape, apprehension lest he should be
recaptured, and anxiety in behalf of their friend Douglass. Only Nita
was confident and light hearted.

"He will not be caught," she said, "nor will he harm your friend; we
shall hear from him very soon by some means."

She was right; they did hear very soon, and when the news came, it was
of such a terrible nature that the others would gladly have kept it
from her. Lieutenant Douglass, returning at nightfall from his scout,
went directly to the Boyds' house; and, in answer to the eager queries
that greeted his entrance, said:

"Yes; I found him, poor fellow! About a dozen miles from the city we
met a squad of volunteer cavalry. In reply to my question if they had
seen any sign of Coacoochee, who had just escaped from the fort, one of
them said: 'You bet we have, cap'n, and here's his scalp.' With that--"

Here the speaker was interrupted by a stifled cry and a heavy fall.
Nita Pacheco lay unconscious on the floor. The two men bore her to
a bed in an adjoining room, where they left her to the gentle care
of Anstice. When they returned to the outer room, Douglass asked
curiously:

"What does it mean, Boyd? What possible interest can your guest have in
Coacoochee?"

"My dear fellow, I see now that we ought to have told you sooner, and
so saved her this cruel blow. She is Nita Pacheco, Spanish by descent,
but Indian by association and bringing up. She is the adopted daughter
of Philip Emathla, and the betrothed of Coacoochee."

"Good Heavens!" cried Douglass. "No wonder she fell when struck such a
blow. What a brute she must think me."

"Don't blame yourself, old man," said Boyd, soothingly; "the fault lies
entirely with us. But are you certain that Coacoochee is dead?"

"The man who scalped him said he knew him well, and could swear to his
identity. We went on to examine and bury the body, and it answered
fully the description of Coacoochee. Oh yes, there is no doubt that
he is dead, though his companion has thus far eluded all search. In
one way, I suppose his death will be a good thing for the country; but
I must confess, that for the sake of that poor girl, I would gladly
restore him to life if I could, and take the consequences. Well, good
night. Make the best apologies you can for me to Miss Anstice."




CHAPTER XXXIII

TOLD BY THE MAGNOLIA SPRING


The reported death of Coacoochee, which was generally believed, gave
great satisfaction to the people of Florida, and to the troops who had
been for so long engaged in the thankless task of trying to subdue the
Seminoles. With many of their leading chiefs removed beyond hope of
return, and with their most daring spirit dead, the Indians must, of
course, relinquish all hopes of successfully continuing the struggle.
So the war was supposed to be ended, and many families of refugees now
returned to their abandoned homes.

Among these were the Boyds, who had no longer any reason for remaining
in St. Augustine, and who were particularly anxious to remove Nita
from the sorrowful associations surrounding her there. She was slow to
recover from the shock caused by the news of her lover's death, but as
soon as she was able to bear the journey, they took her with them to
the plantation, which they begged her to consider her own home.

Ralph Boyd began at once the energetic restoration of his property. A
few of the old servants had already found their way back, and others,
tired of dwelling amid the constant alarms of Indian camps, began
to arrive in small bands, as soon as they heard that the proprietor
had returned, until nearly the whole of the original force of the
plantation was restored to it. Aided by these free and willing workmen,
the young planter repaired the great house and numerous outbuildings,
cleared and replanted the weed-grown fields, trimmed the luxuriant
growth of climbing vines and shrubbery, and, within a few months, could
gaze with honest pride over an estate unexcelled for beauty by any in
Florida.

In these undertakings Nita tried, for the sake of her friends, to
exhibit an interest, and in their presence to appear cheerfully
content. With all her efforts, however, she could not conceal the fact
that she was pining for her old forest life, and would gladly exchange
the luxuries of civilization for the rude camp of her warrior lover,
could he but be restored to her. She spent much time, clad in her
Indian costume, and roaming the wilder portions of the plantation,
mounted on one of those fleet-footed ponies for which Florida was
famous, and which were descendants of the old Andalusian stock brought
over by De Soto. One of the girl's favorite haunts was the bank of
a spring that boiled from a bed of snow-white sand, amid a clump of
stately magnolias, about a mile from the great house. Here she would
sit for hours, plaiting sweet-scented grasses into graceful shapes,
as she had learned to do among the maidens of King Philip's village;
but always thinking such sad thoughts that her work was often wet with
scalding tears. At such times Ko-ee, as she called her pony, circled
about her in unrestrained liberty, nibbling at grasses or leaves, here
and there, but always quick to come at her call, and behaving much like
a well-trained watch-dog, fully aware of the responsibility of his
position.

One mild and hazy afternoon early in the new year, when the weather
was of that degree of perfection that it so often attains just before
the coming of a "Norther," Nita sat by her favorite spring, and Ko-ee
browsed near at hand. All at once the pony uttered a snort, pricked up
his delicate ears, and began to move uneasily toward his mistress. As
she glanced up from her work, she was filled with terror at the sight
of a man standing but a few paces away, and regarding her earnestly.
Her first impulse was to fly, and her next was to fling herself into
his arms; for in that instant she recognized the brother whom she had
not seen since that night of cruel separation nearly four years before.

"Louis!" she cried. "Louis, my brother! Is it you? Are you really
alive? I thought you were dead, together with all whom I have ever
loved. I knew you had escaped and joined our friends in fighting for
their rights and our rights; but they told me you were killed, and I
thought I was alone in the world."

[Illustration: NITA SAT BY HER FAVORITE SPRING.]

"Even if I had been killed, dear, you would not be alone, so long as
Coacoochee is left; for he--"

"Louis! How dare you? He is dead!"

"Dead, sister! Coacoochee dead, when he but now sent me here to find
you; when but four days ago I fought by his side in the fiercest and
most splendid battle of this war? He was wounded, to be sure, though
not seriously; but as for his being dead, he is no more dead than you
or I. What could have put such a belief into your mind?"

For a moment the girl stared at her brother with unbelieving eyes and
colorless face. "Is it true?" she whispered at length. "Can it be true?
Tell me, Louis, that you are not saying this thing to tease me, as you
used when we were children. Tell me quick, brother, for I can bear the
suspense no longer."

As Louis assured her that he had spoken only the truth, and that her
lover still lived, the girl's over-strained feelings gave way, and she
sank to the ground, sobbing, and panting for breath.

Louis Pacheco, clad in the costume of a Seminole warrior, battle worn,
and travel stained, sat by his sister's side and soothed her into
quietness. Then he told her the story of the great fight on the shore
of Lake Okeechobee. He told how Coacoochee and three other chiefs,
with less than five hundred warriors, fought for three hours in the
saw-grass and tangled hammock growth, against eleven hundred white
troops under General Zachary Taylor, and finally retired for want of
ammunition, taking with them their thirteen dead and nineteen wounded.
"The white soldiers were killed until they lay on the ground in heaps,
and their wounded could not be counted. If we had only had plenty of
powder, and as good guns as they, we would not have left one of them
alive," concluded the narrator, fiercely.

"Oh, Louis, it is awful!" cried the girl, with a shudder.

"What is awful? That we left so many of them alive? Yes; so it is,
but--"

"I do not mean that. I mean this terrible fighting."

"Yes, sister, the fighting is terrible, and so is the suffering; but
neither is so terrible as tamely submitting to slavery, and injustice,
and oppression, and the loss of everything you hold most dear on earth.
Those are the terrible things that the whites are trying to force upon
us. But we will never submit. We will fight, and cheerfully die, if
needs be, as free men, rather than live as slaves. As for the white
man's word, I will never trust it. Coacoochee trusted it, and it led
him to a prison. Osceola trusted it, and it led him to death. Micanopy
trusted it, and it led him into exile."

"But, Louis, some of the whites are honorable. The Boyds have treated
me like an own sister, and, but for them, Coacoochee would not now be
free."

"Yes," admitted Louis, with softened voice. "Coacoochee has told me of
them, and with my life would I repay their kindness to you and to him.
With them you are safe, and with them will I gladly leave my sister
until such time as I can make a free home for her."

"Oh, Louis! Haven't you come for me? Can't I go with you?"

"Not now, Ista-chee [little one]. Here is greatest safety for you;
for to all the Iste-chatte has word been sent that none may harm this
place, nor come near it. The suffering of the women and children with
us is very great, and I would not have you share it. Now I must go;
for I am sent to notify the northern bands of our victory, and bid
them follow it up with fierce blows from all sides. In two days will
I come to this place again, when, if you have any token or message
for Coacoochee, I will take it to him. Soon he hopes to come for you
himself, and until that time you must wait patiently."

So saying, and after one more fond embrace of his sister, Louis
disappeared in the undergrowth, leaving Nita radiant and filled with a
new life. Her brother had bound her to secrecy concerning his visit,
at least until he had come and gone again, but she could not restrain
the unwonted ring of happiness in her voice, nor banish the light from
her face. Both of these things were noted by Anstice, as she met the
girl on her return to the house.

"Why, Nita! What has happened?" she exclaimed. "Never have I seen you
look so happy. One would think you had heard some glorious news. What
is it, dear?"

"Please, Anstice, don't ask me; for, much as I am longing to tell you,
I can't; that is, not for a few days. Then I will tell you everything.
But I am happy. Oh, I am so happy!"

With this, the girl darted away to her own room, leaving Anstice in a
state of bewilderment not unmixed with vexation.

"I'm sure she might have told me," she said to herself. "It can't be
anything so very important, for there is no possible way of receiving
news at this out-of-the-world place, unless it is brought by special
messenger, and none could arrive without my knowledge. I do believe,
though, that one is coming now."

Anstice was standing on the broad front verandah, over which was
trained a superb Lamarque rose, so as to form a complete screen from
the evening sun. Her ear had caught the sound of hoof-beats, and, as
she parted the vines before her, she saw two horsemen coming up the
long oleander avenue. Both were in uniform, and it needed but a glance
for the blushing girl to discover the identity of the foremost rider.
It was Irwin Douglass, hot, dusty, and weary with long travel. He
dismounted, tossed his bridle to the orderly, who rode back toward the
stables with both horses, and slowly ascended the steps.

As he gained the verandah, his bronzed face flushed with pleasure
at sight of the daintily clad girl who was stepping forward with
outstretched hand to greet him.

"Oh, Miss Anstice! If you could only realize how like a bit of heaven
this seems!" he exclaimed.

"You must indeed have undergone hardships to find your ideal of heaven
in this stupid place," laughed the girl, at the same time gently
disengaging her hand, which the young man seemed inclined to hold.
"Now sit down, and don't speak another word until I have ordered some
refreshments, for you look too utterly weary to talk."

"But I have so much to tell, and so short a time to tell it in,"
remonstrated the lieutenant. "I must be off again in an hour."

"Never mind; I won't listen to such a woe-begone individual. Besides,
Ralph will want to hear your news as well."

With this, Anstice disappeared in the house, and Douglass sank wearily
into a great easy-chair.

Directly afterward Ralph Boyd appeared with a hearty greeting, and
a demand to hear all the news at once. Before his desire could be
gratified, his sister returned with a basket of oranges, and followed
by a maid bearing a tray of decanters, glasses, and a jug of cool
spring water.

"These will save you from immediate collapse," said the fair hostess,
"and something more substantial will follow very shortly. Now, sir,
unfold your budget of news, for I am dying to hear it."

"Well," began Douglass, "there has been the biggest fight of the war,
away down south on the shore of Lake Okeechobee, and I was in it."

"Oh!" exclaimed Anstice.

"That, of course, is nothing wonderful," continued the young soldier,
"but it is surprising that I came out of it without a scratch, for
there were plenty who did not. On our side we left twenty-six dead on
the field, and brought away one hundred and twenty severely wounded,
besides a few score more suffering from minor injuries."

"Whew!" ejaculated Ralph Boyd. "Who was in command?"

"General Taylor, on our side. And now for my most surprising bit of
news." Here the speaker hesitated and looked carefully about him.
"I want to be cautious this time," he said. "But it was confidently
asserted by scouts and prisoners that the Indian commander was no other
than our late lamented friend, the Wildcat."

"Coacoochee! So that was Nita's secret!" cried Anstice. "I might have
known that nothing else would make her look so radiant. Oh! I am so
glad!"

"What do you mean?" demanded the astonished lieutenant. "How could she
have heard anything about the battle, when I have just come from the
field with despatches for St. Augustine, and have ridden almost without
stopping?"

"I don't know, for she wouldn't tell me; but I am certain she did hear
some time this afternoon. But oh! Mr. Douglass, we are so thankful
that you escaped so splendidly. It must have been awful. Of course you
gained the victory, though?"

"I don't quite know about that," replied the lieutenant, doubtfully.
"We silenced their fire, and drove them from the field after a
three-hours fight; but it is said that they had less than half our
number of men, and we are in full retreat. Officially, of course, we
have won a victory; but it wouldn't take more than two or three such
victories to use up the whole Florida army."

They discussed the exciting event for an hour longer, and then Douglass
was reluctantly forced to continue his journey. When he left, he
promised to be back in three days' time, as his orders were to proceed
from St. Augustine to Tampa.

This promise was fulfilled; but when the lieutenant again drew rein
before the hospitable plantation house, that seemed so much like a
home to him, he found its inmates filled with anxiety and alarm. Nita
Pacheco had disappeared under very mysterious circumstances the evening
before, and no trace of her whereabouts or fate could be discovered.




CHAPTER XXXIV

FOLLOWING A MYSTERIOUS TRAIL


Nita had not appeared during the lieutenant's former brief visit to the
plantation, and when, on his departure, Anstice sought her to charge
her with having already learned that Coacoochee still lived, the happy
girl made no denial of her knowledge. At the same time she would not
reveal the source of her information, though when Anstice declared her
belief that Nita had seen the young chief himself, the latter denied
that such was the case. "He is wounded," she added, "and could not
come. Besides," she continued proudly, "he is now head chief of the
Seminole nation, and has much to think of. But he remembered me, and
sent me a message."

"Remembered you, indeed!" cried Anstice. "I should think he ought to;
but I am sorry to hear that he is wounded, for he is a splendid fellow.
Isn't it wonderful, though, that Lieutenant Douglass went through that
same awful battle, and came out without injury. I can't understand it."

"In a battle where Coacoochee commands, no friend of Ralph Boyd can be
struck, save by accident," replied Nita, simply.

"Do you believe that? If I thought it were true, I should love your
Indian hero almost as much as you do, dear. I wonder, though, if that
can be the secret of Irwin's escape?"

So the two girls talked and became drawn more closely to each other
with their exchange of innocent confidences.

On the following day, Nita rode Ko-ee as usual, though not in the
direction of the magnolia spring; but on the one after, she haunted its
banks for hours. She went to it in the morning, reluctantly returning
to the house for lunch and to have Ko-ee fed at noon, and made her way
back to the place appointed for meeting her brother, as soon afterwards
as she could frame a decent excuse for so doing.

She was in the gayest of spirits as she rode away, and she laughingly
called back to Anstice, "To-morrow, dear, I am going to spend the whole
day with you."

"Isn't it a pleasure to see her so happy?" asked Anstice of her
brother, as they watched the girl ride away. "And did you ever see
such a change in so short a time? A few days ago she was listless and
apparently indifferent whether she lived or not. Now she is full of
life, and interested in everything. Then, I did not consider her even
good-looking; while at this minute, she seems to me one of the most
beautiful girls I ever saw."

"Yes," replied Boyd, "I have noticed the change; but I wish, Anstice,
you would persuade her to give up these lonely rambles; though she has
promised me not to go beyond the limits of the plantation, I can't help
feeling uneasy. If I weren't so awfully busy, I would ride with her
myself, since she insists on riding."

"No you wouldn't, brother," laughed Anstice. "I couldn't afford to
have the jealousy of the savage lover aroused in that way. Besides,
it is absurd to regard Nita as though she were a daughter of
civilization, needing to have every step carefully guarded. In spite
of her sweetness, and the readiness with which she has fallen into our
ways, she is still so much of an Indian as to be more at home in the
trackless forest, than in the _chaco_ of the _Iste-hatke_, as she is
pleased to term the house of the white man. So let her alone, brother;
for, if she is to be the wife of an Indian, the more she retains of her
Indian habits, the better it will be for her."

Thus Nita was allowed to go her own way. And when, at sunset, she had
not returned, but little uneasiness was felt in the great house on her
account, though Anstice did sit with her gaze fixed on the long avenue
up which she expected each moment to see the truant appear.

A few minutes later her uneasiness was exchanged for alarm, as one of
the stable boys came running to the house to report that Ko-ee, the
pony, had shortly before appeared at the stables, riderless and alone,
though still saddled and bridled, and that Miss Nita was nowhere to be
seen.

Filled with dismay at this report, Ralph Boyd and his sister hastened
to the stables, and there were greeted by the further news that four
of the best horses belonging to the plantation were missing. This had
only been discovered when one of the stable boys went to the field into
which all the horses not in use were turned during the daytime, to
drive them up for the night.

By this time a group of excited negroes was collected, and it seemed as
though it had only needed the starting of disquieting reports to cause
others to come pouring in. It now appeared that saddles and bridles
had been stolen, that provisions had disappeared, that a boat was
missing from the river bank, that unaccountable noises had been heard,
and mysterious forms had been seen at night, in various parts of the
plantation.

When Boyd sternly demanded why he had not been informed of these things
before, the negroes replied that they had not dared offend their Indian
friends, whom they believed to be at the bottom of all the trouble.

"If Indians are prowling about here, the sooner we locate them and
discover their intentions, the better," announced the proprietor, "and
if Miss Nita has come to any grief from which we can extricate her, the
sooner we do that, the better also."

With this, he armed himself and a dozen or so of the more trusted
negroes, provided a dozen more with torches, for the night had not
grown very dark, let loose all the dogs of the place, wondering at the
time why they had not given an alarm long before, and thus accompanied
made a thorough examination of all Nita's known haunts within the
limits of the plantation. Midnight had passed ere the fruitless search
was ended, and the young man returned wearily to the great house.

"It is my honest conviction," he declared to Anstice, as she hovered
about him with things to eat and to drink, "that Nita has met some band
of Indians and gone off with them. I shouldn't be surprised to learn
that Coacoochee had sent for her, or even come for her himself."

"I don't believe any such thing," said Anstice, decidedly. "She would
never have gone off without bidding us good-bye. Nor do I believe
that Coacoochee would take, or allow to be taken, one pin's worth of
property belonging to you. Whatever has happened to Nita, and I am
afraid it is something dreadful, she has not left us in this state of
suspense of her own free will."

"Well," replied the other, "I am too tired to discuss the question
further to-night, and perhaps daylight will aid us in solving it."

Soon after sunrise the next morning, according to his promise of
returning on the third day, Lieutenant Douglass, heading an escort
of troopers, and accompanied by one of the most experienced scouts in
Florida, reached the plantation. While at breakfast he gathered all the
known details of what had happened on the previous evening. Then he
asked which of Nita's usual haunts she would have been most likely to
visit the afternoon before.

"The magnolia spring," replied Anstice, without hesitation. "She was
going in that direction when last seen."

"Let us take a look at the magnolia spring, then, and see if Redmond,
my scout, can discover any signs of her having been there."

So they four, the Boyds, Douglass, and the scout, visited the bubbling
spring beside which Nita was known to have passed so much of her time.
Within two minutes the scout pointed out a place in a thicket but a
short distance from the spring, where a struggle had taken place, and
from which a plainly marked trail led through the undergrowth toward
the river.

"There were only two men," he said, "and they warn't Injuns, for no
redskin ever left such a trail as that. Besides, Injuns don't wear
boots, which them as was here yesterday did. It's my belief that
them men has made off with the girl. Leastways, one of 'em carried
something heavy; but they've been mighty careful not to let her make
any footprints."

The trail was followed to a place on the riverbank where a boat had
been concealed, and from signs undistinguishable to untrained eyes, the
scout described the craft so minutely, that Ralph Boyd knew it to be
the one missing from his own little fleet.

"But what have white men got to do with this business?" the latter
asked, in perplexity, and unwilling to drop his Indian theory.

"Dunno, cap'n," replied the scout; "but you can take my word for it,
that white men have been, and Injuns hasn't. Yes, they have too!" he
cried, as at that instant his eye lighted on another, almost illegible
print, near where the boat had grounded. "Here's a moccasin track, and
it ain't that of any woman either. What I want now is to have a look on
the other side."

In compliance with this desire, a boat was procured, and the whole
party crossed the river. Then a short search located the point where
the other boat had landed. It also disclosed a most puzzling trail, for
here were the prints of _four_ pairs of booted feet instead of two,
while no trace of moccasins was to be found. The trail led from the
water's edge to a grove in which four horses had been tied to trees,
and from there it bore away to the southwest.

"They're headed for the Tampa road," remarked the scout; "and I reckon
Tampa's where they're bound for."

"Then we'll have a chance to find out something more about them,"
said Douglass; "for I must be a long way toward Tampa before another
nightfall."

"By Jove, old man! I'm going with you," declared Ralph Boyd; "I want to
know something more of this affair myself."

"If you go, Ralph, I shall go too," announced Anstice, firmly. "I'm not
going to be left here alone again. Besides, I am as anxious to find out
what has become of poor Nita as you are, and I have always wanted to
visit Tampa."

As Douglass assured his friends that nothing would afford him greater
pleasure than to have them accompany him, and joined with Anstice in
her plea, Ralph Boyd reluctantly gave consent for his sister to form
one of the party. Thus, before they regained their own side of the
river, all details of the proposed trip were arranged.

While Anstice was making her preparations for departure, her brother
summoned the entire working force of the plantation, and telling them
that he had reason to believe the recent thefts to have been committed
by white men, asked if any of them could remember having seen any
strange white man about the place within a week.

All denied having done so, save one of the old field hands, who
hesitatingly admitted that he had seen the ghost of a white man, on the
night of the "Norther."

"Where did you see it?" demanded Boyd.

"At de do' ob de chickun house."

"What were you doing there?"

"Jes' projeckin' roun'."

"How do you know it was a ghost, and not a live man?"

"Kase I seen him by de light ob de moon, an kase I uster know him when
he war alive."

"Whose ghost do you think it was?"

"Marse Troup Jeffers, de ole oberseer."

"The very man I ought to have thought of at first!" exclaimed the
proprietor, turning to Douglass. "He is not only so familiar with
the place that he knows where to lay his hands on such things as he
needs, and is friendly with the dogs, but he is so bitter against me
for turning him off, that he has already attempted to take my life,
as well as that of Anstice. He is now a slave-trader, and, in company
with other ruffians like himself, disguised as Indians, he very
nearly succeeded in running off all the hands on the plantation. He
has already made several attempts to capture Nita, for the purpose of
selling her into slavery, and now I fear he has succeeded. I swear,
Douglass, if I ever get within striking distance of that scoundrel
again, his death or mine will follow inside of two seconds. Now, let us
hasten to pick up the trail, and may God help Nita Pacheco, if she has
fallen into the clutches of that human devil."

The plantation being left in charge of old Primus, the travellers set
forth, and, a number of boats having been provided, they were speedily
ferried across the river, towing their swimming horses behind them.
On the farther side they resaddled and mounted, Anstice riding Nita's
fleet-footed Ko-ee.

By hard riding they struck the Tampa road before noon, and Redmond
immediately pointed out the trail of four shod horses, which he
affirmed had been ridden at full speed, late the evening before. Soon
afterward, the scout discovered the place where the outlaws had camped.
He declared that they had reached it long after dark, and had left it
before sunrise that morning.

"Mighty little hope of our overtaking them this side of Tampa, then,"
growled Douglass.

For two days longer did the pursuing party follow that trail. They
found two other camping-places; but study the signs as they would, they
could discover nothing to indicate the presence of a woman, nor of any
save booted white men. "Which is what beats me more than anything ever
I run up against," remarked the puzzled scout.

On the third day, by nightfall of which they expected to reach Fort
Brooke on Tampa Bay, the plainly marked trail came to a sudden ending,
amid a confusion of signs that Redmond quickly interpreted.

"They were jumped here by a war-party of Reds," he said, "were
captured without making a show of fight, and have been toted off to
the northward. Would you mind, sir, if I followed this new trail a few
miles, not to exceed five? I might learn something of importance from
it."

"No," replied Douglass. "We can afford to rest the horses here for an
hour or two, and I will go with you."

"So will I, if you have no objection," said Boyd.

The three went on foot swiftly and in silence for about three miles,
then the guide suddenly stopped and held up his hand for caution.
Creeping noiselessly to his side, the others peered in the direction he
was pointing, and there beheld a scene of horror that neither of them
forgot so long as he lived.




CHAPTER XXXV

FATE OF THE SLAVE-CATCHERS


For some time, Boyd, Douglass, and the scout had been aware of an odor,
pungent and sickening; but neither of the two former had been able to
determine its character. Now, as they gazed into an opening in the pine
forest, beside a small pond, its hideous cause was instantly apparent.
Although there was no sign of human life, there was ample evidence that
human beings, engaged in the perpetration of an awful tragedy, had
occupied the place but a few hours before. Chiefest of this evidence
were the charred remains of two human bodies, fastened and supported by
chains to the blackened trunks of two young pine trees. At the foot of
each tree a heap of ashes, and a few embers that still smouldered, told
their story in language so plain that even the civilian and the soldier
had no need of the scout's interpretation to enable them to comprehend
instantly what had taken place.

For a few minutes they remained in hiding while he cautiously circled
about the recent encampment to discover if any of the Indians still
lurked in its vicinity. At length he reappeared on the opposite side
of the opening, and entering it disturbed a number of buzzards that
were only awaiting the cooling of the embers to begin their horrid
feast. These rose on heavy wings, and lighting on neighboring branches,
watched the intruders with dull eyes.

"The Injuns have gone," said the scout as he met his companions in the
middle of the opening, "and taken the four horses with them. It was a
small war-party, all on foot and without women or children; but what
beats me is that there ain't no tracks of white men along with theirs.
Here are two accounted for, but what has become of the other two? They
might have rid horseback, it's true; but then, it ain't Injun way to
let prisoners ride when they are afoot themselves."

"Is there any way of finding out who these poor devils were?" asked
Douglass, indicating the pitiful remnants of humanity before them.

"No, sir, I can't say as there is," replied the scout, doubtfully. "All
I know for certain is that they was human, most likely men, and more
than likely white men. They must have done something to make the Reds
uncommon mad, too; for even Injuns don't burn prisoners without some
special reason, and never, in my experience of 'em, have I run across a
case where they did it in such a hurry. Generally when they've laid out
to have a burning, they save it till they get back to their village, so
as to let all hands share in the festivities. No, sir; this case is
peculiar, and you can bet there was some mighty good reason for it."

As it would have been useless to follow the Indian trail any further,
the scouting party turned back from this point.

"If I could only be sure that one of those wretches was Jeffers," said
Boyd to Douglass as they made their way among the solemn pines, "I
should feel that he had met with his just deserts. Certainly no man
ever earned a punishment of that kind more thoroughly than he. As the
matter stands, I fear it will be long before this mystery is cleared,
if, indeed, it ever is. Under the circumstances, don't you think it
will be just as well not to tell Anstice what we have seen?"

"Certainly," replied Douglass, "and I will instruct Redmond not to
mention our discovery to any one. Of course, I shall be obliged to
report it to the general, but beyond that it need not be known."

So Anstice was only told that the scouts had followed the Indian trail
as far as they deemed advisable, without discovering a living being,
and she rode on toward Tampa, happily unconscious of the hideous
forest tragedy that had been enacted so near her. Although she was
still anxious concerning Nita, she was not without hope that the girl
had fallen into friendly hands, who would ultimately restore her to
Coacoochee.

At Tampa, which presented at that time a scene of the most interesting
activity, the Boyds formed many friends. A large military force was
stationed here in Fort Brooke, a post charmingly located on a point of
land projecting into the bay, and shaded by rows of live-oaks, vast in
size, and draped in the cool green-gray of Spanish moss. Beneath these
were the officers' quarters, and long lines of snowy tents. One of the
married officers, whose wife had gone North, tendered the Boyds the
use of his rudely but comfortably furnished cottage until they should
find an opportunity for returning safely to their own home. They gladly
accepted this offer, and their cottage quickly became a centre of all
the gayety and fun of the fort.

Just back of the post was a large encampment of Indians, who had
surrendered or been made prisoners at different points, and were now
collected for shipment to New Orleans, on their way to the distant west.

Although Anstice, in her pity for these unfortunates about to be torn
from the land of their birth, often visited them, and made friends with
the mothers through the children, she did not realize their sorrow so
keenly as she would had any of her own friends or acquaintances been
among them.

On the day before that fixed for their embarkation, Colonel Worth, of
the 8th Infantry, came in from a long and finally successful scout
after Halec Tustenugge's band of Indians. Although the leader of
this band, together with a few of his warriors, succeeded in eluding
capture, a large number, including many women and children, had been
brought in. These it was decided to start for New Orleans in the
morning with the captives already on hand.

The colonel who had just concluded this arduous campaign was a fine
specimen of the American soldier, as honest as he was brave; and a
cordial friendship already existed between him and the Boyds. As was
natural, therefore, the morning following his arrival at Fort Brooke
saw him seated at their cheerful breakfast table, where, of course, the
conversation turned upon the existing war.

"There is just one man in Florida to-day, with whom I wish I had a
personal acquaintance," remarked the colonel. "He alone could put a
stop to this infernal business of hiding and sneaking and destroying
cornfields, and running down women and children, if he only would. His
name is Coacoochee."

"Yes, I know him well, and believe what you say of him is true,"
responded Boyd.

"You know him! Then you are just the man to aid me in meeting him. I am
to be sent into his country in a few days, and am extremely anxious to
have a talk with him. Will you go with me, and exert your influence to
induce him to come in?"

"I am afraid my influence would prove of small avail, colonel. You see,
Coacoochee has been already caught by chaff and made to suffer dearly
for his credulity."

"Yes, I know, and it was one of the most outrageous--But I have no
business criticising my superior officers, so I can only say that--"

Just here came an interruption in shape of a lieutenant, who wished
the colonel's instructions concerning an awkward situation. "You see,
sir," he began, "we had just got the prisoners, whom you brought in
yesterday, nicely started for the boats, when one of them, and a mighty
good-looking one for a squaw, darted out from among the rest and ran
like a deer towards the woods. Two of the guards started after her,
and several men ran so as to head her off. At this, and seeing no
other chance of escape, she sprang to a small tree and climbed it like
a kitten. Once up, she drew a knife from some part of her clothing
and declared in excellent English that she would kill any man who
dared come after her and then kill herself. I have been talking to
her and trying to persuade her of her foolishness. She only answers
that she will never be taken from Florida, and will do exactly what
she threatens, in case we attempt her capture. She is terribly in
earnest about it, and I am afraid means just what she says. Now all the
boats have left, save one that is only waiting for her, and I am in a
quandary. I dare not order any man to go up after her. I can't have her
shot. I can't shake her down, nor can I persuade her to come down, and
the transports will have sailed long before she is weary or starved
into submission."

"It certainly is a most embarrassing situation," laughed the colonel,
rising from the table as he spoke, "and one that would seem to demand
my official presence. Will you come with us, Boyd?"

"Can't I go too, colonel?" broke in Anstice. "Perhaps I can persuade
the poor thing to come down after all you men have failed."

"Certainly, Miss Anstice; we shall be delighted to have both your
company and assistance."

They found the situation to be precisely as described, except that, by
this time, quite a crowd of soldiers, all laughing and shouting at the
Indian girl, were collected about the tree. These were silenced by the
coming of their officers, and drew aside to make way for them.

"This is a decidedly novel experience," began the colonel, as he caught
sight of a slender figure perched up in the tree, and staring down with
great, frightened eyes.

At that moment, Anstice Boyd, who had just caught a glimpse of the
girl's face, sprang forward with a little scream of recognition.

"It is Nita! my own darling Nita!" she cried. "Colonel, order these
horrid men to go away at once, and you and the others please go away,
too. She is my friend, and will come to me as soon as you are all out
of sight. I will be responsible for her, and shall take her directly to
the house, where you can see her after awhile, if you choose."

Two minutes later the men had disappeared, and the poor, brave girl,
who had determined to die rather than leave the land in which her lover
still fought for liberty, was sobbing as though her heart would break
in Anstice Boyd's arms. The latter soothed and petted her as though
she had been a little lost child, and finally led her away to her own
temporary home. Here she clad her in one of the two extra gowns she
had managed to bring from the plantation, and so transformed her in
appearance, that when, an hour later, the colonel called to inquire
after his captive, he was more amazed than ever in his eventful career,
to find her a very beautiful, shy, and stylishly dressed young lady, to
whom it was necessary that he be formally presented.

He had, in the meantime, learned her history from Boyd; and, when made
aware of the tender ties existing between her and the redoubtable young
war-chief of the Seminoles, had exclaimed:

"Ralph Boyd, your coming here with your sister was a special leading
of Divine Providence, as was the act of that brave girl in refusing to
embark for New Orleans this morning. Now, with her aid, we will end
this bloody war."

Proceeding to headquarters, he briefly explained the situation to
General Armistead, who had just succeeded General Taylor in command of
the army in Florida, and obtained his permission for the transports to
depart, leaving Nita Pacheco behind.

Upon meeting Nita in Anstice Boyd's tiny sitting-room, the colonel
chided her gently for not making herself known to him at the time of
her capture with the others of Halec Tustenugge's village.

To this she replied that she and her people had suffered so much at the
hands of white men, and been so often deceived, that they no longer
dared trust them.

"That is so sadly true, my dear girl, that it seems incredible that
a Seminole should ever trust one of us again. Still, I am going to
ask you to do that very thing. I am going to ask you to trust me, and
believe in the truth of every word I say to you as you would in that of
Coacoochee himself. If I deceive you in one word or in any particular,
may that God who is ruler of us all repay me a thousand fold for my
infamy."

Here followed a long conversation, in which the colonel outlined his
plan for obtaining an interview with Coacoochee, through the influence
of Nita, who he proposed should accompany his forthcoming expedition
to the southern interior. At its conclusion, Nita gave him a searching
look that seemed to read his very soul. Then, placing a small hand in
his, she said:

"I will go with you, I will do what I can, and I will trust you."

"Spoken like a brave girl, and one well worthy the bravest lover in all
Florida!" cried the colonel. "Now can I see the end of this war. Boyd,
I of course count on you to go with us?"

"And me?" interposed Anstice. "Don't you count on me too, colonel?
Because if you don't, neither of these people shall stir a single step
with your old expedition."

"My dear young lady," rejoined the colonel, gallantly, "the entire fate
of the proposed expedition rests with you, and I made so certain that
you would accompany us, that I have selected as my adjutant Lieutenant
Irwin--"

"That will do, sir. Not another word," interrupted the blushing girl.
"If you get into the habit of talking such nonsense I, for one, will
never believe a word you say. I don't care, though, so long as it is
settled that I am to go. Now I want you both to listen while I tell you
what Nita has just told me of all that has happened to her since she
disappeared so mysteriously from the plantation. Nita dear, I am sure
you don't want to hear it, so run up to my room, and have a good rest.
I will come just as soon as I have got rid of these men."




CHAPTER XXXVI

PEACE IS AGAIN PROPOSED


After Nita had left the room, Anstice began her story as follows:

"On the afternoon before that cold 'Norther' we had about a month ago,
Nita was sitting, as she often did, by the magnolia spring. You must
remember the place, colonel. There she received a most unexpected visit
from her brother Louis, whom she had not seen for years. He had been
sent by Coacoochee to carry the news of the battle of Okeechobee to the
northern bands, and also to bring a message to Nita. After they had
talked for awhile, he had to go on his way, but promised to be back in
two days' time and take any message or token she might wish to send to
her lover."

"That's who it was then!" broke in Ralph Boyd. "Well, I am glad to have
that part of the mystery cleared up."

"Yes," continued Anstice; "and of course, Nita was awfully excited.
When the second day came, she spent nearly the whole of it at the
spring. Finally, late in the afternoon, as before, she heard a voice
calling to her by name, very softly. Thinking, of course, that it
was Louis, who feared, for some reason, to advance into the open, she
followed the direction of the voice unhesitatingly. Then the first
thing she knew, a cloth was flung over her head, she was seized in a
pair of strong arms, and borne struggling away.

"When, to save her from suffocating, the cloth was removed, she found
herself in a boat, with two white men and her brother Louis. The poor
fellow's head was cut and bleeding, as though from a cruel blow, and he
lay bound in the bottom of the boat. One of the white men was rowing,
and the other sat watching them, with a pistol in his hand."

"Did she recognize the white men?" inquired Ralph Boyd.

"Yes, she says they were the very two who stole her mother, and
afterwards stole the wife of Osceola."

"The scoundrels!" cried Colonel Worth. "In that case they were the
prime instigators of this war, and ought to have been hanged long ago."

"Yes," answered Boyd, "and one of them stole my sister, colonel, and
turned her adrift in the forest, where but for Coacoochee she must have
perished. The same gentleman also shot me in the back at the battle of
Withlacoochee, and supposed he had killed me."

"Hanging would be altogether too good for the brute," declared the
colonel, excitedly. "He deserves to be burned at the stake."

"That is what the Indians thought," replied Boyd, significantly. "But
go on, sister. Did Nita find out the name of the other man?"

"Yes, she learned while with them that it was Ruffin,--Ross Ruffin."

"I have heard of him, too, as being as great a scoundrel as Jeffers
himself, only more of a coward," muttered Boyd.

"They made both Nita and Louis put on boots before leaving the boat,"
continued the narrator, "and that accounts for our finding what we
supposed were the footprints of four white men. When they reached the
place where the horses were waiting, both the captives had their wrists
bound together, and a rope was passed from each to the saddle of one of
the white men. So they rode for two days, and Nita says it was simply
awful."

"I should imagine it might have been," said the colonel.

"Just at dusk of the second day, a lot of ambushed Indians surprised
and captured them all without firing a shot. Nita says, in spite of
her fright, she thinks that was one of the happiest moments of her
life. The Indians knew Louis, and, of course, released him and her
at once, tying up the white men instead. That night they camped some
miles from the road, and when Louis told who the prisoners were, and of
the many outrages they had committed, especially the stealing of poor
Chen-o-wah, the Indians declared they should live no longer, and began
at once to make preparations for killing them. Nita says she isn't
certain how they were killed, as she made Louis take her a long way
off, where she could neither see nor hear what was going on; but she
thinks they were _burned_ to death."

"And I know it," said Ralph Boyd, grimly. "Douglass and I saw their
charred remains the next day, and not knowing who they were, I expended
a certain amount of sympathy on them, that I now feel to have been
wholly wasted."

"Oh brother! and you never told me! I'm glad you didn't, though, for
it is too horrible to even think of. Well, when Nita got to the Indian
village, they treated her just as nicely as they knew how, and promised
to join Coacoochee, of course taking her with them, as soon as their
crops were planted. Then you came along, colonel, and captured poor
Nita with the others, and brought her in here, and the rest you know.
Oh, I forgot! Nita is feeling very badly about her brother Louis, who
was captured with her and brought here. She says he was taken off in
one of the first boats this morning, and she is afraid she will never
see him again."

"He must have given an assumed name," remarked the colonel,
thoughtfully. "Under the circumstances, though, I am very glad that
he did, and that he is well out of the country. I am afraid if it had
been known a few hours sooner that Major Dade's guide was in the
prisoners' camp, he would never have left it alive. In that case my
course with Coacoochee, which now appears so plain, would have been
beset with serious, if not insurmountable, difficulties. As it is, I
congratulate you, Miss Anstice, on having Nita Pacheco for a friend,
and look forward to the happiest result arising from that friendship.
Within a week we shall be ready to start for the country of Coacoochee,
and I can assure you that I have never anticipated any expedition with
greater pleasure than I do this one."

The first of March, that loveliest month of the entire Floridian year,
found Colonel Worth's command camped in Fort Gardiner hammock, on the
western bank of the Kissimmee River. Here, they were more than one
hundred miles beyond the nearest white settlers, and in a country so
abounding with game of all kinds, including deer and turkey, besides
fish and turtles in wonderful abundance, that the troops were fed
on these, until they begged for a return to bacon and hardtack as a
pleasing change of diet. The heavily timbered bottom lands were in
their fullest glory of spring green, fragrant with a wealth of yellow
jasmine, and the glowing swamp azalea, as well as vocal with the notes
of innumerable song birds. It was one of the most charming bits of the
beautiful land that the Seminole loved so well and fought so fiercely
to retain. It was a typical home of the Indian, and one from which the
soldiers of the United States had thus far been unable to drive him.

In the camp a large double tent, pitched next that of the commander,
was set apart for the use of the Boyds and Nita. Here Anstice held
regal court; for she was not only the first white woman to penetrate
that wild region, but the first who had ever accompanied a command
of the Florida army on one of its "swamp campaigns." In her efforts
at entertaining the officers who flocked about her, Anstice was ably
seconded by Nita, who, though demure and shy, was not lacking in quick
wit and a cheery mirth that had been wonderfully developed during this
expedition into the haunts of her lover.

From its outset she had refused to wear the garb of civilization, and
appeared always dressed in the simple costume of an Indian maiden such
as the young Seminole war-chief might recognize at a glance, and now he
might be expected at any moment.

The day on which he had promised to come in had arrived, and already
was Ralph Boyd gone forth to meet him. Oh, how slowly the time passed,
and yet again, how swiftly! Finally, unable to conceal her agitation,
Nita returned to the innermost recess of the tent, while Anstice
entertained several officers with gay talk and laughter outside.

Friendly Indians, sent out long before with a white flag, on which were
painted two clasped hands, in token of friendship, and with numerous
presents, had found Coacoochee, and informed him of Colonel Worth's
desire for a talk; upon which the fierce young chief had laughed them
to scorn.

"Tell the white chief," he said, "to come alone to the camp of
Coacoochee if he wishes to talk."

"Thy friend Ralph Boyd is in the camp of the soldiers, and sends word
that the white chief is to be trusted."

"Tell my friend that I am through with trusting white chiefs. I have
had a sadder experience with them than he."

"Nita Pacheco is in the camp of the soldiers, and, being restrained
from coming to thee, bids thee come to her. She also sends word that
the white chief is to be trusted even as she is to be trusted."

For a long time Coacoochee sat silent, while the little smoke clouds
from his calumet floated in blue spirals above his head; then he spoke
again, saying:

"Tell the white chief that in five days Coacoochee will come to him.
Tell Ralph Boyd that on the fifth day from now, two hours before the
sleeping of the sun, if he comes alone, I will meet him at the palmetto
hammock, one mile this side of the soldiers' camp. If he comes not,
then shall I return to my own people, and the white chief shall never
meet me save in battle. Tell Nita Pacheco that at her bidding only,
of all the world, do I trust myself again within the power of the
Iste-hatke. Now go, and bear to her this token from Coacoochee."

With this the young chief detached from his turban a superb cluster
of egret plumes fastened with a golden clasp, and handed it to the
messenger. This token had been promptly delivered to Nita, together
with her lover's message, and now she awaited his coming.

Ralph Boyd, riding out alone to meet his Indian friend, felt almost
depressed at the utter loneliness of his surroundings, in which no
signs of human presence or animal life were to be discovered. He
wondered curiously, as he rode, whether that fair country would ever
be filled with the homes and tilled acres of civilization. As he
approached the cluster of cabbage palms named as the place of meeting,
he scanned it closely, but without detecting aught save an unbroken
solitude.

Even as he pondered on how long he should wait for Coacoochee to fulfil
his engagement, he was startled by a low laugh, and the young chief,
with outstretched hand, stood by his side.

Springing from his saddle, the Englishman grasped the hand of his
friend, and after a warm greeting confessed his amazement that any
human being could have approached him so closely without warning.

"I remembered the magic by which your warriors were made to appear and
disappear on that former occasion long ago," he said, "and have watched
so keenly this time that I did not believe even you could come within
many yards of me without detection. Even now I know not from where you
came."

For answer Coacoochee uttered his own signal, the cry of a hawk.
Instantly, to Boyd's infinite amazement, the two were surrounded by a
cordon of warriors, all armed with rifles, and the furthest not more
than three rods away.

Coacoochee smiled at the blank expression on his friend's face, and
said: "From the camp of the soldiers to this place have my braves kept
pace with thee; for, while I trust Ralph Boyd, I was not yet prepared
to fully trust the war-chief of the Iste-hatke nor place myself
entirely in his power. Now am I satisfied, and will go with you."

Thus saying, Coacoochee waved his hand, and the Indians, who had stood
motionless about them, disappeared within the shadows of the hammock.
At the same moment there came from it seven mounted warriors, one of
whom led a superb horse fully equipped for the road. The young chief
vaulted lightly into the saddle of this steed, and Boyd mounting at
the same time, the two friends, followed by their picturesque escort,
dashed away toward the camp by the Kissimmee.

A few minutes later a blare of trumpets and a roll of drums heralded
their arrival, and Colonel Worth, escorted by a group of officers in
full uniform, stepped forward to greet the distinguished guest, from
whose coming so much was hoped. As the two war-chiefs of different
races, and yet both natives of one country, held each other's hand,
and gazed into each other's face, each was impressed with the belief
that he had met an honest man, a worthy foe, and one who might become a
stanch friend.

After the formalities of the occasion had been exchanged, and just as
Coacoochee's eyes were beginning to rove restlessly down the camp,
Anstice Boyd stepped to his side, gave him the greeting of an old
friend, and leading him to her own tent, bade him enter alone.

Thus there was no witness to the meeting of the forest lovers; but
when, a few minutes later, they came from the tent together, there was
a happiness in their faces that had not been there since that long-ago
evening of betrothal in the village of Philip Emathla.




CHAPTER XXXVII

COACOOCHEE IS AGAIN MADE PRISONER


Although the Seminoles had generally been victorious in their battles
with the whites, they were struggling against a power so infinitely
greater than theirs that the four years of war already elapsed had made
very serious inroads upon both their strength and their resources.
Their entire force was in the field, and they had no reserves from
which to draw fresh warriors. They must raise their own food supplies
even while they fought. They could not manufacture powder nor arms, and
could only gain infrequent supplies of these by successful battles or
forays. The fresh, well-armed, and well-fed troops, operating against
them, outnumbered them ten to one. Their entire country was dotted
with stockaded posts, called by courtesy "forts," garrisoned by troops
who were continually driving the Indians from hammock to hammock,
destroying their fields, and burning their villages.

One line of these posts extended across the Territory, from Fort
Brooke on Tampa Bay to St. Augustine, cutting off the northern bands
from those who had sought refuge amid the vast swamps of the south.
Another line extended down the west coast, and up the Caloosahatchie
to Lake Okeechobee; while a third line commanded the Atlantic coast
from St. Augustine to the mouth of the Miami River, where it empties
into far-distant Biscayne Bay. Of this last chain the principal posts
were Fort Pierce, on the Indian River opposite the inlet, Fort Jupiter
at the mouth of the Locohatchie, Fort Lauderdale on New River, and
Fort Dallas on Biscayne Bay. The last named was most important of all,
because of its size, its strength, nearly all of its buildings being
so solidly constructed of stone that some of them are in a good state
of preservation to this day, and on account of its situation, which
commanded the Everglades and the system of waterways connecting them
with the coast.

Under these circumstances, it is no wonder that the Indians were weary
of the hopeless struggle against such overwhelming odds, and that
Colonel Worth found Coacoochee willing to talk peace.

The two war-chiefs seemed drawn to each other, and to understand each
other from the first. During the four days that Coacoochee remained
in the camp of the soldiers, they held many informal talks concerning
the subject of greatest importance to them both. For a long time,
Coacoochee argued stoutly against the removal of his people to a
distant country, and pleaded hard for a reservation in their own land.

To this Colonel Worth replied that more than half the tribe were
already removed, and could never be brought back. Also that, with
the great tide of white immigration setting steadily southward, no
reservation in Florida, worth the having, could be secured to the
Indians for more than a few years; at the end of which time the
existing troubles would rise again with exaggerated violence.

These arguments finally prevailed, and with a heavy heart the young
chief admitted the necessity of leaving the land of his birth. He,
however, made one stipulation.

"There are among us," he said, "those of a darker skin than ours, but
who are yet our brothers. Many of them were born to freedom in the land
of the Iste-chatte. They have fought with us for our liberty, and have
died by our side. They are with us as one people, and where we go they
must also go. If Coacoochee surrenders, and exerts his influence for
the removal of his people, it is only on condition that those of the
Iste-lustee now dwelling with the Seminoles shall go with them, and
that no one of them shall ever be claimed by a white man as his slave.
Are the words of Coacoochee good in the ears of the white war-chief?"

"They are good," replied Colonel Worth, "and, were I in full command,
your condition should be granted unhesitatingly. But there is another
war-chief more powerful than I, who must be consulted. I believe he
will gladly accept your terms. He is now at Fort Brooke. Will you go
with me and see him? If you will, no matter whether you come to an
agreement or not, I pledge my sacred word, as a man and a soldier, that
you shall return to your own people, free and without harm."

For some minutes Coacoochee meditated this proposition in silence. Then
he said slowly:

"Micco-hatke [white chief], in the hope of ending this war, and saving
the lives of my people, I will do what I have said I never would do. I
will trust myself again within the walls of a white man's fort. I will
go with you to talk with this great white chief. First, I must return
to my warriors, and tell them where I am going, that there may be no
fighting while I am gone. I give you these ten sticks. With the rising
of each sun throw one away. When all are gone, Coacoochee will come
again, and go with his white brother to the place of the great white
chief."

So the Wildcat left the camp of the soldiers as free as he had entered
it, journeyed far among the scattered bands of his people, and in ten
days returned, prepared to accompany his white friends to the place
from which they had set forth in search of him.

At Tampa, General Armistead expressed himself as greatly impressed with
the manliness and evident sincerity of the young chief. He readily
consented to the condition imposed, and bade him bring in his people
at once, that they might be embarked for emigration.

To this Coacoochee replied that, while he had become convinced of the
necessity for removal to the west, it would take time to convince his
followers, especially as the soldiers had so driven them that they
were scattered in small bands all over the country. They would not be
gathered together until at their great annual festival or green corn
dance, which would be held in June. Before that time he doubted if he
should be able to accomplish very much.

Understanding this state of affairs perfectly, General Armistead
still desired Coacoochee to go and collect his people as speedily as
possible, designating Fort Pierce on the Indian River as the place at
which they should assemble.

So the young war-chief having renewed his confidence in the words of
the white man, departed cheerfully, and filled with a new hope for
the future. He had received every mark of friendship and distinction
from officers and soldiers, and had been given no cause to doubt for a
moment the sincerity of these expressions.

As Colonel Worth was about to leave for Palatka, and the Boyds were
taking advantage of his escort to return to their own home, Coacoochee
decided to accompany them as far as the plantation on the St. John's,
where Nita was still to be left until his return from the great
enterprise he had now undertaken.

About this return much was said; for it would mean the beginning of
the young chief's long journey to the west, and of course on that
journey, from which there was to be no return, Nita Pacheco was to
accompany him. Anstice had set her heart on having what she termed
the "royal wedding" take place at the plantation, and had so nearly
gained Coacoochee's consent to being married according to the way of
the Iste-hatke, that she already considered her pet scheme as good as
adopted.

The only officer accompanying the colonel to Palatka was Lieutenant
Douglass; and, on the evening of their arrival at the plantation, as
he and Anstice sat together on the verandah, while Coacoochee was
strolling with Nita beneath the oaks, and Ralph Boyd was entertaining
Colonel Worth inside the house, he startled the English girl by asking:

"Wouldn't it be just as easy, Miss Boyd, to have two weddings as one
when Coacoochee returns?"

"Why, yes. I suppose so. If there was any one else who wanted to get
married just at that time."

"Well, there is. I do, for one."

"And who is the other, pray?"

"Can't you guess, Anstice? Don't you know? Won't you--?"

Here the young officer caught one of the girl's hands in both of his,
and though he was obliged to release it a moment later, as the other
men appeared on the verandah, the mere fact that she had not snatched
it away filled him with unspeakable joy. It was a sufficient answer to
his question, and he knew as well as though told in words, that he had
won something better and sweeter far than rank, or honors, or position,
or whatever else besides love the world holds most dear.

During the weeks that followed this happy evening at the plantation,
while Colonel Worth, with Irwin Douglass as his hard-worked adjutant
was always in the field, giving the Indians to understand that the
vigilance of the troops was in no way to be relaxed, by the prospects
of peace, Coacoochee, in the far south, was using every effort to
redeem his pledged word, and persuade his people to come in for
removal. He often visited Fort Pierce, the appointed rendezvous, which
was commanded by Major Chase, the same who as a captain had destroyed
the swamp stronghold of Osceola. This officer had long been conducting
similar operations in the south, despatching small bodies of troops
in all directions from his post, on the soldierly tasks of destroying
fields, capturing women and children, and burning the rude roofs that
had sheltered them. Upon receipt of orders to stay his hand, and hold
his troops in check, that Coacoochee might be given an opportunity
to collect his scattered warriors, Major Chase became impatient at
the loss of his favorite occupation. So he sent word to the general
commanding, that Coacoochee was so dilatory in fulfilling his promises,
that it was believed he meditated treachery.

At this, General Armistead, who was on the point of being relieved of
his command, and ordered to Washington, consummated his official career
in Florida by an act calculated to bring a blush of shame to the cheek
of every American soldier. It was nothing more nor less than an issue
of instructions to Major Chase to seize Coacoochee, together with any
who might accompany him, the very next time the young chief visited
Fort Pierce, and hold them as prisoners of war.

Upon the retirement of this general, the man appointed to succeed him
to the command in Florida, was Colonel Worth, then at Palatka, on
the St. John's, which was headquarters of his regiment. The distance
between that point and the Boyds' plantation was so short, that the
colonel, together with his adjutant, was in the habit of frequently
visiting it and sharing its bountiful hospitality. Here were often
held discussions of the war, and of the efforts then being made by
Coacoochee toward securing peace. During these conversations, the
colonel was apt to sigh for an extension of his powers, that he might
be enabled to put some of his pet theories into practice. In these
aspirations the plantation household heartily sympathized.

It was only natural, then, that, on receiving his unexpected
appointment as commander-in-chief, the honest soldier should hasten
to impart the glad intelligence to his friends and bid them share his
satisfaction.

Thus it came about that, a few evenings later, Ralph Boyd gave a dinner
in celebration of the event, at which, among other guests present, were
"General" Worth, as he must now be called, and Lieutenant Douglass.

The occasion was one of unrestrained happiness, for all believed that
the tedious war must now come to a speedy close. Frequent blushes were
brought to the cheeks of both Anstice and Nita, by sly allusions to the
rapid approach of a certain double wedding that now appeared among the
probabilities of the immediate future.

When the festivities were at their height, and all were in the gayest
of spirits, there came a clatter of horses' hoofs, and a rattle of
arms, from outside. The next moment a travel-stained courier entered,
saluted, and handed the general a despatch marked "urgent."

The commander tore it open, glanced with paling cheeks at its contents,
and sprang to his feet, exclaiming:

[Illustration: "ALL IS LOST AND THE WAR IS ABOUT TO BREAK FORTH WITH
GREATER FURY THAN EVER."]

"My God, gentlemen! all is lost, and the war is about to break forth
with greater fury than ever! In violation of our plighted word,
Coacoochee and fifteen of his followers have been treacherously
seized at Fort Pierce, sent in irons to Tampa, and despatched in
cruel haste to the west. A transport even now bears them toward New
Orleans. In this emergency there is, to my mind, but one thing to be
done. Coacoochee must be brought back. Without his aid to end it, this
wretched war will continue indefinitely. Lieutenant Douglass, within
fifteen minutes I shall want you to start on an overland ride to New
Orleans. Intercept Coacoochee and bring him back to Tampa. For so
doing you shall have my written authority. Boyd, pen and paper, if you
please, and quickly."

Less than a quarter of an hour later, Douglass, splendidly mounted,
armed with all requisite authority, and followed by but two troopers,
dashed away down the long avenue, fairly started on his momentous
mission.

As Anstice bade him farewell, she whispered in his ear: "Remember,
Irwin, a double wedding, or none."




CHAPTER XXXVIII

DOUGLASS FULFILS HIS MISSION


In spite of the undisguised treachery by which Coacoochee had been
made a prisoner and hurried from the country, the act was hailed with
joy by unthinking people all over the Territory. These cared not how
their enemy was got rid of, so long as they were at liberty to seize
his lands and enslave the negroes among his followers. There were many
others who were making too good a thing out of the war to care to have
it end. From these classes, therefore, arose a mighty clamor, when it
became known that General Worth was determined to bring back the young
war-chief; and for a time there was no man in the country so bitterly
abused and reviled as he.

To the fearless soldier, strong in the rectitude of his convictions,
and planning far ahead of the present, this storm of words, prompted
by ignorance, malice, and selfish interests, was but as the idle
whispering of a passing breeze. He cared not for it; and if he had, his
attention was too immediately and fully occupied by matters of pressing
importance to permit him to notice it.

As the general had foreseen, the outrage perpetrated upon their most
beloved chieftain caused the Seminole warriors to spring to their arms
with redoubled fury. Even as a smouldering brush-heap is fanned into
leaping flames by a sudden fitful gust, so the spirit of revenge,
burning deep in Indian hearts, was now allowed to blaze forth without
restraint. Small war-parties sallied forth from every swamp and
hammock, burning and killing in all directions. Nimbly eluding pursuit,
these could neither be destroyed nor captured; and through their fierce
acts of vengeance, the citizens of Florida were given bitter cause to
regret the taking away of Coacoochee. Such chiefs as remained, bound
themselves by a solemn covenant to hold no further intercourse with the
treacherous white man, but to fight him to the bitter end, and to put
to death any messenger, red, black, or white, whom he might send to
them under pretence of desiring peace.

It was now summer, the season of heat, rain, fevers, and sickness.
Heretofore, during the summer months, the Indians had rested quietly in
their villages, and cultivated the crops that should furnish food for
the campaign of the succeeding winter. Heretofore, at this season, the
soldiers had been withdrawn from the deadly interior, and allowed to
recuperate in the health-giving sea-breezes of the coast.

Now all this was changed. While sympathizing with the wronged and
outraged Indians, General Worth's loyalty to his government was too
strong to permit his feelings to interfere in the slightest with the
full performance of his duty. The time for an active summer campaign
had arrived, and the new commander was the very man to conduct such a
one with the utmost vigor. The Indians who had taken to the war-path
quickly found, to their sorrow, that the whites had done the same thing.

From every post in Florida detachments of troops scoured the
neighboring territory, carrying desolation and dismay into every part
of the country known, or supposed, to be occupied by the enemy. No
hammock was so dense, and no swamp so trackless, that the white soldier
did not penetrate it. During the month of June thirty-two cornfields of
from five to twenty acres each were despoiled of their growing crops,
and as many Indian villages were destroyed. Even the watery fastnesses
of the widespread Everglades were invaded by a boat expedition from
Fort Dallas, which destroyed crops and orchards on many a fertile
island that the Indians had fondly believed no white man would ever
discover. During this same month of June, more than three thousand men,
stricken by fevers and kindred disease encountered in the swamps, were
enrolled on the sick list of General Worth's little army.

By the end of the month nearly every Indian in Florida had been
driven into the impenetrable recesses of the Big Cypress, a vast swamp
bordering on the southwest coast, and most of the troops were recalled
to their respective posts.

Now, if Douglass had been successful in his mission, it was time
for Coacoochee to be expected at Tampa, and the commander moved his
headquarters from Palatka to Fort Brooke, that he might be on hand to
receive the exiled chief. With him went the Boyds; for they had become
too deeply interested in this game of war to remain at a distance from
its most important moves. Of course, Nita accompanied them, alternately
hopeful and despairing, longing for news from her lover, and yet
fearing to receive it. Their old cottage being again placed at their
disposal, the Boyds were at once as comfortably established as though
they had never left it.

On the third of July, a strange sail was reported beating slowly up
the bay, and that same evening Lieutenant Irwin Douglass, in speckless
uniform, walked into the Boyds' cottage, as quietly as though he had
left it but an hour before. As he entered, Anstice was the first to
discover him, and sprang to his side.

"Irwin Douglass!" she cried. "Have you brought Coacoochee back with
you? Tell me quick!"

Close behind her stood Nita, silent and motionless, but with shining
eyes that gained the coveted information from the young officer's face
long before he could give it in words.

"Didn't you say it must be a double wedding or none?" he asked,
laughingly.

"Yes. Tell us quick!"

"Well, I didn't know of any one besides yourself who wished to get
married, except Nita."

"You horrid man! Why don't you tell us?"

"And as I didn't suppose she would accept any other Indian--"

"You brought Coacoochee back with you?"

"I didn't say so."

"But you have! You know you have; for you would never have dared come
here if you hadn't."

"Well then, I have, and he is aboard the transport out there in the
bay, alive, hearty, and filled with happiness at once more breathing
his native air."

"Irwin Douglass, you are a dear fellow, and I love you! which is more
than I ever admitted before, except to Coacoochee," cried Anstice,
throwing her arms about Nita and hugging her in her excitement. "But
why didn't you bring him ashore? Didn't you suppose we wanted to see
him? And didn't you know that poor Nita was wearing her heart out with
suspense?"

"I feared so, but I couldn't help it. You see, when a man in the
military business runs up against orders, he finds them mighty stubborn
facts, and not lightly to be turned aside. So as I had orders to leave
our friend under guard aboard ship, until he had been visited by the
commanding general, I thought it better to obey them."

"Never mind, dear," said Anstice, turning consolingly to Nita. "We will
have him ashore to-morrow, and his coming will be a fitting celebration
of the Fourth of July that the Americans make so much fuss over."

On the morrow, the general, accompanied by his staff, together with
Douglass and Boyd, visited Coacoochee on board the transport. As these
gained the deck, they beheld the distinguished prisoner thin and
haggard, with manacles on both wrists and ankles, but still standing
straight and undaunted, with eyes gazing beyond them and fixed on the
dear land that he had thought never to see again.

Stepping directly to him, General Worth grasped his hand, saying:

"Coacoochee, I take you by the hand as a warrior and a brave man, who
has fought long and with a strong heart for his country. You were not
captured and sent away by my orders, but by the orders of the great
chief who was then in command. Now I am in command, and by my order
have you been brought back to your own land that you may give it the
peace you promised me. For nearly five years has there been war between
the white man and the red man. Now that war must end, and you are the
man who must end it. You will not be allowed to go free until your
whole band has come in, ready for removal to the west. You may send a
talk to them by three, or even five, of your young men. You shall state
the number of days required for your people to come in. If they are
all here within the limit of time fixed, you shall be set at liberty,
and allowed to go on shore to them. If they are not here by the last
day appointed, then shall its setting sun see you, and those with you,
hanging from the yards of this vessel with the irons still on your
hands and feet. I do not tell you this to frighten you. You are too
brave a man for that. I say it because I mean it, and shall do as I
say. This war must end, and you must end it."

For some minutes there was a dead silence, as the company reflected on
the terrible words they had just heard, and Coacoochee's breast heaved
with emotion he struggled to control. At length he said:

"Micco-hatke, you are a great chief, and I believe you are an honest
man. Other white men have lied to me and cheated me. They could not
overcome Coacoochee in battle, so they captured him by their lying
words. With you it is not so. I will trust you. Let my young men go. If
in thirty days the warriors of Coacoochee have not obeyed his voice and
come to him, then let him die. He will not care longer to live."

After a conversation with his companions, to whom all this had been
interpreted, Coacoochee selected five of them, and with the earnest
words of one placing his life and honor in their hands, charged them
with a message to his people.

Then the irons were stricken from the limbs of those five, and they
were allowed to pass over the side of the ship into a waiting boat.
Coacoochee shook hands with each one, and to the last he said: "If thou
meet with her whom I love, tell her--No, tell her naught. Already does
she know the words that the heart of Coacoochee would utter. Give her
this, and bid her wear it until I once more stand beside her or have
gone from her life forever."

With this he handed the messenger a silken kerchief of creamy white,
that, in honor of the occasion, had been knotted about his head.

Among those who thronged the shore to witness the return of the boats,
none watched them with such straining eyes and eager impatience as Nita
Pacheco. She stood with Anstice, a little apart from the rest, clad in
the forest costume that she knew would be most pleasing to her lover.

General Worth had told no one of his plans, and so the girl did not
doubt for a moment that Coacoochee would be allowed to come ashore that
day. She was the first to make certain that one of the boats contained
a number of Indians; and from that moment her eyes did not leave it.

As it drew near to the shore, the happy light gradually faded from her
face, and in its place there came a look of puzzled anxiety. "He is
not there," she finally said to Anstice, in a tone that betrayed the
keenness of her disappointment. "Let us go; there is nothing now to
stay for."

"No," objected Anstice, "there must be a message from him. Let us wait
and learn what has happened."

Boyd and Douglass came directly to where the girls awaited them; but
ere either of them could enter into explanations, Nita darted away
toward the warriors, who had just landed. With these she engaged in
rapid conversation for the next five minutes, during which she learned
of all that had passed aboard the ship, and of her lover's imminent
peril.

When the girl rejoined her friends, her jetty hair was bound with the
kerchief of creamy silk. She walked with a resolute step, and her eyes
flashed with determination. Speaking to Anstice alone, without regard
to those who stood near her, she said:

"The Micco-hatke will kill him if every member of his band is not here,
ready to emigrate, within thirty days. The Seminole chiefs have sworn
to receive no proposals for peace. They will even shoot the messengers
of Coacoochee before they can be heard; but they will not kill a
woman. It is for me, therefore, to go with those who bear the talk of
Coacoochee. If, at the end of the allotted time, every member of the
band is not here, then I, too, shall be far away; but, as the sun sinks
into the sea on that day, the spirit of Nita Pacheco will be forever
joined with that of him to whom she plighted her troth. Come, let us go
and make ready."

No persuasions nor suggestions of danger or hardship could alter the
girl's determination, or cause her to waver from her fixed purpose.
So she was allowed to have her way, and at daylight of the following
morning she set forth, in company with the five warriors, on her
perilous and fateful mission. They were amply provided with horses,
provisions, and everything that could add to the success of their
undertaking, and, as they rode away from the fort, every soul in it,
from the general down, wished them a heart-felt "God speed."




CHAPTER XXXIX

THE BRAVEST GIRL IN FLORIDA


During the month that followed Nita's departure there was in Fort
Brooke but one all-absorbing topic of conversation and speculation.
Would the brave girl succeed in saving the life of her lover? or
must he die like a dog, without ever again treading the soil of his
native land? Except for being kept a prisoner, the young war-chief was
treated with distinguished consideration, and every want that he made
known was gratified, so far as was consistent with safety. At the same
time, he was still manacled, and his irons, together with those of his
comrades, were carefully examined by a blacksmith, under supervision
of an officer, every morning and evening. The guard on the transport
was doubled, and at night a chain of sentinels was posted along such
portions of the shore as lay adjacent to the ship. No boats were
allowed to approach or leave the floating prison between sunset and
sunrise, and no other precaution that human ingenuity could devise for
the safe-keeping of the captives was neglected.

Ralph Boyd, often accompanied by some officer from the post, made
daily visits to cheer Coacoochee with his belief that all was going
well, and to carry him the very latest news. On the occasion of his
first visit he took Anstice, who claimed the privilege of telling the
young chief what his sweetheart had undertaken in his behalf. As the
stern warrior listened to the simple recital, his face became very
tender, and a tear, hastily brushed away, glistened for an instant on
his cheek. Then he said: "Now do I know that all will go well," and
from that moment he was cheerfully confident of the final result.

No word was received from the messengers for a week, at the end of
which time one of them returned, bringing with him ten warriors and
a number of women and children. The messenger reported that, but for
Nita, their mission, so far at least as this particular band was
concerned, would have been fruitless. Upon their approach, the warriors
had sternly ordered them away, covering them with their rifles, and
threatening to shoot if they dared speak of peace. Upon that, Nita, who
had until then remained in the background, boldly advanced to the very
muzzles of the brown rifles, resolutely pushed them aside, and then
pleaded so effectively with the warriors who held them that, ere she
finished, their hearts were softened, and they announced themselves as
not only ready to surrender, but willing to follow their young chief
wherever he might lead them.

Coacoochee had given General Worth a bundle of small sticks which, by
their number, represented the entire strength of his band. Upon the
arrival at the fort of these forerunners, the general counted them, and
returned to Coacoochee an equal number of his sticks. From day to day
after this, other small parties of Coacoochee's followers straggled
in, and for every new arrival a stick was sent to the young chief,
who gloated over his increasing pile as a miser over his hoard, or a
politician over the incoming votes that promise to save him from defeat.

In the meantime Nita, with an incredible exhibition of endurance, was
scouring the distant country lying about the headwaters of the St.
John's and Kissimmee. Here in little groups, the widely scattered
members of Coacoochee's once numerous and formidable band had sought
refuge amid the vast swamps and overflowed lands, which constitute that
portion of Florida. Here, from swamp to swamp, from one tiny wooded
island to another, or from hammock to hammock, the dauntless girl
followed them. Sometimes she was accompanied by a small escort; but
more often she was alone. There were days on which she had food, but
many others on which she went hungry. The howl of the wolf became her
familiar lullaby, while the scaly alligator and venomous water-moccasin
regarded her invasion of their haunts with angry eyes. She travelled
on horseback, by canoe, and on foot, scorched by noontide suns, and
drenched by heavy night-dews that fell like rain, but always the image
of Coacoochee was in her heart, as she bore his _talk_ from band to
band of his scattered followers.

As fast as they could be persuaded to go, she sent them to the far-away
fort by the salt waters of the west, and bade them hasten or they would
be too late. She, too, knew the number of Coacoochee's warriors, and
kept a close count of those who had gone, as well as of those who still
remained to be persuaded. With jealous care she noted the passage of
each day, and murmured that they should fly the more swiftly as the
fatal date drew near.

At length the last hiding-place was found, and the last sullen group
of eight warriors, with their women and children, was persuaded to go
in with her who was beloved of their young chief. By hard riding they
could reach the fort on the twenty-ninth day, leaving but one to spare
for safety. The brave girl, who had borne up so wonderfully during this
month of suspense, was filled with joy at the success of her mission.
At the same time, she was so utterly wearied that she often slept, even
as she rode, and but for the quick support of willing hands, would have
fallen from her saddle. But she would not pause. There would be plenty
of time for resting afterwards. Now, they must push on.

On the evening of the last day but one of the month, the fort was only
a score of miles away. They would keep on and reach it that night. So
said Nita Pacheco. But there were enemies on whom she had not counted.
Halec Tustenugge, with the fourteen Miccosouky warriors who had escaped
with him from their ravaged village, roamed that part of the country
and infested that particular road like ravening beasts. They had sworn
never to surrender themselves, nor allow others to do so if they could
prevent them. Now they confronted the little party from the eastern
swamps, and bade them turn back or suffer the consequences.

There was a moment of hesitation and consultation. Then Nita Pacheco
sprang to the front.

"Are the warriors trained by Coacoochee to be told what they shall do,
and what they shall not do, by a pack of Miccosouky dogs?" she cried.
"No! It cannot be! Let them get out of our way, or we will trample them
in the dust! Yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!"

As this war-cry of the Wildcat rang out on the evening air, and Nita's
horse sprang from under the stinging lash, in the direction of those
who blocked the road, the warriors of Coacoochee, echoing madly the
cry of their leader, plied whip and spur in an effort to charge by her
side. The Miccosoukies, though numbering nearly two to one, were on
foot, while Nita's followers were mounted. The former fired one point
blank volley, and then fled precipitately from before the on-rushing
horses.

The battle had been fought and won, and the enemy dispersed in less
than a single minute; but it was the victors who suffered the heaviest
loss. One warrior killed outright, two more wounded, one horse so
severely wounded that he had to be killed; and, what no one noticed at
first, not even Nita herself, a stream of blood spurting from an arm of
the girl who had led the charge.

So delayed was the little party by this fierce interruption, that the
sun had climbed high above the eastern horizon, on the last day of the
thirty allotted to Coacoochee, ere the last of his followers, travel
worn, staggering from wounds and weariness, but filled with pride at
the feat they had just accomplished, and fully conscious of their own
importance, filed slowly into Fort Brooke.

For days their coming had been eagerly awaited. For hours they had been
watched for with feverish anxiety. Now the tale of sticks in General
Worth's possession was complete, for Nita had insisted upon the living
warriors bringing in him who was dead, that he might be counted with
them.

The soldiers of the garrison uttered cheer upon cheer at sight of these
last comers. The friends who had preceded them thronged about them with
eager questions and congratulations; and the news that Coacoochee was
saved, repeated from lip to lip, spread like wildfire throughout the
post.

Ralph and Anstice Boyd, seated at a late breakfast, heard the glad
shouting, and ran to the porch of their cottage to discover its cause.
They were just in time to greet Nita as she rode up, and to catch her
as she slipped wearily from her saddle.

Her clothing was torn and stained, and her unbound hair streamed wildly
about her head. Her eyes were bright and shining, but her cheeks were
hollow, and glowed with spots of dull red. Coacoochee's silken kerchief
that had confined her hair, was now bound tightly about her arm, and
its whiteness was changed to the crimson of blood.

"He still lives? I am in time?" she whispered huskily as Anstice met
her with a mingled cry of joy and terror.

"Yes, you dear, splendid, brave girl. He still lives, and you are in
plenty of time. But, oh Nita! if you have killed yourself, what will it
all amount to? Ralph, you must carry her in. She isn't able to walk."

Very tenderly they bore her into the house, and laid her on the tiny
bed in her own room. Then Boyd hastened to find the surgeon, while
Anstice bathed the girl's face with cool water, and talked lovingly to
her. Ere an hour was past, the deadly fever of the swamps, that she had
defied so long and so bravely, held her in its fierce clutches, and the
girl, who by her own exertions had brought the war to a close, lay with
staring eyes, but unconscious of her surroundings.

To Irwin Douglass was assigned the congenial task of notifying
Coacoochee that he was free, and bringing him ashore. He hastened
to execute it, and, on reaching the ship, at once ordered the hated
irons to be struck from the limbs of the captive leader. As they fell
clanging to the deck, the whole appearance of the young chief changed.
He again lifted his head proudly, his form expanded, and he paced the
deck with the stride of a free man.

His first query was for Nita, and when told of her triumphant return,
leading the last remnant of his band, he smiled proudly, and said
that she was indeed fitted to be the wife of a warrior. At that time
Douglass did not know of the girl's wound, nor of the illness that was
even then developing its true character. Consequently, Coacoochee was
allowed to go ashore filled with happy anticipations of meeting her
whom he loved and to whom he owed so much.

He arrayed himself in a striking costume for the occasion, and one
that well became his rank. From his turban drooped three black ostrich
plumes. His frock was of scarlet and yellow, exquisitely made. Across
his breast glittered many medals. In his silken sash was thrust the
silver-hilted hunting-knife, by aid of which he had escaped from the
fortress prison of St. Augustine. His leggings were of scarlet cloth,
elaborately fringed, and on his feet he wore beaded moccasins.

A great throng of people, including every Indian at the post, was
assembled to greet him; and as the boat neared land, these raised
a mighty shout of welcome. As he leaped ashore and trod again his
native sands, the throng drew back. Then with outstretched arms, and
his form extended to its fullest height, Coacoochee gave utterance to
the ringing war-cry that had so often carried dismay to his foes, and
thrilled his warriors to desperate deeds.

"Yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee yo-ho-ee!"

It was answered by a sound of hearty cheers from the assembled troops.
Then the throng parted to make way for him, and up the living lane the
young war-chief walked proudly to headquarters, where he exchanged
greetings with General Worth as one with whom he was in every respect
an equal. This formality concluded, he turned to the crowd of Indians
who had followed him, and addressed them briefly, but in ringing tones:

"Warriors: Coacoochee stands before you a free man. He sent for you,
and you have come. By that coming you have saved his life, and for it,
he thanks you. The Great Spirit has spoken in our councils, and said:
'Let there be no more war between my children.' The hatchet is buried
so that there may be friendship between the Iste-chatte and his white
brother. I have given my word for you that you will not try to escape.
For that I am free. See to it that the word of Coacoochee is kept
strong and true. I have spoken. By our council fire I will say more.
Now, away to your camp."

As the throng melted away in obedience to this command, Coacoochee
turned to Lieutenant Douglass, and asked to be taken to Nita.

At the cottage in which she lay, he was met by the Boyds, from whom he
learned what she had undergone on his behalf; of her wound incurred in
fighting his battle, and of her present dangerous illness. He insisted
on seeing her; and, on being led to where she lay tossing and moaning
in the delirium of fever, the proud warrior knelt by her side, and,
hiding his face, wept like a little child.




CHAPTER XL

A DOUBLE WEDDING AND THE SETTING SUN


For days Nita Pacheco hovered between life and death. During this time,
almost hourly bulletins of her condition were demanded, not only from
the Indian encampment, but from the garrison, every man of which had
been won to admiration of the gentle girl by her recent heroism. As for
Coacoochee, he was as one who is bereft of reason. He would sit for
hours on the porch of the Boyd cottage, heedless of any who might speak
to him, motionless and unconscious of his surroundings. Then he would
spring on his waiting horse and dash away to scour madly through miles
of forest, before his return, which was generally made late at night or
with the dawning of a new day. When food was offered him, he took it
and ate mechanically; when it was withheld, he seemed unconscious of
hunger.

The mental condition of the young chief so alarmed his friends that,
one morning when he returned from a night spent in the forest, in
a cheerful frame of mind, gentle and perfectly rational, they were
greatly relieved, and welcomed him as one who had come back from a long
journey.

"Take me to her," he said. "She is watching for me. From this moment
she will get well. I have seen Allala, and she has said it."

They had not noted any sign of a change for the better in the sick
girl, and so it was with misgivings as to the result that they complied
with his request.

Nita lay as they had left her; but, upon the entrance of her lover into
the room, her eyes unclosed. She smiled at him, and feebly held his
hand for a single moment. From that hour her improvement was steady and
rapid, and from that time forth Coacoochee was again the leader of his
people, the firm ally of the whites, and unwearying in his efforts to
persuade those of the Seminoles who still remained out, to come in and
submit to removal.

During the two following months he spent his time as Nita had done, in
visiting distant bands of Indians and explaining to them the folly of a
further resistance. He possessed two great advantages over all others
who had labored in the same direction. He had fought by their side, no
one more bravely, and they trusted him. He had also crossed the salt
waters and returned again in safety, so that, of his own experience,
he could refute the assertion made by their prophet, that every Indian
taken to sea by the whites was thrown overboard and drowned.

In this service the young chief often found himself in desperate
situations, and he made frequent hair-breadth escapes from death at
the hands of those Indians who were either jealous of his power or
distrustful for his honesty of purpose. In spite of discouragements and
dangers, he persisted, and as the result of his convincing talks beside
the red council fires of many a wild swamp retreat, band after band
under well-known leaders and renowned fighters came into Fort Brooke,
until only a scanty remnant still defied pursuit amid the impenetrable
labyrinths of the Big Cypress.

The Indian encampment at Tampa occupied a space two miles square,
and the task of guarding this large area was so great that, early in
October, General Worth concluded to embark those already collected
before they should become dissatisfied or rebellious and without
waiting for more to come in. Accordingly the transports were made ready
and the day for departure was fixed.

Now ensued most active preparations. For three days and nights the
monotonous sound of the great wooden pestles cracking corn for the
journey was heard from all parts of the camp. Vast quantities of fat
pine knots were collected by the women, for they had heard that the
country in which they were to live was destitute of wood. The entire
area of the camp was illuminated at night by huge fires, so that there
might be no cessation of the work.

The crowning event of all, or, as the general termed it, "the peace
contract that ended the Seminole War," was the double wedding that
took place in the open air, under the great live-oaks in front of
headquarters, on the evening before the day of sailing. The scene was
as remarkable as it was picturesque. On one side were gathered the
hundreds of forest dwellers who acknowledged one of the bridegrooms as
their leader. Among these were proud chiefs, conspicuous in feathers
and gaudy finery, stern warriors who had never known defeat in battle,
plump matrons wearing many rows of beads and silver ornaments, slender
maidens, and chubby children.

On the other side were ranks of troops as motionless as though on
parade, and groups of officers in glittering uniforms. A superb
military band rendered its choicest selections of music, and the simple
ceremony was performed by the post chaplain.

Nita, fully recovered from her illness, and having emerged from it more
lovely than ever, like gold that is purified by fire, was clad in the
fawnskin dress of a forest maid, though about her neck lay a chain of
great pearls, presented by the commander and his officers in token of
their devoted admiration of her who had ended the war.

Beside her stood the young war-chief who had fought so bravely, and
accepted defeat so manfully, and with whose fate hers had been so
closely entwined during all the long years of fighting.

These two were married first, and after them came the beautiful English
girl, whose heart had passed into keeping of the dashing American
trooper, standing so proudly beside her.

Ralph Boyd, after giving away both brides, declared that he could now
appreciate the feelings of a parent bereft of his children.

The moment the double ceremony was concluded, the band played its most
brilliant march, the troops raised a mighty cheer, there came a salvo
of artillery from a light battery stationed on the parade-ground, and
the assembled Indians gazed on the whole affair with curious interest.
All that evening there was music and feasting and dancing; but on the
morrow came the sorrowful partings, and, for hundreds of those about to
become exiles forever, the heart-breaking departure from their native
land.

As Coacoochee and Nita stood together on the after-deck of the steamer
that was bearing them down the bay, straining their eyes for a last
glimpse of the stately pines that they loved so dearly, she murmured in
his ear:

"Without your brave presence, my warrior, I could not bear it." And he
answered: "Without you, Ista-chee, I would never have come."

Across the blue Mexican Gulf they steamed, and for one hundred miles up
the tawny flood of the great river to New Orleans. There the followers
of Coacoochee were so impressed by the numbers and evident strength of
the white man, that they were filled with pride at having successfully
resisted his soldiers so long as they had.

At New Orleans the exiles were transferred to one of the great river
packets, that, with its glowing furnaces, and the hoarse coughing of
its high-pressure exhaust, seemed to them by far the most wonderful
creation of the all-powerful Iste-hatke.

Being embarked in this mighty Pith-lo-loot-ka (boat of fire), no stop
was made until they came within a few miles of Baton Rouge, where,
by special request of Coacoochee, the packet was swung in toward the
eastern bank. Guided by one familiar with that country, the entire body
of Indians followed Coacoochee to the land. He bore a great basket,
very heavy, and covered with palmetto leaves. None save himself knew
what it contained.

A few rods from the shore the guide halted, and pointed to a lowly
mound that was evidently a grave. Standing silently beside this, and
waiting until all his people were gathered about him, the young chief
said, with a voice that trembled, but so clearly that all might hear:

"Under this grass lies a great chief of the Seminole nation; one whom
you knew and loved. He was an old man when the soldiers tore him from
his home. His heart broke with its weight of sorrow, and he died on
his way to that new land to which we are now going. He lies cold in
this strange earth; but I have brought that which will warm him. With
this soil from the land of his fathers, I now cover the grave of Philip
Emathla." Thus saying, Coacoochee emptied the contents of his basket
over the mound at his feet.

At mention of Philip Emathla's name, a great cry of grief and loving
reverence went up from the dusky throng, and they pressed tumultuously
forward. They struggled to see, to feel, and even to taste the earth
that now covered his grave. It was only coarse gray sand; but it was
sand from Florida, from the dear land they would never more see.
Through the magic of its shining particles they could hear again the
whispering pines, the rustling palms, and the singing birds of Florida.
They could see its shadowy woodlands and white beaches. Its myriad
lakes and tortuous waterways lay outspread before them. The fragrance
of its jasmine and palmetto was wafted to them. Its glinting clouds
of white-winged ibis circled before their eyes. The countless details
mirrored indelibly on their hearts rose before them in all their
alluring beauty. The warriors stood stern and silent; but the women
tore their hair, with piteous cries.

After a while Coacoochee succeeded in restoring quiet, and, with many
a backward, lingering glance at the lonely grave of Philip Emathla,
the company was re-embarked, and the steamer continued on its way up
the mighty river. Turning from it into the Arkansas, they continued
up the muddy volume of that great tributary, across the whole State
to which it gives a name, and on into that territory that the United
States Government had recently set apart for the occupation of its
Indian wards. Here, at Fort Gibson, the journey by water ended, though
they had still to traverse the country of their old-time neighbors and
enemies, the Creeks, ere they could reach the narrow tract reserved for
them, in which they were to make their new homes.

At Fort Gibson a joyful surprise awaited Nita and Coacoochee; for Louis
Pacheco, long since established in the west, and previously notified
of their coming, had travelled that far to meet them. For them he had
brought saddle-horses, while for the others a long train of wagons had
been provided.

It was late on the day after their arrival before all was in readiness
for the last stage of their journey; but they were now so anxious
to press forward that Coacoochee gave the order for a start. Then,
vaulting into his own saddle, and with Nita and Louis riding beside
him, the young war-chief dashed away in the direction of the setting
sun. As they gained a crest of the rolling prairie, he waved his rifle
toward the infinite glories of the western sky, and, turning his face
to those who followed him, thrilled their hearts with the ringing
war-cry that had so often led the Seminole to victory:

"Yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!"







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