Kitabı oku: «Osceola the Seminole: or, The Red Fawn of the Flower Land», sayfa 16
Chapter Forty
“Fighting Gallagher.”
The prisoner was confined in a strong, windowless blockhouse. Access to him would be easy enough, especially to those who wore epaulets. It was my design to visit him; but, for certain reasons, I forbore putting it in execution, so long as daylight lasted. I was desirous that my interview should be as private as possible and therefore waited for the night.
I was influenced by other reasons; my hands were full of business; I had not yet done with Arens Ringgold.
I had a difficulty in deciding how to act. My mind was a chaos of emotions; hatred for the conspirators – indignation at the unjust behaviour of the agent towards Osceola – love for Maümee – now fond and trusting – anon doubting and jealous. Amid such confusion, how could I think with clearness?
Withal, one of these emotions had precedence – anger against the villain who intended to take my life was at that moment the strongest passion in my breast.
Hostility so heartless, so causeless, so deadly, had not failed to imbue me with a keen desire for vengeance; and I resolved to punish my enemy at all hazards.
He only, whose life has been aimed at by an assassin, can understand the deadly antipathy I felt towards Arens Ringgold. An open enemy, who acts under the impulse of anger, jealousy, or fancied wrong, you may respect. Even the two white wretches, and the yellow runaway, I regarded only with contempt, as tools pliant for any purpose; but the arch-conspirator himself I now both hated and despised. So acute was my sense of injury, that I could not permit it to pass without some act of retaliation, some effort to punish my wronger.
But how? Therein lay the uncertainty! How? A duel?
I could think of no other way. The criminal was still inside the law. I could not reach him, otherwise than by my own arm.
I well weighed the words of my sable counsellor; but the faithful fellow had spoken in vain, and I resolved to act contrary to his advice, let the hazard fall as it might. I made up my mind to the challenge.
One consideration still caused me to hesitate: I must give Ringgold my reasons.
He should have been welcome to them as a dying souvenir; but if I succeeded in only half-killing him, or he in half-killing me, how about the future? I should be showing my hand to him, by which he would profit; whereas, unknown to him, I now knew his, and might easily foil his designs.
Such calculations ran rapidly through my mind, though I considered them with a coolness that in after-thought surprises me. The incidents that I had lately encountered – combined with angry hatred of this plausible villain – had made me fierce, cold and cruel. I was no longer myself; and, wicked as it may appear, I could not control my longings for vengeance.
I needed a friend to advise me. Who could I make the confidant of my terrible secret?
Surely my ears were not deceiving me? No; it was the voice of my old school-fellow, Charley Gallagher. I heard it outside, and recognised the ring of his merry laugh. A detachment of rifles had just entered the fort with Charley at their head. In another instant we had “embraced.”
What could have been more opportune? Charley had been my “chum” at college – my bosom companion. He deserved my confidence, and almost upon the instant, I made known to him the situation of affairs.
It required much explanation to remove his incredulity; he was disposed to treat the whole thing as a joke – that is, the conspiracy against my life. But the rifle shot was real, and Black Jake was by to confirm my account of it: so that my friend was at length induced to take a serious view of the matter.
“Bad luck to me!” said he, in Irish accent: “it’s the quarest case that ever came accrast your humble frind’s experience. Mother o’ Moses! the fellow must be the divil incarnate. Geordie, my boy, have ye looked under his instip?”
Despite the name and “brogue,” Charley was not a Hibernian – only the son of one. He was a New-Yorker by birth, and could speak good English when he pleased; but from some freak of eccentricity or affectation, he had taken to the brogue, and used it habitually, when among friends, with all the rich garniture of a true Milesian, fresh from the “sod.”
He was altogether an odd fellow, but with a soul of honour, and a heart true as steel. He was no dunce either, and the man above all others upon whose coat tail it would not have been safe to “trid.” He was already notorious for having been engaged in two or three “affairs,” in which he had played both principal and second, and had earned the bellicose appellation of “Fighting Gallagher.” I knew what his advice would be before asking it – “Call the schoundrel out by all manes.”
I stated the difficulty as to my reasons for challenging Ringgold.
“Thrue, ma bohill! You’re right there; but there need be no throuble about the matther.”
“How?”
“Make the spalpeen challenge you. That’s betther – besides, it gives you the choice of waypons.”
“In what way can I do this?”
“Och! my innocent gossoon! Shure that’s as asy as tumblin’ from a haycock. Call him a liar; an’ if that’s not sufficiently disagraable, twake his nose, or squirt your tobacco in his ugly countenance. That’ll fetch him out, I’ll be bail for ye.
“Come along, my boy!” continued my ready counsellor, moving towards the door. “Where is this Mister Ringgowld to be sarched for? Find me the gint, and I’ll shew you how to scratch his buttons. Come along wid ye!”
Not much liking the plan of procedure, but without the moral strength to resist, I followed this impetuous son of a Celt through the doorway.
Chapter Forty One
Provoking a Duel
We were scarcely outside before we saw him for whom we were searching. He was standing at a short distance from the porch, conversing with a group of officers, among whom was the dandy already alluded to, and who passed under the appropriate appellation of “Beau Scott.” The latter was aide-de-camp to the commander-in-chief, of whom he was also a relative.
I pointed Ringgold out to my companion.
“He in the civilian dress,” I said.
“Och! man, ye needn’t be so purticular in your idintification. That sarpint-look spakes for itself. Be my sowl! it’s an unwholesome look altogither. That fellow needn’t fear wather – the say’ll niver drown him. Now, look here, Geordy, boy,” continued Gallagher, facing towards me and speaking in a more earnest tone: “Follow my advice to the letther! First trid upon his toes, an’ see how he takes it. The fellow’s got corns; don’t ye see, he wears a tight boot? Give him a good scrouge; make him sing out. Ov course, he’ll ask you to apologise – he must – you won’t. Shurely that’ll do the bizness without farther ceremony? If it don’t, then, by Jabus! hit him a kick in the latter end.”
“No, Gallagher,” said I, disliking the programme, “it will never do.”
“Bad luck to it, an’ why not? You’re not going to back out, are ye? Think man! a villain who would murdher you! an’ maybe will some day, if you let him escape.”
“True – but – ”
“Bah! no buts. Move up, an’ let’s see what they’re talking about, anyhow. I’ll find ye a chance, or my name’s not Gallagher.”
Undetermined how to act, I walked after my companion, and joined the group of officers.
Of course, I had no thoughts of following Gallagher’s advice. I was in hopes that some turn in the conversation might give me the opportunity I desired, without proceeding to such rude extremes.
My hopes did not deceive me. Arens Ringgold seemed to tempt his fate, for I had scarcely entered among the crowd, before I found cause sufficient for my purpose.
“Talking of Indian beauties,” said he, “no one has been so successful among them as Scott here. He has been playing Don Giovanni ever since he came to the fort.”
“Oh,” exclaimed one of the newly arrived officers, “that does not surprise us. He has been a lady-killer ever since I knew him. The man who is irresistible among the belles of Saratoga, will surely find little difficulty in carrying the heart of an Indian maiden.”
“Don’t be so confident about that, Captain Roberts. Sometimes these forest damsels are very shy of us pale-faced lovers. Lieutenant Scott’s present sweetheart cost him a long siege before he could conquer her. Is it not so, lieutenant?”
“Nonsense,” replied the dandy with a conceited smirk.
“But she yielded at last?” said Roberts, turning interrogatively towards Scott.
The dandy made no reply, but his simpering smile was evidently intended to be taken in the affirmative.
“Oh yes,” rejoined Ringgold, “she yielded at last: and is now the ‘favourite,’ it is said.”
“Her name – her name?”
“Powell – Miss Powell.”
“What! That name is not Indian?”
“No, gentlemen; the lady is no savage, I assure you; she can play and sing, and read and write too – such pretty billets-doux. Is it not so, lieutenant?”
Before the latter could make reply, another spoke:
“Is not that the name of the young chief who has just been arrested?”
“True,” answered Ringgold; “it is the fellow’s name. I had forgotten to say that she is his sister.”
“What! the sister of Osceola?”
“Neither more nor less – half-blood like him too. Among the whites they are known by the name of Powell, since that was the cognomen of the worthy old gentleman who begot them. Osceola, which signifies ‘the Rising Sun,’ is the name by which he is known among the Seminoles; and her native appellation – ah, that is a very pretty name indeed.”
“What is it? Let us hear it; let us judge for ourselves.”
“Maümee.”
“Very pretty indeed!”
“Beautiful! If the damsel be only as sweet as her name, then Scott is a fortunate fellow.”
“Oh, she is a very wonder of beauty; eyes liquid and full of fiery love – long lashes: lips luscious as honeycombs; figure tall; bust full and firm; limbs like those of the Cyprian goddess; feet like Cinderella’s – in short, perfection.”
“Wonderful. Why, Scott, you are the luckiest mortal alive. But say, Ringgold! are you speaking in seriousness. Has he really conquered this Indian divinity? Honour bright —has he succeeded? You understand what I mean?”
“Most certainly,” was the prompt reply.
Up to this moment I had not interfered. The first words of the conversation had bound me like a spell, and I stood as if glued to the ground. My brain was giddy, and my heart felt as if the blood passing through it was molten lead. The bold enunciations had so staggered me, that it was some time before I could draw my breath; and more than one of the bystanders noticed the effect which the dialogue was producing on me.
After a little, I grew calmer, or rather more resolute. The very despair that had passed into my bosom had the effect of steeling my nerves; and just as Ringgold uttered the flippant affirmative, I was ready for him.
“Liar!” I exclaimed; and before the red could mount into his cheek, I gave it a slap with the back of my hand, that no doubt helped to heighten the colour.
“Nately done!” cried Gallagher; “there can be no mistake about the maynin of that.”
Nor was there. My antagonist accepted the act for what it was meant – a deadly insult. In such company, he could not do otherwise; and, muttering some indistinct threats, he walked away from the ground, attended by his especial friend, the lady-killer, and two or three others.
The incident, instead of gathering a crowd, had the contrary effect; it scattered the little group who had witnessed it; the officers retiring in-doors to discuss the motives, and speculate as as to when and where “the affair would come off.”
Gallagher and I also left the ground; and, closeted in my quarters, commenced preparing for the event.
Chapter Forty Two
The Challenge
At the time of which I write duelling was not uncommon in the United States army. In war-time, it is not uncommon yet, as I can testify from late experience. It is contrary to the regulations of the American service – as I believe it is of every other in the civilised world. Notwithstanding, an infringement of the code militaire in this regard, is usually looked upon with leniency – more often “winked at” than punished. This much I can affirm – that any officer in the American army who has received the “lie direct,” will find more honour in the breach of this military rule than in its observance.
After all that has been said and written about duelling, the outcry against it is a sad sham, at least in the United States of America – nothing less than a piece of superb hypocrisy. Universal as has been this condemnation, I should not like to take shelter under it. I well know that it would not protect me from being called by that ugly appellation, “poltroon.” I have noticed over and over again, that the newspapers loudest in their declamations against duelling, are the first to fling “coward” in the teeth of him who refuses to fight.
It is even so. In America, moral courage, though much be-praised, does not find ready credence. A refusal to meet the man who may challenge you is not thus explained. It is called “backing out,” “shewing the white feather;” and he who does this, need look no more upon his ladye-love; she would “flog him with her garters.”
More than once have I heard this threat, spoken by pretty lips, and in the centre of a brilliant circle. His moral courage must be great who would provoke such chastisement. With such a sentiment over the land, then, I had nailed Arens Ringgold for a meeting; and I joyed to think I had done so without compromising my secret.
But ah! it was a painful provocation he had given me; and if he had been the greatest coward in the world, he could not have been more wretched than I, as I returned to my quarters.
My jovial companion could no longer cheer me, though it was not fear for the coming fight that clouded my spirits. Far from it – far otherwise. I scarcely thought of that. My thoughts were of Maümee – of what I had just heard. She was false – false – betraying, herself betrayed – lost – lost forever!
In truth was I wretched. One thing alone could have rendered me more so – an obstacle to the anticipated meeting – anything to hinder my revenge. On the duel now rested my hopes. It might enable me to disembarrass my heart of the hot blood that was burning it. Not all – unless he too stood before me – he, the seducer who had made this misery. Would I could find pretext for challenging him. I should do so yet. Why had I not? Why did I not strike him for that smile? I could have fought them both at the same time, one after the other.
Thus I raved, with Gallagher by my side. My friend knew not all my secret. He asked what I had got “aginst the aide-de-cong.”
“Say the word, Geordie, boy, an’ we’ll make a four-handed game ov it. Be Saint Pathrick! I’d like mightily to take the shine out of that purty paycock!”
“No, Gallagher, no. It’s not your affair; you could not give me satisfaction for that. Let us wait till we know more. I cannot believe it – I cannot believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“Not now, my friend. When it is over I shall explain.”
“All right, my boy! Charley Gallagher’s not the man to disturb your saycrets. Now let’s look to the bull-dogs, an’ make shure they’re in barking condition. I hope the scamps won’t blab at head-quarters, an’ disappoint us after all.”
It was my only fear. I knew that arrest was possible – probable – certain, if my adversary wished it. Arrest would put an end to the affair; and I should be left in a worse position than ever. Ringgold’s father was gone – I had ascertained this favourable circumstance; but no matter. The commander-in-chief was the friend of the family – a word in his ear would be sufficient. I feared that the aide-de-camp Scott, instructed by Arens, might whisper that word.
“After all, he daren’t,” said Gallagher; “you driv the nail home, an’ clinched it. He daren’t do the dhirty thing – not a bit of it; it might get wind, an’ thin he’d have the kettle to his tail; besides, ma bohill, he wants to kill you anyhow; so he ought to be glad of the fine handy chance you’ve given him. He’s not a bad shot, they say. Never fear, Geordie, boy! he won’t back out this time; he must fight – he will fight. Ha! I told you so. See, yonder comes Apollo Belvidare! Holy Moses! how Phoebus shines!”
A knock – “Come in,” – the door was opened, and the aide-de-camp appeared in full uniform.
“To arrest me,” thought I, and my heart fell.
But no; the freshly written note spoke a different purpose, and I was relieved. It was the challenge.
“Lieutenant Randolph, I believe,” said the gentleman, advancing towards me.
I pointed to Gallagher, but made no reply.
“I am to understand that Captain Gallagher is your friend.”
I nodded assent.
The two faced each other, and the next instant were en rapport; talking the matter over as cool as cucumbers and sweet as sugar-plums.
From observation, I hazard this remark – that the politeness exhibited between the seconds in a duel cannot be surpassed by that of the most accomplished courtiers in the world.
The time occupied in the business was brief. Gallagher well knew the routine, and I saw that the other was not entirely unacquainted with it. In five minutes, everything was arranged – place, weapons, and distance.
I nodded; Gallagher made a sweeping salaam; the aide-de-camp bowed stiffly and withdrew.
I shall not trouble you with my reflections previous to the duel, nor yet with many details of the affair itself. Accounts of these deadly encounters are common enough in books, and their sameness will serve as my excuse for not describing one.
Ours differed only from the ordinary kind in the weapon used. We fought with rifles, instead of swords or pistols. It was my choice – as the challenged party, I had the right – but it was equally agreeable to my adversary, who was as well skilled in the use of the rifle as I. I chose this weapon because it was the deadliest.
The time arranged was an hour before sunset. I had urged this early meeting in fear of interruption; the place, a spot of level ground near the edge of the little pond where I had met Haj-Ewa; the distance, ten paces.
We met – took our places, back to back – waited for the ominous signal, “one, two, three,” – received it – faced rapidly round – and fired at each other.
I heard the “hist” of the leaden pellet as it passed my ear, but felt no stroke.
The smoke puffed upward. I saw my antagonist upon the ground: he was not dead; he was writhing and groaning.
The seconds, and several spectators who were present, ran up to him, but I kept my ground.
“Well, Gallagher?” I asked, as my friend came back to me.
“Winged, by japers! You’ve spoilt the use ov his dexter arm – bone broke above the ilbow-joint.”
“That all?”
“Arrah, sowl! aren’t it enough? Hear how the hound whimpers!”
I felt as the tiger is said to feel after tasting blood, though I cannot now account for my ferocity. The man had sought my life – I thirsted for his. This combined with the other thought had nigh driven me mad.
I was not satisfied, and would make no apology; but my antagonist had had enough; he was eager to be taken from the ground on any terms, and thus the affair ended.
It was my first duel, but not my last.
Chapter Forty Three
The Assignation
Our opponents passed silently away – the spectators along with them – leaving my second and myself upon the ground.
It was my intention to stay by the pond. I remembered the invitation of Haj-Ewa. By remaining, I should avoid the double journey. Better to await her coming.
A glance to the western horizon shewed me that the sun had already sunk below the tree-tops. The twilight would be short. The young moon was already in the heavens. It might be only a few minutes before Haj-Ewa should come. I resolved to stay.
I desired not that Gallagher should be with me; and I expressed the wish to be left alone.
My companion was a little surprised and puzzled at the request; but he was too well bred not to yield instant compliance.
“Why, Geordie, boy!” said he, about to retire, “shurely there’s something the matther wid ye? It isn’t this thrifling spurt we’ve been engaged in? Didn’t it ind intirely to your satisfaction? Arrah, man! are ye sorry you didn’t kill him dead? Be my trath, you look as milancholic and down-hearted as if he had killed you!”
“Dear friend, leave me alone. On my return to quarters, you shall know the cause of my melancholy, and why I now desire to part from your pleasant company.”
“Oh, that part I can guess,” rejoined he with a significant laugh; “always a petticoat where there’s shots exchanged. Niver mind, my boy, no saycrets for Charley Gallagher; I’m bad at keepin’ them. Ov coorse, you’re going to meet betther company than mine; but laste you might fall in with worse – an’ by my sowl! from what ye’ve towld me, that same isn’t beyond the bounds of probability – take this little cheeper. I’m a great dog-braker, you know.” Here the speaker handed me a silver call, which he had plucked from his button. “If any thing inconvenient or disagraable should turn up, put that between your lips, an’ Charley Gallagher will be at your side in the mention of Jack Robison’s name. Cupid spade ye with your lady-love. I’ll go an’ kill time over a tumbler ov nagus till ye come.”
So saying, my warm-hearted friend left me to myself.
I ceased to think of him ere he was gone out of sight – even the bloody strife, in which I had been so recently engaged, glided out of my mind. Maümee – her falsehood and her fall – alone occupied my thoughts.
For a long while, I made no doubt of what I had heard. How could I, with proofs so circumstantial? – the testimony of those cognisant of the scandal – of the chief actor in it, whose silent smile spoke stronger than words. That smile of insolent triumph – why had I permitted it to pass without challenge, without rebuke? It was not too late – I should call upon him to speak plainly and point blank – yes or no. If yes, then for a second duel more deadly than the first.
Notwithstanding these resolves to make my rival declare himself, I doubted not the damning truth; I endeavoured to resign myself to its torture.
For a long while was my soul upon the rack – more than an hour. Then, as my blood grew more cool, reflections of a calmer nature entered my mind; and at intervals, I experienced the soothing influence of hope; this especially when I recalled the words of Haj-Ewa, spoken on the preceding night. Surely the maniac had not been mocking me? Surely it was not a dream of her delirious brain? a distorted mirage of memory – the memory of some far-away, long-forgotten scene, by her only remembered? No, no; her tale was not distorted – her thoughts were not delirious – her words were not mockeries!
How sweet it was to think so!
Yes – I began to experience intervals of placid thought: more than placid – pleasant.
Alas! they were evanescent. The memory of those bold meretricious phrases, those smiling innuendoes, dissipated or darkened them, as cumuli darken the sun. “He had succeeded.” She was now his favourite. “Most certainly” – words worse than death. Withal it was a foul testimony on which to build a faith.
I longed for light, that true light – the evidence of the senses – that leaves nought uncertain. I should seek it with rash directness, reckless of the result, till it illumined her whole history, proving the past a disgrace, the future a chaos of utter despair. I longed for light; I longed for the coming of Haj-Ewa.
I knew not what the maniac wanted – something, I supposed, concerning the captive. Since noon, I had little thought of him. The mad queen went everywhere, knew every one; she must know all, understand all – ay, well understand; she, too, had been betrayed.
I repaired to our place of meeting on the preceding night; there I might expect her. I crossed the little ridge among the stems of the palmettoes; it was the direct route to the shadowy side of the tank. I descended the slope, and stood as before under the spreading arms of the live-oak.
Haj-Ewa was before me. A single moonbeam slanting athwart the leaves, shone upon her majestic figure. Under its light the two serpents glittered with a metallic lustre, as though her neck and waist were encircled with precious gems.
“Hinklas! pretty mico! you are come. Gallant mico! where was thine eye and thine arm that thou didst not kill the Iste-hulwa?” (Literally bad man – villain.)
“Ah! the hunter of the deer —
He was stricken so with fear
When he stood before the wolf,
The gaunt wicked wolf,
When he saw the snarling wolf,
He trembled so with fear,
That unharmed the fierce wolf ran away.
“Ha, ha, ha! was it not so, brave mico?”
“It was not fear that hindered me, Ewa. Besides, the wolf did not go unscathed.”
“Ho! the wolf has a wounded leg – he will lick himself well again; he will soon be strong as ever. Hulwak! you should have killed him, fair mico, ere he bring the pack upon you.”
“I could not help my ill luck. I am unfortunate every way.”
“Cooree, cooree– no. You shall be happy, young mico; you shall be happy, friend of the red Seminole. Wait till you see – ”
“See what?”
“Patience, chepawnee! To-night under this very tree, you will see what is fair – you will hear what is sweet – and perchance Haj-Ewa will be revenged.”
This last phrase was spoken with an earnest emphasis, and in a tone that shewed a strong feeling of resentment against some one unknown. I could not comprehend the nature of the expected vengeance.
“His son – yes,” continued the maniac, now in soliloquy, “it must be – it must: his eyes, his hair, his form, his gait, his name; his son and hers. Oh, Haj-Ewa will have revenge.”
Was I myself the object of this menace? Such a thought entered my mind.
“Good Ewa! of whom are you speaking?”
Roused by my voice, she looked upon me with a bewildered stare, and then broke out into her habitual chant:
“Why did I trust to a pale-faced lover?
Ho, ho, ho!” etc.
Suddenly stopping, she seemed once more to remember herself, and essayed a reply to my question.
“Whom, young mico? Of him the fair one – the wicked one – the Wykomé hulwa (the spirit of evil). See! he comes, he comes! Behold him in the water. Ho, ho! it is he. Up, young mico! up into thy leafy bower; stay till Ewa comes! Hear what you may hear – see what you may see; but, for your life, stir not till I give you the signal. Up, up, up!”
Just as on the preceding night, half lifting me into the live-oak, the maniac glided away amidst the shadows.
I lost no time in getting into my former position, where I sat silent and expecting.
The shadow had grown shorter, but there was still enough to shew me that it was the form of a man. In another moment, it vanished.
Scarcely an instant had elapsed, ere a second was flung upon the water, advancing over the ridge, and as if following the track of the former one, though the two persons did not appear to be in company.
That which followed I could trace in full outline. It was the figure of a woman, one whose upright bearing and free port proved her to be young.
Even the shadow exhibited a certain symmetry of form and gracefulness of motion, incompatible with age. Was it still Haj-Ewa? Had she gone round through the thicket, and was now following the footsteps of the man?
For a moment I fancied so; but I soon perceived that my fancy was astray.
The man advanced under the tree. The same moonbeam, that but a moment before had shone upon Haj-Ewa, now fell upon him, and I saw him with sufficient distinctness; he was the aide-de-camp.
He stopped, took out his watch, held it up to the light, and appeared to be inquiring the hour.
But I heeded him no further. Another face appeared under that silvery ray – false and shining as itself: it was the face that to me seemed the loveliest in the world – the face of Maümee.
