Kitabı oku: «Osceola the Seminole: or, The Red Fawn of the Flower Land», sayfa 21

Chapter Fifty Six
Mysterious Changes

Not many days had elapsed before I observed a sudden change in the conduct of Gallagher; not towards myself or my mother, but in his manner towards Virginia.

It was the day after I had held the conversation with her, that I first noticed this. I noticed at the same time that her manner towards him was equally altered.

The somewhat frosty politeness that had hitherto been observed between them, appeared to have suddenly thawed, and their old genial friendship to become reestablished on its former footing.

They now played, and sang, and laughed together, and read, and chattered nonsense, as they had been used to do in times past.

“Ah!” thought I, “it is easy for him to forget; he is but a friend, and, of course, cannot have the feelings of a brother. Little matters it to him what may be her secret relations, or with whom. What need he care about her improprieties? She is good company, and her winning way has beguiled him from dwelling upon that suspicion, which he must have entertained as well as myself. He has either forgotten, forgiven, or else found some explanation of her conduct that seems to satisfy him. At all events, I appear to have lost his sympathy, while she has regained his confidence and friendship.”

I was at first astonished at this new phase in the relations of our family circle – afterwards puzzled by it.

I was too proud and piqued to ask Gallagher for an explanation; and, as he did not volunteer to give one, I was compelled to abide in ignorance.

I perceived that my mother also regarded this altered behaviour with surprise, and also with a feeling of a somewhat different kind – suspicion.

I could guess the reason of this. She fancied that they were growing too fond of each other – that, notwithstanding he had no fortune but his pay-roll, Virginia might fancy the dashing soldier for a husband.

Of course my mother, having already formed designs as to the disposal of her daughter, could not calmly contemplate such a destiny as this. It was natural enough, then, she should look with a jealous eye upon the gay confidence that had been established between them.

I should have been glad if I could have shared my mother’s suspicions; happy if my sister had but fixed her affections there. My friend would have been welcome to call me brother. Fortuneless though he might be, I should have made no opposition to that alliance.

But it never entered my thoughts that there was aught between the two but the old rollicking friendship; and love acts not in that style. So far as Captain Gallagher was concerned, I could have given my mother assurance that would have quieted her fears.

And yet to a stranger they might have appeared as lovers – almost to any one except myself. They were together half the day and half the night: they rode together into the woods, and were sometimes absent for hours at a time. I perceived that my comrade began to care little for my company, and daily less. Stranger still, the chase no longer delighted him! As for duty, this he sadly neglected, and had not the “lieutenant” been on the ground, I fear the “corps” would have stood little chance of instruction.

As days passed on, I fancied that Gallagher began to relapse into a more sober method. He certainly seemed more thoughtful. This was when my sister was out of sight. It was not the air he had worn after our arrival – but very different.

It certainly resembled the bearing of a man in love. He would start on hearing my sister’s voice from without – his ear was quick to catch every word from her, and his eyes expressed delight whenever she came into the room. Once or twice, I saw him gazing at her with an expression upon his countenance that betokened more than friendship.

My old suspicions began to return to me. After all, he might be in love with Virginia?

Certainly, she was fair enough to impress the heart even of this adamantine soldier. Gallagher was no lady’s man – had never been known to seek conquests over the sex – in fact, felt some awkwardness in their company. My sister seemed the only one before whom he could converse with fluency or freedom.

Notwithstanding, and after all, he might be in love!

I should have been pleased to know it, could I only have insured him a reciprocity of his passion; but alas! that was not in my power.

I wondered whether she ever thought of him as a lover; but no – she could not – not if she was thinking of —

And yet her behaviour towards him was at times of such a character, that a stranger to her eccentricities would have fancied she loved him. Even I was mystified by her actions. She either had some feeling for him, beyond that of mere friendship, or made show of it. If he loved her, and she knew it, then her conduct was cruel in the extreme.

I indulged in such speculations, though, only when I could not restrain myself from dwelling upon them. They were unpleasant; at times, even painful.

I lived in a maze of doubt, puzzled and perplexed at what was passing around me; but at this time there turned up a new chapter in our family history, that, in point of mystery, eclipsed all others. A piece of information reached me, that, if true, must sweep all these new-sprung theories out my mind.

I learned that my sister was in love with Arens Ringgold– in other words, that she was “listening to his addresses!”

Chapter Fifty Seven
My Informant

This I had upon the authority of my faithful servant, Black Jake. Upon almost any other testimony, I should have been incredulous; but his was unimpeachable. Negro as he was, his perceptions were keen enough; while his earnestness proved that he believed what he said. He had reasons, and he gave them.

I received the strange intelligence in this wise:

I was seated by the bathing-pond, alone, busied with a book, when I heard Jake’s familiar voice pronouncing my name: “Massr George.”

“Well, Jake?” I responded, without withdrawing my eyes from the page.

“Ise wanted all da mornin to git you ’lone by yarself; Ise want to hab a leetle bit ob a convasayshun, Massr George.”

The solemn tone, so unusual in the voice of Jake, awoke my attention. Mechanically closing the book, I looked up in his face: it was solemn as his speech.

“A conversation with me, Jake?”

“Ye, massr – dat am if you isn’t ingage?”

“Oh, by no means, Jake. Go on: let me hear what you have to say.”

“Poor fellow!” thought I – “he has his sorrows too. Some complaint about Viola. The wicked coquette is torturing him with jealousy; but what can I do? I cannot make her love him – no. ‘One man may lead a horse to the water, but forty can’t make him drink.’ No; the little jade will act as she pleases in spite of any remonstrance on my part. Well, Jake?”

“Wa, Massr George, I doant meself like to intafere in tha ’fairs ob da family – daat I doant; but ye see, massr, things am a gwine all wrong – all wrong, by golly!”

“In what respect?”

“Ah, massr, dat young lady – dat young lady.”

Polite of Jake to call Viola a young lady.

“You think she is deceiving you?”

“More dan me, Massr George – more dan me.”

“What a wicked girl! But perhaps, Jake, you only fancy these things? Have you had any proofs of her being unfaithful? Is there any one in particular who is now paying her attentions?”

“Yes, massr; berry partickler – nebber so partickler before – nebber.”

“A white man?”

“Gorramighty, Massr George!” exclaimed Jake in a tone of surprise; “you do talk kewrious: ob coorse it am a white man. No odder dan a white man dar shew ’tention to tha young lady.”

I could not help smiling. Considering Jake’s own complexion, he appeared to hold very exalted views of the unapproachableness of his charmer by those of her own race. I had once heard him boast that he was the “only man ob colour dat could shine thar.” It was a white man, then, who was making his misery.

“Who is he, Jake?” I inquired.

“Ah, massr, he am dat ar villain debbil, Arens Ringgol!”

“What! Arens Ringgold? – he making love to Viola!”

“Viola! Gorramighty, Massr George!” exclaimed the black, staring till his eyes shewed only the whites – “Viola! Gorramighty, I nebber say Viola! – nebber!”

“Of whom, then, are you speaking?”

“O massr, did I not say da young lady? dat am tha young Missa – Missa Vaginny.”

“Oh! my sister you mean. Poh, poh! Jake. That is an old story. Arens Ringgold has been paying his addresses to my sister for many years; but with no chance of success. You needn’t trouble yourself about that, my faithful friend; there is no danger of their getting married. She doesn’t like him, Jake – I wonder who does or could – and even if she did, I would not permit it. But there’s no fear, so you may make your mind easy on that score.”

My harangue seemed not to satisfy the black. He stood scratching his head, as if he had something more to communicate. I waited for him to speak.

“’Scoose me, Massr George, for da freedom, but dar you make mighty big mistake. It am true dar war a time when Missa Vaginny she no care for dat ar snake in da grass. But de times am change: him father – da ole thief – he am gone to tha udda world? tha young un he now rich – he big planter – tha biggest on da ribber: ole missa she ’courage him come see Missa Vaginny – ’cause he rich, he good spec.”

“I know all that, Jake: my mother always wished it; but that signifies nothing – my sister is a little self-willed, and will be certain to have her own way. There is no fear of her giving her consent to marry, Arens Ringgold.”

“’Scoose me, Massr George, scoose me ’gain – I tell you, massr, you make mistake: she a’most consent now.”

“Why, what has put this notion into your head, my good fellow?”

“Viola, massr. Dat ere quadroon tell me all.”

“So, you are friends with Viola again?”

“Ye, Massr George, we good friend as ebber. ’Twar only my s’picion – I wor wrong. She good gal – she true as de rifle. No more s’picion o’ her, on de part ob Jake – no.”

“I am glad of that. But pray, what has she told you about Arens Ringgold and my sister?”

“She tell me all: she see somethin’ ebbery day.”

“Every day! Why, it is many days since Arens Ringgold has visited here?”

“No, massr; dar you am mistake ’gain: Mass Arens he come to da house ebbery day – a’most ebbery day.”

“Nonsense; I never saw him here. I never heard of his having been, since my return from the fort.”

“But him hab been, for all dat, massr; I see him meseff. He come when you gone out. He be here when we goes a huntin’. I see um come yest’day, when you any Mass Garger wor away to tha volunteers – dat he war sat’n.”

“You astonish me.”

“Dat’s not all, massr. Viola she say dat Missa Vaginny she ’have different from what she used to: he talk love; she not angry no more; she listen to him talk. Oh, Massr George, Viola think she give her consent to marry him: dat would be dreadful thing – berry, berry dreadful.”

“Jake,” said I, “listen to me. You will stay by the house when I am absent. You will take note of every one who comes and goes; and whenever Arens Ringgold makes his appearance on a visit to the family, you will come for me as fast as horse can carry you.”

“Gollys! dat I will, Massr George: you nebber fear, I come fass enuff – like a streak ob de greased lightnin’.”

And with this promise the black left me.

With all my disposition to be incredulous, I could not disregard the information thus imparted to me. Beyond doubt, there was truth in it. The black was too faithful to think of deceiving me, and too astute to be himself deceived. Viola had rare opportunities for observing all that passed within our family circle; and what motive could she have for inventing a tale like this?

Besides Jake had himself seen Ringgold on visits – of which I had never been informed. This confirmed the other – confirmed all.

What was I to make of it? Three who appear as lovers – the chief, Gallagher, Arens Ringgold! Has she grown wicked, abandoned, and is coquetting with all the world?

Can she have a thought of Ringgold? No – it is not possible. I could understand her having an affection for the soldier – a romantic passion for the brave and certainly handsome chief; but for Arens Ringgold – a squeaking conceited snob, with nought but riches to recommend him – this appeared utterly improbable.

Of course, the influence was my mother’s; but never before had I entertained a thought that Virginia would yield. If Viola spoke the truth, she had yielded, or was yielding.

“Ah, mother, mother! little knowest thou the fiend you would introduce to your home, and cherish as your child.”

Chapter Fifty Eight
Old Hickman

The morning after, I went as usual to the recruiting quarters. Gallagher was along with me, as upon this day the volunteers were to be “mustered into service,”¹⁶ and our presence was necessary at the administering of the oath.

A goodly company was collected, forming a troop more respectable in numbers than appearance. They were “mounted volunteers;” but as each individual had been his own quartermaster, no two were either armed or mounted alike. Nearly all carried rifles, though there were a few who shouldered the old family musket – a relic of revolutionary times – and were simply armed with single or double barrelled shot-guns. These, however, loaded with heavy buck-shot, would be no contemptible weapons in a skirmish with Indians. There were pistols of many sorts – from the huge brass-butted holsters to small pocket-pistols – single and double barrelled – but no revolvers, for as yet the celebrated “Colt”¹⁷ had not made its appearance in frontier warfare. Every volunteer carried his knife – some, dagger-shaped with ornamented hafts; while the greater number were long, keen blades, similar to those in use among butchers. In the belts of many were stuck small hatchets, an imitation of the Indian tomahawk. These were to serve the double purpose of cutting a way through the brushwood, or breaking in the skull of a savage, as opportunity might offer.

The equipments consisted of powder-horns, bullet-pouches, and shot-belts – in short, the ordinary sporting gear of the frontiersman or amateur hunter when out upon the “still-hunt,” of the fallow deer.

The “mount” of the troop was as varied as the arms and accoutrements: horses from thirteen hands to seventeen; the tall, raw-boned steed; the plump, cob-shaped roadster; the tight, wiry native of the soil, of Andalusian race¹⁸; the lean, worn-out “critter,” that carried on his back the half-ragged squatter, side by side with the splendid Arabian charger, the fancy of some dashing young planter who bestrode him, with no slight conceit in the grace and grandeur of his display. Not a few were mounted upon mules, both of American and Spanish origin; and these, when well trained to the saddle, though they may not equal the horse in the charge, are quite equal to him in a campaign against an Indian foe. Amid thickets – through forests of heavy timber, where the ground is a marsh, or strewn with logs, fallen branches, and matted with protrate parasites, the hybrid will make way safely, when the horse will sink or stumble. Some of the most experienced backwoods hunters, while following the chase, prefer a mule to the high-mettled steed of Arabia.

Motley were the dresses of the troop. There were uniforms, or half-uniforms, worn by some of the officers; but among the men no two were dressed in like fashion. Blanket-coats of red, blue, and green; linsey woolseys of coarse texture, grey or copper-coloured; red flannel shirts; jackets of brown linen, or white – some of yellow nankin cotton – a native fabric; some of sky-blue cottonade; hunting-shirts of dressed deer-skin, with moccasins and leggins; boots of horse or alligator hide, high-lows, brogans – in short, every variety of chaussure known throughout the States.

The head-gear was equally varied and fantastic. No stiff shakos were to be seen there; but caps of skin, and hats of wool and felt, and straw and palmetto-leaf, broad-brimmed, scuffed, and slouching. A few had forage-caps of blue cloth, that gave somewhat of a military character to the wearers.

In one respect, the troop had a certain uniformity; they were all eager for the fray – burning for a fight with the hated savages, who were committing such depredations throughout the land. When were they to be led against them? This was the inquiry constantly passing through the ranks of the volunteer array.

Old Hickman was among the most active. His age and experience had procured him the rank of sergeant by free election; and I had many opportunities of conversing with him. The alligator-hunter was still my true friend, and devoted to the interests of our family. On this very day I chanced to be with him alone, when he gave proof of his attachment by volunteering a conversation I little expected from him. Thus he began:

“May a Injun sculp me, lootenant, if I can bar the thought o’ that puke a marrin’ yur sister.”

“Marrying my sister – who?” I inquired in some surprise. Was it Gallagher he meant?

“Why, in coorse the fellar as everybody sez is a goin’ to – that cussed polecat o’ a critter, Ary Ringgold.”

“Oh! him you mean? Everybody says so, do they?”

“In coorse – it’s the hul talk o’ the country. Durn me, George Randolph, if I’d let him. Yur sister – the putty critter – she ur the finest an’ the hansomest gurl in these parts; an’ for a durned skunk like thet, not’ithstandin’ all his dollars, to git her, I can’t a bear to hear o’t. Why, George, I tell you, he’ll make her mis’able for the hul term o’ her nat’ral life – that ere’s whet he’ll be sartint to do – durnation to him!”

“You are kind to counsel me, Hickman; but I think the event you dread is not likely ever to come to pass.”

“Why do people keep talkin’ o’t, then? Everybody says it’s a goin’ to be. If it wan’t thet I’m an old friend o’ yur father, George, I wudn’t ha’ tuk sich a liberty; but I war his friend, an’ I’m yur friend; an’ thurfor it be I hev spoke on the matter. We may talk o’ Injuns; but thur ain’t ne’er a Injun in all Floridy is as big a thief as them Ringgolds – father an’ son, an’ the hul kit o’ them. The old un’ he’s clurred out from hyar, an’ whar he’s gone to ’tain’t hard to tell. Ole Scratch hez got hold o’ him, an’ I reck’n he’ll be catchin’ it by this time for the deviltries he carried on while about hyar. He’ll git paid up slick for the way he treated them poor half-breeds on tother side the crik.”

“The Powells?”

“Ye-es – that wur the durndest piece o’ unjustice I ever know’d o’ in all my time. By – , it wur!”

“You know what happened them, then?”

“Sartinly I do; every trick in the hul game. Twur a leetle o’ the meanest transackshun I ever know’d a white – an’ a white that called himself a gentleman – to have a hand in. By – , it wur!”

Hickman now proceeded, at my request, to detail with more minuteness than I had yet heard them, the facts connected with the robbery of the unfortunate family.

It appeared by his account that the Powells had not voluntarily gone away from the plantation; that, on the contrary, their removal had been to the friendless widow the most painful thing of all. Not only was the land of great value – the best in the whole district – but it had been to her the scene of a happy life – a home endeared by early love, by the memory of a kind husband, by every tie of the heart’s affection; and she had only parted from it when driven out by the strong arm of the law – by the staff of the sheriff’s officer.

Hickman had been present at the parting scene, and described it in rough but feeling terms. He told me of the sad unwillingness which the family exhibited at parting; of the indignant reproaches of the son – of the tears and entreaties of mother and daughter – how the persecuted widow had offered everything left her – her personal property – even the trinkets and jewels – souvenirs given her by her departed husband – if the ruffians would only allow her to remain in possession of the house – the old homestead, consecrated to her by long happy years spent under its roof.

Her appeals were in vain. The heartless persecutor was without compassion, and she was driven forth.

Of all these things, the old hunter spoke freely and feelingly; for although a man of somewhat vulgar speech and rough exterior, he was one whose heart beat with humanity, and who hated injustice. He had no friendship for mere wrong-doers, and he heartily detested the whole tribe of the Ringgolds. His narration re-kindled within me the indignant emotions I had experienced on first hearing of this monstrous act of cruelty; and my sympathy for Osceola – interrupted by late suspicions – was almost restored, as I stood listening to the story of his wrongs.