At that same moment, when the red Sabines are carrying off his
daughters, Colonel Armstrong is engaged, with his fellow-colonists, in
discussing a question of great interest to all. The topic is sugar--the
point, whether it will be profitable to cultivate it in their new
colony. That the cane can be grown there all know. Both soil and
climate are suitable. The only question is, will the produce pay, sugar
being a bulky article in proportion to its price, and costly in
transport through a territory without railroads, or steam communication.
While the discussion is at its height a new guest enters the room; who,
soon as inside, makes a speech, which not only terminates the talk about
sugar, but drives all thought of it out of their minds.
A speech of only four words, but these of startling significance:
"_There are Indians about_!" 'Tis Hawkins who speaks, having entered
without invitation, confident the nature of his news will hold him clear
of being deemed an intruder.
And it does. At the word "Indians," all around the table spring up from
their seats, and stand breathlessly expectant of what the hunter has
further to communicate. For, by his serious air, they are certain there
must be something more.
Colonel Armstrong alone asks, the old soldier showing the presence of
mind that befits an occasion of surprise.
"Indians about? Why do you say that, Hawkins? What reason have you to
think so?"
"The best o' reasons, colonel. I've seed them myself, and so's Cris
Tucker along with me."
"Where?"
"Well, there's a longish story to tell. If you'll have patience, I'll
make it short as possible."
"Go on!--tell it!"
The hunter responds to the demand; and without wasting words in detail,
gives an epitome of his day's doings, in company with Cris Tucker.
After describing the savage troop, as first seen on the upper plain, how
he and his comrade followed them across the river bottom, then over the
ford, and there lost their trail, he concludes his account, saying:
"Where they went afterward, or air now, 'taint possible for me to tell.
All I can say is, what I've sayed already: _there are Indians about_."
Of itself enough to cause anxiety in the minds of the assembled
planters; which it does, to a man making them keenly apprehensive of
danger.
All the more from its being their first alarm of the kind. For, while
travelling through Eastern Texas, where the settlements are thick, and
of old standing, the savages had not evens been thought of. There was
no chance of seeing any there. Only, on drawing nigh to the Colorado,
were Indians likely to be encountered; though it did not necessarily
follow that the encounter should be hostile. On the contrary, it ought
to be friendly; since a treaty of peace had for some time been existing
between the Comanches and Texans.
For all this, Colonel Armstrong, well acquainted with the character of
the red men, in war as in peace, had not relied altogether on their
pacific promises. He knew that such contracts only bind the savage so
long as convenient to him, to be broken whenever they become irksome.
Moreover, a rumour had reached the emigrants that, although the great
Comanche nation was itself keeping the treaty, there were several
smaller independent tribes accustomed to make "maraud" upon the frontier
settlements, chiefly to steal horses, or whatever chanced in their way.
For this reason, after entering the territory where such pillagers might
be expected, the old soldier had conducted his expedition as if passing
through an enemy's country. The waggons had been regularly _corralled_,
and night guards kept--both camp sentinels and outlying pickets.
These rules had been observed up to the hour of arrival at their
destination. Then, as the people got settled down in their respective
domiciles, and nothing was heard of any Indians in that district, the
discipline had been relaxed--in fact, abandoned. The colonists,
numbering over fifty white men--to say nothing of several hundred negro
slaves--deemed themselves strong enough to repel any ordinary assault
from savages. They now considered themselves at home; and, with the
confidence thus inspired, had ceased to speculate, on being molested by
Indian enemies, or any others.
For this reason the suspicious movements of Dupre's half-breed servant,
as reported by the young surgeon, had failed to make more than a passing
impression on those around the dining-table; many of them treating it as
an eccentricity.
Now, after hearing Hawkins, they think differently. It presents a
serious aspect, is, in truth, alarmingly suggestive of treason.
The half-blood inside the house may be in correspondence with
full-blooded Indians outside, for some scheme of thieving or burglary.
The thought of either is sufficient to excite Colonel Armstrong's
guests, and all are on foot ready to take action.
"Dupre, call in your half-breed!" says the Colonel, directing it. "Let
us hear what the fellow has to say for himself."
"Tell Fernand to come hither," commands the Creole, addressing himself
to one of the negro lads waiting at table. "Tell him to come
instantly!"
The boy hastens off to execute the order; and is several minutes before
making re-appearance.
During the interval, they continue to discuss the circumstances that
have so suddenly turned up; questioning Hawkins, and receiving from him
minuter details of what he and his comrade have seen.
The additional matter made known but excites them the more, further
intensifying their apprehensions.
They're at their keenest, as the darkey re-enters the room with the
announcement that Fernand is not to be found!
"What do you mean, boy?" thunders Dupre, in a voice that well-nigh takes
away the young negro's wits. "Is he not in the house?"
"Dat's jess what he aint, Mass Looey. De Spanish Indyin's no whar
inside dis buildin'. We hab sarch all oba de place; call out his name
in de store-rooms, an' de coatyard, an' de cattle closure--ebbery wha we
tink of. We shout loud nuf for him to hyeer, ef he war anywha 'bout.
He haint gib no answer. Sartin shoo he no inside o' dis 'tablishment."
The young planter shows dismay. So also the others, in greater or less
degree, according to the light in which each views the matter.
For now on the minds of all is an impression, a presentiment, that there
is danger at the bottom of Fernand's doings--how near they know not.
At any other time his absence would be a circumstance not worth noting.
He might be supposed on a visit to some of the huts appropriated to the
humbler families of the colonist fraternity. Or engaged outside with a
mulatto "wench," of whom there are several, belonging to Dupre's
extensive slave-gang, far from ill-favoured.
Fernand is rather a handsome fellow, and given to gaiety; which, under
ordinary circumstances, would account for his absenting himself from the
house, and neglecting his duties as its head-servant. But after what
the young surgeon has seen--above all the report just brought in by
Hawkins--his conduct will not convey this trivial interpretation. All
in the room regard it in a more serious light--think the _mestizo_ is a
traitor.
Having come to this general conclusion, they turn towards the table, to
take a last drink, before initiating action.
Just as they get their glasses in hand, the refectory door is once more
opened; this time with a hurried violence that causes them to start, as
though a bombshell had rolled into the room.
Facing towards it, they see it is only the negro boy, who had gone out
again, re-entering. But now with fear depicted on his face, and wild
terror gleaming from his eyes; the latter awry in their sockets, with
little beside the whites seen!
Their own alarm is not much less than his, on hearing what he has to
say. His words are,--
"Oh, Mass Kurnel! Mass Looey! Gemmen all! De place am full ob Indyin
sabbages! Dar outside in de coatyard, more'n a thousan' ob um; an'
murderin' ebbery body!"
At the dread tidings, glasses drop from the hands holding them, flung
down in fear, or fury. Then all, as one man, make for the door, still
standing open as in his scare the negro lad left it.
Before they can reach it, his words are too fully confirmed. Outside
they see painted faces, heads covered with black hanging hair, and
plumes bristling above. Only a glimpse they get of these, indistinct
through the obscurity. But if transitory, not the less terrible--not
less like a tableau in some horrid dream--a glance into hell itself.
The sight brings them to a stand; though, but for an instant. Then,
they rush on towards the doorway, regardless of what may await them
outside.
Outside they are not permitted to pass. Before they can reach the door,
it is shut to with a loud clash; while another but slighter sound tells
of a key turning in the wards, shooting a bolt into its keeper.
"Locked in, by God!" exclaims Hawkins, the rest involuntarily echoing
his wild words; which are succeeded by a cry of rage as from one throat,
though all have voice in it. Then silence, as if they were suddenly
struck dumb.
For several moments they remain paralysed, gazing in one another's faces
in mute despairing astonishment. No one thinks of asking explanation,
or giving it. As by instinct, all realise the situation--a surprise, an
Indian attack. No longer the future danger they have been deeming
probable, but its dread present reality!
Short while do they stand irresolute. Hawkins, a man of herculean
strength, dashes himself against the door, in hopes of heaving it from
its hinges. Others add their efforts.
All idle. The door is of stout timber--oaken--massive as that of a
jail; and, opening inward, can only be forced along with its posts and
lintels.--These are set in the thick wall, embedded, firm as the masonry
itself.
They rush to the windows, in hope of getting egress there.
Equally to be disappointed, baffled. The strong, iron bar resist every
effort to break or dislodge them. Though weakened with decaying rust,
they are yet strong enough to sustain the shock of shoulders, and the
tug of arms.
"Trapped, by the Eternal!" despairingly exclaims the hunter. "Yes,
gentlemen, we're caged to a certainty."
They need not telling. All are now aware of it--too well. They see
themselves shut in--helplessly, hopelessly imprisoned.
Impossible to describe their thoughts, or depict their looks, in that
anguished hour. No pen, or pencil, could do justice to either. Outside
are their dear ones; near, but far away from any hope of help, as if
twenty miles lay between. And what is being done to them? No one
asks--none likes to tempt the answer; all guessing what it would be,
dreading to hear it spoken. Never did men suffer emotions more
painfully intense, passions more heartfelt and harrowing; not even the
prisoners of Cawnpore, or the Black Hole of Calcutta.
They are in darkness now--have been from the moment of the door being
closed. For, expecting to be fired at from the outside, they had
suddenly extinguished the lights. They wonder there has been no
shooting, aware that the Comanches carry fire-arms. But as yet there
has been no report, either of pistol, or gun!
They hear only voices--which they can distinguish as those of the
house-Servants--male and female--all negroes or mulattoes. There are
shrieks, intermingled with speeches, the last in accent of piteous
appealing; there is moaning and groaning. But where are the shouts of
the assailants? Where the Indian yell--the dread slogan of the savage?
Not a stave of it is heard--nought that resembles a warwhoop of
Comanches!
And soon is nothing heard. For the shrieks of the domestics have
ceased, their cries coming suddenly, abruptly to an end, as if stifled
by blows bringing death.
Inside the room is a death-like stillness; outside the same.