I was not allowed long to enjoy the sweets of home. A few days after my
arrival, I received an order to repair to Fort King, the Seminole
agency, and head-quarters of the army of Florida. General Clinch there
commanded. I was summoned upon his staff.
Not without chagrin, I prepared to obey the order. It was hard to part
so soon from those who dearly loved me, and from whom I had been so long
separated. Both mother and sister were overwhelmed with grief at my
going. Indeed they urged me to resign my commission, and remain at
home.
Not unwillingly did I listen to their counsel: I had no heart in the
cause in which I was called forth; but at such a crisis I dared not
follow their advice: I should have been branded as a traitor--a coward.
My country had commissioned me to carry a sword. I must wield it,
whether the cause be just or unjust--whether to my liking or not. This
is called _patriotism_!
There was yet another reason for my reluctance to part from home. I
need hardly declare it. Since my return, my eyes had often wandered
over the lake--often rested on that fair island. Oh, I had not
forgotten her!
I can scarcely analyse my feelings. They were mingled emotions. Young
love triumphant over older passions--ready to burst forth from the ashes
that had long shrouded it--young love penitent and remorseful--doubt,
jealousy, apprehension. All these were active within me.
Since my arrival, I had not dared to go forth. I observed that my
mother was still distrustful. I had not dared even to question those
who might have satisfied me. I passed those few days in doubt, and at
intervals under a painful presentiment that all was not well.
Did Maumee still live? Was she true? True! Had she reason? Had she
ever loved me?
There were those near who could have answered the first question; but I
feared to breathe her name, even to the most intimate.
Bidding adieu to my mother and sister, I took the route. These were not
left alone: my maternal uncle--their guardian--resided upon the
plantation. The parting moments were less bitter, from the belief that
I should soon return. Even if the anticipated campaign should last for
any considerable length of time, the scene of my duties would lie near,
and I should find frequent opportunities of revisiting them.
My uncle scouted the idea of a campaign, as so did every one. "The
Indians," he said, "would yield to the demands of the commissioner.
Fools, if they didn't!"
Fort King was not distant; it stood upon Indian ground--fourteen miles
within the border, though further than that from our plantation. A
day's journey would bring me to it; and in company of my cheerful
"squire," Black Jake, the road would not seem long. We bestrode a pair
of the best steeds the stables afforded, and were both armed
_cap-a-pie_.
We crossed the ferry at the upper landing, and rode within the "reserve"
[Note 1]. The path--it was only a path--ran parallel to the creek,
though not near its banks. It passed through the woods, some distance
to the rear of Madame Powell's plantation.
When opposite to the clearing, my eyes fell upon the diverging track. I
knew it well: I had oft trodden it with swelling heart.
I hesitated--halted. Strange thoughts careered through my bosom;
resolves half-made, and suddenly abandoned. The rein grew slack, and
then tightened. The spur threatened the ribs of my horse, but failed to
strike.
"Shall I go? Once more behold her. Once more renew those sweet joys of
tender love? Once more--Ha, perhaps it is too late! I might be no
longer welcome--if my reception should be hostile? Perhaps--"
"Wha' you doin' dar, Massr George? Daat's not tha' road to tha fort."
"I know that, Jake; I was thinking of making a call at Madame Powell's
plantation."
"Mar'm Powell plantayshun! Gollys! Massr George--daat all you knows
'bout it?"
"About what?" I inquired with anxious heart.
"Dar's no Mar'm Powell da no more; nor hain't a been, since better'n two
year--all gone clar 'way."
"Gone away? Where?"
"Daat dis chile know nuffin 'bout. S'pose da gone some other lokayshun
in da rezav; made new clarin somewha else."
"And who lives here now?"
"Dar ain't neery one lib tha now: tha ole house am desarted."
"But why did Madame Powell leave it?"
"Ah--daat am a quaw story. Gollys! you nebber hear um, Massr George?"
"No--never."
"Den I tell um. But s'pose, massr, we ride on. I am a gettin' a little
lateish, an' 'twont do nohow to be cotch arter night in tha woods."
I turned my horse's head and advanced along the main road, Jake riding
by my side. With aching heart, I listened to his narrative.
"You see, Massr George, 'twar all o' Massr Ringgol--tha ole boss [Note
2] daat am--an' I blieve tha young 'un had 'im hand in dat pie, all
same, like tha ole 'un. Waal, you see Mar'm Pow'll she loss some niggas
dat war ha slaves. Dey war stole from ha, an' wuss dan stole. Dey war
tuk, an' by white men, massr. Tha be folks who say dat Mass' Ringgol--
he know'd more 'n anybody else 'bout tha whole bizness. But da rubb'ry
war blamed on Ned Spence an' Bill William. Waal, Mar'm, Powell she go
to da law wi' dis yar Ned an' Bill; an' she 'ploy Massr Grubb tha big
lawyer dat lib down tha ribba. Now Massr Grubb, he great friend o'
Massr Ringgol, an' folks _do_ say dat boaf de two put tha heads together
to cheat dat ar Indyen 'ooman."
"How?"
"Dis chile don't say for troof, Massr George; he hear um only from da
black folks: tha white folks say diffrent. But I hear um from Mass'
Ringgol's own nigga woodman--Pomp, you know Massr, George? an' he say
that them ar two bosses _did_ put tha heads together to cheat dat poor
Indyen 'ooman."
"In what way, Jake?" I asked impatiently.
"Waal, you see, Massr George, da lawya he want da Indyen sign ha name to
some paper--power ob 'turney, tha call am, I believe. She sign; she no
read tha writin. Whuch! daat paper war no power ob 'turney: it war what
tha lawyas call a `bill ob sale'."
"Ha!"
"Yes, Massr George, dat's what um war; an' by dat same bill ob sale all
Mar'm Pow'll's niggas an' all ha plantation-clarin war made ober to
Massr Grubb."
"Atrocious scoundrel?"
"Massr Grubb he swar he bought 'em all, an' paid for 'em in cash dollar.
Mar'm Pow'll she swar de berry contr'y. Da judge he decide for Massr
Grubb, 'kase great Massr Ringgoh he witness; an' folks _do_ say Massr
Ringgol now got dat paper in um own safe keeping an' war at tha bottom
ob tha whole bizness."
"Atrocious scoundrels! oh, villains! But tell me, Jake, what became of
Madame Powell?"
"Shortly arter, tha all gone 'way--nob'dy know wha. Da mar'm haself an'
dat fine young fellur you know, an' da young Indyen gal dat ebbery body
say war so good-lookin'--yes, Massr George, tha all gone 'way."
At that moment an opening in the woods enabled me to catch a glimpse of
the old house. There it stood in all its grey grandeur, still embowered
in the midst of beautiful groves of orange and olive. But the broken
fence--the tall weeds standing up against the walls--the shingles here
and there missing from the roof--all told the tale of ruin.
There was ruin in my heart, as I turned sorrowing away.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. That portion of Florida _reserved_ for the Seminoles by the
treaty of Moultrie Creek made in 1823. It was a large tract, and
occupied the central part of the peninsula.
Note 2. Master or proprietor; universally in use throughout the
Southern States. From the Dutch "baas."