Yes--Powell and Osceola were one; the boy, as I had predicted, now
developed into the splendid man--a hero.
Under the impulsive influences of former friendship and present
admiration, I could have rushed forward and flung my arms around him;
but it was neither time nor place for the display of such childish
enthusiasm. Etiquette--duty forbade it; I kept my ground, and, as well
as I could, the composure of my countenance, though I was unable to
withdraw my eyes from what had now become doubly an object of
admiration.
There was little time for reflection. The pause created by the rude
speech of the commissioner had passed; the silence was again broken--
this time by Osceola himself.
The young chief, perceiving that it was he who had been singled out,
stepped forth a pace or two, and stood confronting the commissioner, his
eye fixed upon him, in a glance, mild, yet firm and searching.
"Are you addressing me?" he inquired in a tone that evinced not the
slightest anger or excitement.
"Who else than you?" replied the commissioner abruptly. "I called you
by name--Powell."
"My name is _not_ Powell."
"Not Powell?"
"No!" answered the Indian, raising his voice to its loudest pitch, and
looking with proud defiance at the commissioner. "You may call me
Powell, if you please, _you, General Wiley Thompson_,"--slowly and with
a sarcastic sneer, he pronounced the full titles of the agent; "but
know, sir, that I scorn the white man's baptism. I am an Indian; I am
the child of my mother [Note 1]; my name is Osceola."
The commissioner struggled to control his passion. The sneer at his
plebeian cognomen stung him to the quick, for Powell understood enough
of English nomenclature to know that "Thompson" was not an aristocratic
appellation; and the sarcasm cut keenly.
He was angry enough to have ordered the instant execution of Osceola,
had it been in his power; but it was not. Three hundred warriors trod
the ground, each grasping his ready rifle, quite a match for the troops
at the post; besides the commissioner knew that such rash indulgence of
spleen might not be relished by his government. Even the Ringgolds--his
dear friends and ready advisers--with all the wicked interest they might
have in the downfall of the Rising Sun, were wiser than to counsel a
proceeding like that.
Instead of replying, therefore to the taunt of the young chief, the
commissioner addressed himself once more to the council.
"I want no more talking," said he with the air of a man speaking to
inferiors; "we have had enough already. Your talk has been that of
children, of men without wisdom or faith: I will no longer listen to it.
"Hear, then, what your Great Father says, and what he has sent me to say
to you. He has told me to place before you this paper." The speaker
produced a fold of parchment, opening it as he proceeded: "It is the
treaty of Oclawaha. Most of you have already signed it. I ask you now
to step forward and confirm your signatures."
"I have not signed it," said Onopa, urged to the declaration by Osceola,
who stood by behind him. "I shall not sign it now. Others may act as
they please; I shall not go from my home. I shall not leave Florida."
"Nor I," added Hoitle-mattee, in a determined tone. "I have fifty kegs
of powder: so long as a grain of it remains unburned, I shall not be
parted from my native land."
"His sentiments are mine," added Holata.
"And mine!" exclaimed Arpiucki.
"And mine?" echoed Poshalla (the dwarf), Coa Hajo, Cloud, and the negro
Abram.
The patriots alone spoke; the traitors said not a word. The signing was
a test too severe for them. They had all signed it before at the
Oclawaha; but now, in the presence of the nation, they dared not confirm
it. They feared even to advocate what they had done. They remained
silent.
"Enough!" said Osceola, who had not yet publicly expressed his opinion,
but who was now expected to speak, and was attentively regarded by all.
"The chiefs have declared themselves; they refuse to sign. It is the
voice of the nation that speaks through its chiefs, and the people will
stand by their word. The agent has called us children and fools; it is
easy to give names. We know that there are fools among us, and children
too, and worse than both--_traitors_. But there are men, and some as
true and brave as the agent himself. He wants no more talk with us--be
it so; we have no more for _him_--he has our answer. He may stay or go.
"Brothers!" continued the speaker, facing to the chiefs and warriors,
and as if disregarding the presence of the whites, "you have done right;
you have spoken the will of the nation, and the people applaud. It is
false that we wish to leave our homes and go west. They who say so are
deceivers, and do not speak our mind. We have no desire for this _fine
land_ to which they would send us. It is not as fair as our own. It is
a wild desert, where in summer the springs dry up and water is hard to
find. From thirst the hunter often dies by the way. In winter, the
leaves fall from the trees, snow covers the ground, frost stiffens the
clay, and chills the bodies of men, till they shiver in pain--the whole
country looks as though the earth were dead. Brothers! we want no cold
country like that; we like our own land better. If it be too hot, we
have the shade of the live-oak, the big laurel [Note 2], and the noble
palm-tree. Shall we forsake the land of the palm? No! Under its
shadow have we lived: under its shadow let us die!"
Up to this point the interest had been increasing. Indeed, ever since
the appearance of Osceola, the scene had been deeply impressive--never
to be effaced from the memory, though difficult to be described in
words. A painter, and he alone, might have done justice to such a
picture.
It was full of points, thoroughly and thrillingly dramatic; the excited
agent on one side, the calm chiefs on the other; the contrast of
emotions; the very women who had left their unclad little ones to gambol
on the grass and dally with the flowers, while they themselves, with the
warriors pressed closely around the council, under the most intense, yet
subdued, interest; catching every look as it gleamed from the
countenance, and hanging on every word as it fell from the lips of
Osceola. The latter--his eye calm, serious, fixed--his attitude manly,
graceful, erect--his thin, close-pressed lip, indicative of the "mind
made up"--his firm, yet restrained, tread, free from all stride or
swagger--his dignified and composed bearing--his perfect and solemn
silence, except during his sententious talk--the head thrown backward,
the arms firmly folded on the protruding chest--all, all instantaneously
changing, as if by an electric shock, whenever the commissioner stated a
proposition that he knew to be false or sophistic. At such times the
fire-flash of his indignant eye--the withering scorn upon his upcurled
lip--the violent and oft repeated stamping of his foot--his clenched
hand, and the rapid gesticulation of his uplifted arm--the short, quick
breathing and heaving of his agitated bosom, like the rushing wind and
swelling wave of the tempest-tossed ocean, and these again subsiding
into the stillness of melancholy, and presenting only that aspect and
attitude of repose wherewith the ancient statuary loved to invest the
gods and heroes of Greece.
The speech of Osceola brought matters to a crisis. The commissioner's
patience was exhausted. The time was ripe to deliver the dire threat--
the ultimatum--with which the president had armed him; and, not bating
one jot of his rude manner, he pronounced the infamous menace:
"You will not sign?--you will not consent to go? I say, then you
_must_. War will be declared against you--troops will enter your land--
you will be forced from it at the point of the bayonet."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Osceola, with a derisive laugh. "Then be it so!" he
continued. "Let war be declared! Though we love peace, we fear not
war. We know your strength: your people outnumber us by millions; but
were there as many more of them, they will not compel us to submit to
injustice. We have made up our minds to endure death before dishonour.
Let war be declared! Send your troops into our land; perhaps they will
not force us from it so easily as you imagine. To your muskets we will
oppose our rifles, to your bayonets, our tomahawks; and your starched
soldiers will be met, face to face, by the warriors of the Seminole.
Let war be declared! We are ready for its tempest. The hail may
rattle, and the flowers be crushed; but the strong oak of the forest
will lift its head to the sky and the storm, towering and unscathed."
A yell of defiance burst from the Indian warriors at the conclusion of
this stirring speech; and the disturbed council threatened a disruption.
Several of the chiefs, excited by the appeal, had risen to their feet,
and stood with lowering looks, and arms stretched forth in firm, angry
menace.
The officers of the line had glided to their places, and in an undertone
ordered the troops into an attitude of readiness; while the artillerists
on the bastions of the fort were seen by their guns, while the tiny
wreath of blue smoke told that the fuse had been kindled.
For all this, there was no danger of an outbreak. Neither party was
prepared for a collision at that moment. The Indians had come to the
council with no hostile designs, else they would have left their wives
and children at home. With them by their sides, they would not dream of
making an attack; and their white adversaries dared not, without better
pretext. The demonstration was only the result of a momentary
excitement, and soon subsided to a calm.
The commissioner had stretched his influence to its utmost. His threats
were now disregarded as had been his wheedling appeal; and he saw that
he had no longer the power to effect his cherished purpose.
But there was still hope in time. There were wiser heads than his upon
the ground, who saw this: the sagacious veteran Clinch and the crafty
Ringgolds saw it.
These now gathered around the agent, and counselled him to the adoption
of a different course.
"Give them time to consider," suggested they. "Appoint to-morrow for
another meeting. Let the chiefs discuss the matter among themselves in
private council, and not as now, in presence of the people. On calmer
reflection, and when not intimidated by the crowd of warriors, they may
decide differently, particularly now that they know the alternative; and
perhaps," added Arens Ringgold--who, to other bad qualities, added that
of a crafty diplomatist--"perhaps the more hostile of them will not stay
for the council of to-morrow: you do not want _all_ their signatures."
"Right," replied the commissioner, catching at the idea. "Right--it
shall be done;" and with this laconic promise, he faced once more to the
council of chiefs.
"Brothers!" he said, resuming the tone in which he had first addressed
them, "for, as the brave chief Holata has said, we are all brothers.
Why, then, should we separate in anger? Your Great Father would be sad
to hear that we had so parted from one another. I do not wish you
hastily to decide upon this important matter. Return to your tents--
hold your own councils--discuss the matter freely and fairly among
yourselves, and let us meet again to-morrow; the loss of a day will not
signify to either of us. To-morrow will be time enough to give your
decision; till then, let us be friends and brothers."
To this harangue, several of the chiefs replied. They said it was "good
talk," and they would agree to it; and then all arose to depart from the
ground.
I noticed that there was some confusion in the replies. The chiefs were
not unanimous in their assent. Those who agreed were principally of the
Omatla party; but I could hear some of the hostile warriors, as they
strode away from the ground, declare aloud their intention to return no
more.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. The child follows the fortunes of the mother. The usage is not
Seminole only, but the same with all the Indians of America.
Note 2. _Magnolia grandiflora_. So styled in the language of the
Indians.