It was answered only by signs. Those around me pointed to the forest.
I understood the signs--the savages had borne her away.
Up to this hour I had felt no hostility towards the red men; on the
contrary, my sentiments had an opposite inclination. If not friendship
for them, I had felt something akin to it. I was conscious of the many
wrongs they had endured, and were now enduring at the hands of our
people. I knew that in the end they would be conquered, and must
submit. I had felt sympathy for their unfortunate condition.
It was gone. The sight of my murdered mother produced an instantaneous
change in my feelings; and sympathy for the savage was supplanted by
fierce hostility. Her blood called aloud for vengeance, and my heart
was eager to obey the summons.
As I rose to my feet, I registered vows of revenge.
I stood not alone. Old Hickman and his fellow-hunter were at my back,
and fifty others joined their voices in a promise to aid me in the
pursuit.
Black Jake was among the loudest who clamoured for retribution. He too
had sustained his loss. Viola was nowhere to be found--she had been
carried off with the other domestics. Some may have gone voluntarily,
but all were absent--all who were not dead. The plantation and its
people had no longer an existence. I was homeless as well as
motherless.
There was no time to be wasted in idle sorrowing; immediate action was
required, and determined upon. The people had come to the ground armed
and ready, and a few minutes sufficed to prepare for the pursuit.
A fresh horse was procured for myself; others for the companions of my
late journey; and after snatching a breakfast hastily prepared, we
mounted, and struck off upon the trail of the savages.
It was easily followed, for the murderers had been mounted, and their
horses' tracks betrayed them.
They had gone some distance up the river before crossing, and then swam
their horses over to the Indian side. Without hesitation, we did the
same.
The place I remembered well. I had crossed there before--two months
before--while tracking the steed of Osceola. It was the path that had
been taken by the young chief. The coincidence produced upon me a
certain impression; and not without pain did I observe it.
It led to reflection. There was time, as the trail was in places less
conspicuous, and the finding it delayed our advance. It led to inquiry.
Had any one seen the savages?--or noted to what band they belonged? Who
was their leader?
Yes. All these questions were answered in the affirmative. Two men,
lying concealed by the road, had seen the Indians passing away--had seen
their captives, too; my sister--Viola--with other girls of the
plantation. These were on horseback, each clasped in the arms of a
savage. The blacks travelled afoot. They were _not_ bound. They
appeared to go willingly. The Indians were "Redsticks"--_led by
Osceola_.
Such was the belief of those around me, founded upon the report of the
men who had lain in ambush.
It is difficult to describe the impression produced upon me. It was
painful in the extreme. I endeavoured not to believe the report. I
resolved not to give it credence, until I should have further
confirmation of its truthfulness.
Osceola! O heavens! Surely he would not have done this deed? It could
not have been he?
The men might have been mistaken. It was before daylight the savages
had been seen. The darkness might have deceived them. Every feat
performed by the Indians--every foray made--was put down to the credit
of Osceola. Osceola was everywhere. Surely he had not been there?
Who were the two men--the witnesses? Not without surprise did I listen
to the answer. They were _Spence and Williams_!
To my surprise, too, I now learned that they were among the party who
followed me--volunteers to aid me in obtaining revenge for my wrongs!
Strange, I thought; but stranger still that Arens Ringgold was _not_
there. He had been present at the scene of the conflagration; and, as I
was told, among the loudest in his threats of vengeance. But he had
returned home; at all events he was not one of the band of pursuers.
I called Spence and Williams, and questioned them closely. They adhered
to their statement. They admitted that it was dark when they had seen
the Indians returning from the massacre. They could not tell for
certain whether they were the warriors of the "Redstick" tribe, or those
of the "Long Swamp." They believed them to be the former. As to who
was their leader, they had no doubt whatever. It was Osceola who led
them. They knew him by the three ostrich feathers in his head-dress,
which rendered him conspicuous among his followers.
These fellows spoke positively. What interest could they have in
deceiving me? What could it matter to them, whether the chief of the
murderous band was Osceola, Coa Hajo, or Onopa himself?
Their words produced conviction--combined with other circumstances,
deep, painful conviction. The murderer of my mother--he who had fired
my home, and borne my sister into a cruel captivity--could be no other
than Osceola.
All memory of our past friendship died upon the instant. My heart
burned with hostility and hate, for him it had once so ardently admired.