The sun was going down as we took our departure from the Indian camp.
For myself, I had not the slightest idea of the direction in which we
were to travel, but with such a guide there was no danger of losing the
way.
We were far from the settlements of the Suwanee--a long day's journey--
and we did not expect to reach home before another sun should set. That
night there would be moonlight, if the clouds did not hinder it; and it
was our intention to travel throughout the early part of the night, and
then encamp. By this means the journey of to-morrow would be shortened.
To our guide the country was well-known, and every road that led through
it.
For a long distance the route conducted through open woods, and we could
all ride abreast; but the path grew narrower, and we were compelled to
go by twos or in single file.
Habitually the young chief and I kept in the advance--our sisters riding
close behind us. Behind them came Jake and Viola, and in the rear half
a dozen Indian horsemen--the guard of Osceola. I wondered he had not
brought with him more of his followers, and even expressed my surprise.
He made light of the danger.
The soldiers, he said, knew better than to be out after night, and for
that part of the country through which we would travel by daylight, no
troops ever strayed into it. Besides, there had been no scouting of
late--the weather was too hot for the work. If we met any party they
would be of his own people. From them, of course, we had nothing to
fear. Since the war began he had often travelled most of the same route
alone. He appeared satisfied there was no danger.
For my part, I was not satisfied. I knew that the path we were
following would pass within a few miles of Fort King. I remembered the
escape of Ringgold's crew. They were likely enough to have ridden
straight to the fort, and communicated an account of the planter's
death, garnished by a tale of their own brave attack upon the Indian
camp. Among the authorities, Ringgold was no common man; a party might
be organised to proceed to the camp. We were on the very road to meet
them.
Another circumstance I thought of--the mysterious disappearance of the
mulatto, as was supposed, in company with these men. It was enough to
create suspicion. I mentioned my suspicion to the chief:
"No fear," said he, in reply, "my trackers will be after them--they will
bring me word in time--but no," he added, hesitatingly, and for a moment
appearing thoughtful; "they may not get up with them before the night
falls, and then--you speak true, Randolph--I have acted imprudently. I
should not care for these foolish fellows--but the mulatto--that is
different--he knows all the paths, and if it should be that he is
turning traitor--if it--Well! we are astart now, and we must go on.
_You_ have nothing to fear--and as for me--Osceola never yet turned his
back upon danger, and will not now. Nay, will you believe me, Randolph,
I rather seek it than otherwise?"
"Seek danger?"
"Ay--death--death!"
"Speak low--do not let _them_ hear you talk thus."
"Ah! yes," he added, lowering his tone, and speaking in a half
soliloquy, "in truth, I long for its coming."
The words were spoken with a serious emphasis that left no room to doubt
of their earnestness.
Some deep melancholy had settled upon his spirit and preyed upon it
continually. What could be its cause?
I could remain silent no longer. Friendship, not curiosity, incited me.
I put the inquiry.
"_You_ have observed it, then? But not since we set out--not since you
made that friendly offer? Ah! Randolph, you have rendered me happy.
It was she alone that made the prospect of death so gloomy."
"Why speak you of death?"
"Because it is near."
"Not to you?"
"Yes--to me. The presentiment is upon me that I have not long to live."
"Nonsense, Powell."
"Friend, it is true--I have had my death warning."
"Come, Osceola! This is unlike--unworthy of you. Surely you are above
such vulgar fancies. I will not believe you can entertain them."
"Think you I speak of supernatural signs? Of the screech of the
war-bird, or the hooting of the midnight owl? Of omens in the air, the
earth, or the water? No--no. I _am_ above such shallow superstitions.
For all that, I know I must soon die. It was wrong of me to call my
death warning a presentiment--it is a physical fact that announces my
approaching end--it is _here_."
As he said this, he raised his hand, pointing with his fingers as if to
indicate the chest.