A DOUBLE WEDDING AND THE SETTING SUN
For days Nita Pacheco hovered between life and death. During this time,
almost hourly bulletins of her condition were demanded, not only from
the Indian encampment, but from the garrison, every man of which had
been won to admiration of the gentle girl by her recent heroism. As for
Coacoochee, he was as one who is bereft of reason. He would sit for
hours on the porch of the Boyd cottage, heedless of any who might speak
to him, motionless and unconscious of his surroundings. Then he would
spring on his waiting horse and dash away to scour madly through miles
of forest, before his return, which was generally made late at night or
with the dawning of a new day. When food was offered him, he took it
and ate mechanically; when it was withheld, he seemed unconscious of
hunger.
The mental condition of the young chief so alarmed his friends that,
one morning when he returned from a night spent in the forest, in
a cheerful frame of mind, gentle and perfectly rational, they were
greatly relieved, and welcomed him as one who had come back from a long
journey.
"Take me to her," he said. "She is watching for me. From this moment
she will get well. I have seen Allala, and she has said it."
They had not noted any sign of a change for the better in the sick
girl, and so it was with misgivings as to the result that they complied
with his request.
Nita lay as they had left her; but, upon the entrance of her lover into
the room, her eyes unclosed. She smiled at him, and feebly held his
hand for a single moment. From that hour her improvement was steady and
rapid, and from that time forth Coacoochee was again the leader of his
people, the firm ally of the whites, and unwearying in his efforts to
persuade those of the Seminoles who still remained out, to come in and
submit to removal.
During the two following months he spent his time as Nita had done, in
visiting distant bands of Indians and explaining to them the folly of a
further resistance. He possessed two great advantages over all others
who had labored in the same direction. He had fought by their side, no
one more bravely, and they trusted him. He had also crossed the salt
waters and returned again in safety, so that, of his own experience,
he could refute the assertion made by their prophet, that every Indian
taken to sea by the whites was thrown overboard and drowned.
In this service the young chief often found himself in desperate
situations, and he made frequent hair-breadth escapes from death at
the hands of those Indians who were either jealous of his power or
distrustful for his honesty of purpose. In spite of discouragements and
dangers, he persisted, and as the result of his convincing talks beside
the red council fires of many a wild swamp retreat, band after band
under well-known leaders and renowned fighters came into Fort Brooke,
until only a scanty remnant still defied pursuit amid the impenetrable
labyrinths of the Big Cypress.
The Indian encampment at Tampa occupied a space two miles square,
and the task of guarding this large area was so great that, early in
October, General Worth concluded to embark those already collected
before they should become dissatisfied or rebellious and without
waiting for more to come in. Accordingly the transports were made ready
and the day for departure was fixed.
Now ensued most active preparations. For three days and nights the
monotonous sound of the great wooden pestles cracking corn for the
journey was heard from all parts of the camp. Vast quantities of fat
pine knots were collected by the women, for they had heard that the
country in which they were to live was destitute of wood. The entire
area of the camp was illuminated at night by huge fires, so that there
might be no cessation of the work.
The crowning event of all, or, as the general termed it, "the peace
contract that ended the Seminole War," was the double wedding that
took place in the open air, under the great live-oaks in front of
headquarters, on the evening before the day of sailing. The scene was
as remarkable as it was picturesque. On one side were gathered the
hundreds of forest dwellers who acknowledged one of the bridegrooms as
their leader. Among these were proud chiefs, conspicuous in feathers
and gaudy finery, stern warriors who had never known defeat in battle,
plump matrons wearing many rows of beads and silver ornaments, slender
maidens, and chubby children.
On the other side were ranks of troops as motionless as though on
parade, and groups of officers in glittering uniforms. A superb
military band rendered its choicest selections of music, and the simple
ceremony was performed by the post chaplain.
Nita, fully recovered from her illness, and having emerged from it more
lovely than ever, like gold that is purified by fire, was clad in the
fawnskin dress of a forest maid, though about her neck lay a chain of
great pearls, presented by the commander and his officers in token of
their devoted admiration of her who had ended the war.
Beside her stood the young war-chief who had fought so bravely, and
accepted defeat so manfully, and with whose fate hers had been so
closely entwined during all the long years of fighting.
These two were married first, and after them came the beautiful English
girl, whose heart had passed into keeping of the dashing American
trooper, standing so proudly beside her.
Ralph Boyd, after giving away both brides, declared that he could now
appreciate the feelings of a parent bereft of his children.
The moment the double ceremony was concluded, the band played its most
brilliant march, the troops raised a mighty cheer, there came a salvo
of artillery from a light battery stationed on the parade-ground, and
the assembled Indians gazed on the whole affair with curious interest.
All that evening there was music and feasting and dancing; but on the
morrow came the sorrowful partings, and, for hundreds of those about to
become exiles forever, the heart-breaking departure from their native
land.
As Coacoochee and Nita stood together on the after-deck of the steamer
that was bearing them down the bay, straining their eyes for a last
glimpse of the stately pines that they loved so dearly, she murmured in
his ear:
"Without your brave presence, my warrior, I could not bear it." And he
answered: "Without you, Ista-chee, I would never have come."
Across the blue Mexican Gulf they steamed, and for one hundred miles up
the tawny flood of the great river to New Orleans. There the followers
of Coacoochee were so impressed by the numbers and evident strength of
the white man, that they were filled with pride at having successfully
resisted his soldiers so long as they had.
At New Orleans the exiles were transferred to one of the great river
packets, that, with its glowing furnaces, and the hoarse coughing of
its high-pressure exhaust, seemed to them by far the most wonderful
creation of the all-powerful Iste-hatke.
Being embarked in this mighty Pith-lo-loot-ka (boat of fire), no stop
was made until they came within a few miles of Baton Rouge, where,
by special request of Coacoochee, the packet was swung in toward the
eastern bank. Guided by one familiar with that country, the entire body
of Indians followed Coacoochee to the land. He bore a great basket,
very heavy, and covered with palmetto leaves. None save himself knew
what it contained.
A few rods from the shore the guide halted, and pointed to a lowly
mound that was evidently a grave. Standing silently beside this, and
waiting until all his people were gathered about him, the young chief
said, with a voice that trembled, but so clearly that all might hear:
"Under this grass lies a great chief of the Seminole nation; one whom
you knew and loved. He was an old man when the soldiers tore him from
his home. His heart broke with its weight of sorrow, and he died on
his way to that new land to which we are now going. He lies cold in
this strange earth; but I have brought that which will warm him. With
this soil from the land of his fathers, I now cover the grave of Philip
Emathla." Thus saying, Coacoochee emptied the contents of his basket
over the mound at his feet.
At mention of Philip Emathla's name, a great cry of grief and loving
reverence went up from the dusky throng, and they pressed tumultuously
forward. They struggled to see, to feel, and even to taste the earth
that now covered his grave. It was only coarse gray sand; but it was
sand from Florida, from the dear land they would never more see.
Through the magic of its shining particles they could hear again the
whispering pines, the rustling palms, and the singing birds of Florida.
They could see its shadowy woodlands and white beaches. Its myriad
lakes and tortuous waterways lay outspread before them. The fragrance
of its jasmine and palmetto was wafted to them. Its glinting clouds
of white-winged ibis circled before their eyes. The countless details
mirrored indelibly on their hearts rose before them in all their
alluring beauty. The warriors stood stern and silent; but the women
tore their hair, with piteous cries.
After a while Coacoochee succeeded in restoring quiet, and, with many
a backward, lingering glance at the lonely grave of Philip Emathla,
the company was re-embarked, and the steamer continued on its way up
the mighty river. Turning from it into the Arkansas, they continued
up the muddy volume of that great tributary, across the whole State
to which it gives a name, and on into that territory that the United
States Government had recently set apart for the occupation of its
Indian wards. Here, at Fort Gibson, the journey by water ended, though
they had still to traverse the country of their old-time neighbors and
enemies, the Creeks, ere they could reach the narrow tract reserved for
them, in which they were to make their new homes.
At Fort Gibson a joyful surprise awaited Nita and Coacoochee; for Louis
Pacheco, long since established in the west, and previously notified
of their coming, had travelled that far to meet them. For them he had
brought saddle-horses, while for the others a long train of wagons had
been provided.
It was late on the day after their arrival before all was in readiness
for the last stage of their journey; but they were now so anxious
to press forward that Coacoochee gave the order for a start. Then,
vaulting into his own saddle, and with Nita and Louis riding beside
him, the young war-chief dashed away in the direction of the setting
sun. As they gained a crest of the rolling prairie, he waved his rifle
toward the infinite glories of the western sky, and, turning his face
to those who followed him, thrilled their hearts with the ringing
war-cry that had so often led the Seminole to victory:
"Yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee yo-ho-ee-chee!"