Chapter Thirty Six In Need of a Friend - Osceola the Seminole by Mayne Reid
To pass the night under the same roof with a man who intends to murder you is anything but pleasant, and repose under the circumstance, is next to impossible. I slept but little, and the little sleep I did obtain was not tranquil.
Before retiring for the night, I had seen nothing of the Ringgolds, neither father nor son; but I knew they were still in the fort, where they were to remain as guests a day or two longer. They had either gone to bed before my return, or were entertained in the quarters of some friendly officer. At all events, they did not appear to me during the remainder of the night.
Neither saw I aught of Spence and Williams. These worthies, if in the fort, would find a lodgment among the soldiers, but I did not seek them.
Most of the night I lay awake, pondering on the strange incidents of the day, or rather upon that one episode that had made me acquainted with such deadly enemies.
I was in a state of sad perplexity as to what course I should pursue — uncertain all night long; and when daylight shone through the shutters, still uncertain.
My first impulse had been to disclose the whole affair at head-quarters, and demand an investigation — a punishment.
On reflection, this course would not do. What proofs could I offer of so grave an accusation? Only my own assertions, unbacked by any other evidence — unsustained even by probability — for who would have given credence to crime so unparalleled in atrocity?
Though certain the assassins referred to me, I could not assert that they had even mentioned my name. My story would be treated with ridicule, myself perhaps with something worse. The Ringgolds were mighty men — personal friends both of the general and commissioner — and though known to be a little scoundrelly and unscrupulous in worldly affairs, still holding the rank of gentlemen. It would need better evidence than I could offer to prove Arens Ringgold a would-be murderer.
I saw the difficulty, and kept my secret.
Another plan appeared more feasible — to accuse Arens Ringgold openly before all, and challenge him to mortal combat. This, at least, would prove that I was sincere in my allegations.
But duelling was against the laws of the service. It would require some management to keep clear of an arrest — which of course would frustrate the scheme before satisfaction could be obtained. I had my own thoughts about Master Arens Ringgold. I knew his courage was but slippery. He would be likely enough to play the poltroon; but whether so or not, the charge and challenge would go some way towards exposing him.
I had almost decided on adopting this course, though it was morning before I had come to any determination.
I stood sadly in need of a friend; not merely a second — for this I could easily procure — but a companion in whom I could confide, and who might aid me by his counsel. As ill luck would have it, every officer in the fort was a perfect stranger to me. With the Ringgolds alone had I any previous acquaintance.
In my dilemma, I thought of one whose advice might stand me in good stead, and I determined to seek it. Black Jake was the man — he should be my counsellor.
Shortly after daylight the brave fellow was by my side. I told him all. He appeared very little surprised. Some suspicion of such a plot had already taken possession of his mind, and it was his intention to have revealed it to me that very morning. Least of all did he express surprise about Yellow Jake. That was but the confirmation of a belief, which he entertained already, without the shadow of a doubt. He knew positively that the mulatto was living — still more, he had ascertained the mode by which the latter had made his almost miraculous escape.
And yet it was simple enough. The alligator had seized him, as was supposed; but the fellow had the adroitness to "job" its eyes with the knife, and thus cause it to let go its hold. He had followed the example of the young Indian, using the same weapon!
This occurred under water, for the mulatto was a good diver. His limbs were lacerated — hence the blood — but the wounds did not signify, nor did they hinder him from making further efforts to escape.
He took care not to rise to the surface until after swimming under the bank; there, concealed by the drooping branches, he had glided out, and climbed up into a live-oak — where the moss sheltered him from the eyes of his vengeful pursuers. Being entirely naked, there was no sign left by dripping garments, to betray him; besides, the blood upon the water had proved his friend. On seeing that, the hunters were under the full belief that he had "gone under," and therefore took but little pains to search further.
Such was Black Jake’s account of this affair. He had obtained it the evening before from one of the friendly Indians at the fort, who professed to have the narration from the mulatto’s own lips.
There was nothing improbable in the story, but the contrary. In all likelihood, it was strictly true; and it at once dispersed the half-dozen mysteries that had gathered in my mind.
The black had received other information. The runaway had taken refuge with one of the half-negro tribes established amid the swamps that envelop the head-waters of the Amazura. He had found favour among his new associates, had risen to be a chief, and now passed under the cognomen of the "Mulatto-mica."
There was still a little mystery: how came he and Arens Ringgold in "cahoot?"
After all, there was not much puzzle in the matter. The planter had no particular cause for hating the runaway. His activity during the scene of the baffled execution was all a sham. The mulatto had more reason for resentment; but the loves or hates of such men are easily set aside — where self-interest interferes — and can, at any time, be commuted for gold.
No doubt, the white villain had found the yellow one of service in some base undertaking, and vice versa. At all events, it was evident that the "hatchet had been buried" between them, and their present relations were upon the most friendly footing.
"Jake!" said I, coming to the point on which I desired to hear his opinion, "what about Arens Ringgold — shall I call him out?"
"Golly, Massr George, he am out long ’go — I see um ’bout, dis two hour an’ more — dat ar bossy doant sleep berry sound — he hant got de good conscience, I reck’n."
"Oh! that is not what I mean, my man."
"Wha — what massr mean?"
"To call him out — challenge him to fight me."
"Whaugh! massr, d’you mean to say a dewel ob sword an’ pistol?"
"Swords, pistols, or rifles — I care not which weapon he may choose."
"Gorramity! Massr George, don’t talk ob such a thing. O Lordy! no — you hab moder — you hab sister. ’Spose you get kill — who know — tha bullock he sometime kill tha butcha — den, Massr George, no one lef — who lef take care on ya moder? — who be guardium ob ya sister Vagin? who ’tect Viola — who ’tect all ob us from dese bad bad men? Gorramity! massr, let um lone — doant call ’im out!"
At that moment, I was myself called out. The earnest appeal was interrupted by the braying of bugles and the rolling of drums, announcing the assembling of the council; and without waiting to reply to the disinterested remonstrance of my companion, I hastened to the scene of my duties.