Chapter Forty Seven The Captive - Osceola the Seminole by Mayne Reid
Late as was the hour, I determined to visit the captive before going to rest. My design would not admit of delay; besides, I had a suspicion that, before another day passed, my own liberty might be curtailed. Two duels in one day — two antagonists wounded, and both friends to the commander-in-chief — myself comparatively friendless — it was hardly probable I should escape "scot free." Arrest I expected as certain — perhaps a trial by court-martial, with a fair chance of being cashiered the service.
Despite my lukewarmness in the cause in which we had become engaged, I could not contemplate this result without uneasiness. Little did I care for my commission: I could live without it; but whether right or wrong, few men are indifferent to the censure of their fellows, and no man likes to bear the brand of official disgrace. Reckless as one may be of self, kindred and family have a concern in the matter not to be lightly ignored.
Gallagher’s views were different.
"Let them arrist and cashear, an’ be hanged! What need you care? Divil a bit, my boy. Sowl, man, if I were in your boots, with a fine plantation and a whole regiment of black nagers, I’d snap my fingers at the sarvice, and go to raisin’ shugar and tobaccay. Be Saint Pathrick! that’s what I’d do."
My friend’s consolatory speech failed to cheer me; and, in no very joyous mood, I walked towards the quarters of the captive, to add still further to my chances of "cashierment."
Like an eagle freshly caught and caged — like a panther in a pentrap — furious, restless, at intervals uttering words of wild menace, I found the young chief of the Baton Rouge.
The apartment was quite dark; there was no window to admit even the grey lustre of the night; and the corporal who guided me in carried neither torch nor candle. He went back to the guard-house to procure one, leaving me in darkness.
I heard the footfall of a man. It was the sound of a moccasined foot, and soft as the tread of a tiger; but mingling with this was the sharp clanking of a chain. I heard the breathing of one evidently in a state of excitement, and now and then an exclamation of fierce anger. Without light, I could perceive that the prisoner was pacing the apartment in rapid, irregular strides. At least his limbs were free.
I had entered silently, and stood near the door, I had already ascertained that the prisoner was alone; but waited for the light before addressing him. Preoccupied as he appeared to be, I fancied that he was not conscious of my presence.
My fancy was at fault. I heard him stop suddenly in his tracks — as if turning towards me — and the next moment his voice fell upon my ear. To my surprise, it pronounced my name. He must have seen through the darkness.
"You, Randolph!" he said, in a tone that expressed reproach; "you, too, in the ranks of our enemies? Armed — uniformed — equipped — ready to aid in driving us from our homes!"
"Powell!"
"Not Powell, sir; my name is Osceola."
"To me, still Edward Powell — the friend of my youth, the preserver of my life. By that name alone do I remember you."
There was a momentary pause. The speech had evidently produced a conciliating effect; perhaps memories of the past had come over him.
He replied:
"Your errand? Come you as a friend? or only like others, to torment me with idle words? I have had visitors already; gay, gibbering fools, with forked tongues, who would counsel me to dishonour. Have you been sent upon a like mission?"
From this speech I concluded that Scott — the pseudo-friend — had already been with the captive — likely on some errand from the agent.
"I come of my own accord — as a friend."
"George Randolph, I believe you. As a boy, you possessed a soul of honour. The straight sapling rarely grows to a crooked tree. I will not believe that you are changed, though enemies have spoken against you. No — no; your hand, Randolph — your hand! forgive me for doubting you."
I reached through the darkness to accept the proffered salute. Instead of one, I grasped both hands of the prisoner. I felt that they were manacled together: for all that, the pressure was firm and true; nor did I return it with less warmth.
Enemies had spoken against me. I needed not to ask who these were: that had been already told me; but I felt it necessary to give the captive assurance of my friendship. I needed his full confidence to insure the success of the plan which I had conceived for his liberation; and to secure this, I detailed to him what had transpired by the pond — only a portion of what had passed. There was a portion of it I could not intrust even to the ears of a brother.
I anticipated a fresh paroxysm of fury, but was agreeably disappointed. The young chief had been accustomed to harsh developments, and could outwardly control himself; but I saw that my tale produced an impression that told deeply, if not loudly, upon him. In the darkness, I could not see his face; but the grinding teeth and hissing ejaculations were expressive of the strong passions stirring within.
"Fool!" he exclaimed at length — "blind fool that I have been! And yet I suspected this smooth-tongued villain from the first. Thanks, noble Randolph! I can never repay this act of chivalric friendship; henceforth you may command Osceola!"
"Say no more, Powell; you have nothing to repay; it was I who was the debtor. But come, we lose time. My purpose in coming here is to counsel you to a plan for procuring your release from this awkward confinement. We must be brief, else my intentions may be suspected."
"What plan, Randolph?"
"You must sign the treaty of the Oclawaha."