Chapter Seventy Two The Condition of Black Jake - Osceola the Seminole by Mayne Reid
We had escaped from the blockhouse in boats, down the river to its mouth, and by sea to Saint Marks. Thence the volunteers scattered to their homes — their term of service having expired. They went as they listed; journeying alone, or in straggling squads of three and four together.
One of these groups consisted of old Hickman the hunter, a companion of like kidney, myself, and my ever faithful henchman.
Jake was no longer the "Black Jake" of yore. A sad change had come over his external aspect. His cheek-bones stood prominently out, while the cheeks themselves had fallen in; his eyeballs had retreated far within their sockets, and the neglected wool stood out over his temples in a thick frizzled shock. His skin had lost its fine ebon polish, and showed distinct traces of corrugation. Wherever "scratched" by his now elongated finger-nails, a whitish dandruffy surface was exhibited.
The poor fellow had fared badly in the blockhouse; and three weeks of positive famine had played sad havoc with his outward man.
Starvation, however, but little affected his spirits. Throughout all, he had preserved his jovial mood, and his light humour often roused me from my despondency. While gnawing the corn cob, and washing down the dry maize with a gourd of cold water, he would indulge in rapturous visions of "hominy and hog-meat," to be devoured whenever it should please fate to let him return to the "ole plantayshun." Such delightful prospects of future enjoyment enabled him the better to endure the pinching present — for anticipation has its joys. Now that we were free, and actually heading homewards; now that his visions were certain soon to become realities, Jake’s jovialty could no longer be kept within bounds; his tongue was constantly in motion; his mouth ever open with the double tier of "ivories" displayed in a continuous smile; while his skin seemed to be rapidly recovering its dark oily lustre.
Jake was the soul of our party, as we trudged wearily along; and his gay jokes affected even the staid old hunters, at intervals eliciting from both loud peals of laughter. — For myself I scarcely shared their mirth — only now and then, when the sallies of my follower proved irresistible. There was a gloom over my spirit, which I could not comprehend.
It should have been otherwise. I should have felt happy at the prospect of returning home — of once more beholding those who were dear — but it was not so.
It had been so on my first getting free from our blockhouse prison; but this was only the natural reaction, consequent upon escape from what appeared almost certain death. My joy had been short-lived: it was past and gone; and now that I was nearing my native home, dark shadows came over my soul; a presentiment was upon me that all was not well.
I could in no way account for this feeling, for I had heard no evil tidings. In truth, I had heard nothing of home or of friends for a period of nearly two months. During our long siege, no communication had ever reached us; and at Saint Marks we met but slight news from the settlements of the Suwanee. We were returning in ignorance of all that had transpired there during our absence — if aught had transpired worthy of being known.
This ignorance itself might have produced uncertainty, doubt, even apprehension; but it was not the sole cause of my presentiment. Its origin was different. Perhaps the recollection of my abrupt departure — the unsettled state in which I had left the affairs of our family — the parting scene, now vividly recalled — remembrances of Ringgold — reflections upon the wicked designs of this wily villain — all these may have contributed to form the apprehensions under which I was suffering. Two months was a long period; many events could happen within two months, even in the narrow circle of one’s own family. Long since it had been reported that I had perished at the hands of the Indian foe; I was believed to be dead, at home, wherever I was known; and the belief might have led to ill results. Was my sister still true to her word, so emphatically pronounced in that hour of parting? Was I returning home to find her still my loved sister? Still single and free? or had she yielded to maternal solicitation, and become the wife of the vile caitiff after all?
With such conjectures occupying my thoughts, no wonder I was not in a mood for merriment. My companions noticed my dejection, and in their rude but kind way, rallied me as we rode along. They failed, however, to make me cheerful like themselves. I could not cast the load from my heart. Try as I would, the presentiment lay heavy upon me, that all was not well.
Alas, alas! the presentiment proved true — no, not true, but worse — worse than my worst apprehensions — worse even than that I had most feared.
The news that awaited me was not of marriage, but of death — the death of my mother — and worse than death — horrid doubt of my sister’s fate. Before reaching home, a messenger met me — one who told an appalling tale.
The Indians had attacked the settlement, or rather my own plantation — for their foray had gone no further: my poor mother had fallen under their savage knives; my uncle too: and my sister? She had been carried off!
I stayed to hear no more; but, driving the spurs into my jaded horse, galloped forward like one suddenly smitten with madness.