Chapter Seventy Five The Alarm - Osceola the Seminole by Mayne Reid
There were other circumstances connected with the bloody affair, that upon reflection appeared peculiar and mysterious. By the sudden shock, my soul had been completely benighted; and these circumstances had escaped my notice. I merely believed that there had been an onslaught of the Indians, in which my mother had been massacred, and my sister borne away from her home — that the savages, not satisfied with blood, had added fire — that these outrages had been perpetrated in revenge for past wrongs, endured at the hands of their pale-faced enemies — that the like had occurred elsewhere, and was almost daily occurring — why not on the banks of the Suwanee, as in other districts of the country? In fact, it had been rather a matter of wonder, that the settlement had been permitted to remain so long unmolested. Others — far more remote from the Seminole strongholds — had already suffered a like terrible visitation; and why should ours escape? The immunity had been remarked, and the inhabitants had become lulled by it into a false security.
The explanation given was that the main body of the Indians had been occupied elsewhere, watching the movements of Scott’s triple army; and, as our settlement was strong, no small band had dared to come against it.
But Scott was now gone — his troops had retired within the forts — their summer quarters — for winter is the season of campaigning in Florida; and the Indians, to whom all seasons are alike, were now free to extend their marauding expeditions against the trans-border plantations.
This appeared the true explanation why an attack upon the settlement of the Suwanee had been so long deferred.
During the first burst of my grief, on receiving news of the calamity, I accepted it as such: I and mine had merely been the victims of a general vengeance.
But the moments of bewilderment soon passed; and the peculiar circumstances, to which I have alluded, began to make themselves apparent to my mind.
First of all, why was our plantation the only one that had been attacked? — our house the only one given to the flames? — our family the only one murdered?
These questions startled me; and natural it was that they did so. There were other plantations along the river equally unprotected — other families far more noted for their hostility to the Seminole race — nay, what was yet a greater mystery, the Ringgold plantation lay in the very path of the marauders; as their trail testified, they had passed around it to reach our house; and both Arens Ringgold and his father had long been notorious for bitter enmity to the red men, and violent aggressions against their rights.
Why, then, had the Ringgold plantation been suffered to remain unmolested, while ours was singled out for destruction? Were we the victims of a particular and special vengeance?
It must have been so; beyond a doubt, it was so. After long reflection, I could arrive at no other conclusion. By this alone could the mystery be solved.
And Powell — oh! could it have been he? — my friend, a fiend guilty of such an atrocious deed? Was it probable? was it possible? No — neither.
Despite the testimony of the two men — vile wretches I knew them to be — despite what they had seen and said — my heart refused to believe it.
What motive could he have for such special murder? — ah! what motive?
True, my mother had been unkind to him — more than that, ungrateful; she had once treated him with scorn. I remembered it well — he, too, might remember it.
But surely he, the noble youth — to my mind the beau ideal of heroism — would scarcely have harboured such petty spite, and for so long? — would scarcely have repaid it by an act of such bloody retribution? No — no — no.
Besides, would Powell have left untouched the dwelling of the Ringgolds? of Arens Ringgold, one of his most hated foes — one of the four men he had sworn to kill? This of itself was the most improbable circumstance connected with the whole affair.
Ringgold had been at home — might have been entrapped in his sleep — his black retainers would scarcely have resisted; at all events, they could have been overcome as easily as ours.
Why was he permitted to live? Why was his house not given to the flames?
Upon the supposition that Osceola was the leader of the band, I could not comprehend why he should have left Arens Ringgold to live, while killing those who were scarcely his enemies.
New information imparted to me as we advanced along the route, produced new reflections. I was told that the Indians had made a hasty departure — that they had in fact retreated. The conflagration had attracted a large body of citizen soldiery — a patrol upon its rounds — and the appearance of these, unexpected by the savages, had caused the latter to scamper off to the woods. But for this, it was conjectured other plantations would have suffered the fate of ours — perhaps that of Ringgold himself.
The tale was probable enough. The band of marauders was not large — we knew by their tracks there were not more than fifty of them — and this would account for their retreat on the appearance even of a smaller force. The people alleged that it was a retreat.
This information gave a different complexion to the affair — I was again driven to conjectures — again forced to suspicions of Osceola.
Perhaps I but half understood his Indian nature; perhaps, after all, he was the monster who had struck the blow.
Once more I interrogated myself as to his motive — what motive?
Ha! my sister, Virginia — O God! could love — passion — fiendish desire to possess -
"The Indyens! Indyens! Indyens!"