Chapter Ninety One The Black Plumes - Osceola the Seminole by Mayne Reid
We journeyed throughout the whole night. The burnt woods were left behind, and having crossed a savanna, we rode for several hours through a forest of giant oaks, palms, and magnolias. I knew this by the fragrance of the magnolia blossoms, that, after the fetid atmosphere that we had been breathing, smelt sweet and refreshing. Just as day was breaking, we arrived at an opening in the woods, where our captors halted.
The opening was of small extent — a few acres only — bounded on all sides by a thick forest of palms, magnolias, and live-oaks. Their foliage drooped to the ground, so that the glade appeared encompassed by a vast wall of green, through which no outlet was discernible.
Through the grey light, I perceived the outlines of an encampment. There were two or three tents with horses picketed around them, and human forms, some of them upright and moving about, others recumbent upon the grass, singly, or in clusters, as if sleeping together for mutual warmth. A large fire was burning in the midst, and around it were men and women, seated and standing.
Within the limits of this camp we had been carried, but no time was left us for observation. The moment we halted, we were dragged roughly from our horses, and flung prostrate upon the grass. We were next turned upon our backs. Thongs were tied around our waists and ancles, our arms and limbs drawn out to their full extent, and we were staked firmly to the ground, like hides spread out for drying. Of course, in this attitude, we could see no more of the camp — nor the trees — nor the earth itself — only the blue heavens above us.
Under any circumstances, the position would have been painful, but my wounded arm rendered it excruciating.
Our arrival had set the camp in motion. Men came out to meet us, and women stooped over us, as we lay on our backs. There were Indian squaws among them, but, to my surprise, I noticed that most of them were of African race — mulattoes, samboes, and negresses!
For some time they stood over, jeering and taunting us. They even proceeded to inflict torture — they spit on us, pulled out handfuls of our hair by the roots, and stuck sharp thorns into our skin, all the while yelling with a fiendish delight, and jabbering an unintelligible patois, that appeared a mixture of Spanish and Yamassee.
My fellow-captive fared as badly as myself. The homogenous colour of his skin elicited no sympathy from these female fiends. Black and white were alike the victims of their hellish spite.
Part of their jargon I was able to comprehend, aided by a slight acquaintance with the Spanish tongue, I made out what was intended to be done with us — we were to be tortured.
We had been brought to the camp to be tortured. We were to be the victims of a grand spectacle, and these infernal hags were exulting in the prospect of the sport our sufferings should afford them. For this only had, we been captured, instead of being killed.
Into whose hound hands had we fallen? Were they human beings? Were they Indians? Could they be Seminoles, whose behaviour to their captives hitherto, had repelled every insinuation of torture?
A shout arose as if in answer to my questions. The voices of all around were mingled in the cry, but the words were the same:
"Mulato-mico! mulato-mico! viva, mulato-mico!"
The trampling of many hoofs announced the arrival of a band. They were the warriors who had been engaged in the fight — who had conquered and made us captive. Only half a dozen guards had been with us on the night-march, and had reached the camp at daybreak. The new comers were the main body, who had stayed upon the field to complete the despoliation of their fallen foes. I could not see them, though they were near, for I heard their horses trampling around.
I lay listening to that significant shout:
"Mulato-mico! viva, mulato-mico!"
To me the words were full of terrible import. The phrase "Mulato-mico" was not new to me, and I heard it with a feeling of dread. But it was scarce possible to increase apprehensions already excited to the full. A hard fate was before me. The presence of the fiend himself could not make it more certain.
My fellow-victim shared my thoughts. We were near, and could converse. On comparing our conjectures, we found that they coincided.
But the point was soon settled beyond conjecture. A harsh voice sounded in our ears, issuing an abrupt order, that scattered the women away; a heavy footstep was heard behind — the speaker was approaching.
In another instant his shadow fell upon my face; and the man himself stood within the limited circle of my vision.
Despite the pigment that disguised his natural complexion — despite the beaded shirt, the sash, the embroidered leggins — despite the three black plumes, that waved over his brow, I easily identified the man. He was no Indian, but a mulatto — "yellow Jake" himself.