The White Squaw

“I and my tribe depart from this place in seven days.”

“And Nelatu, where is he?” asked Wacora.

“I expected him ere this. He and Red Wolf went away together.”

Oluski was ignorant of what had happened.

“They went upon a hunting excursion, and if not able to return in time, were to go on to the bay, and there await our coming.”

“You still make your summer encampment upon the hill. I have not seen it since I was a boy. It is a shame, too, since out people are buried there.”

“Yes; and, therefore, it is dear to you as to me.”

“And yet the whites have a settlement near it. It was your gift to them, uncle, I remember that.”

Wacora said this with an accent that sounded almost sneering.

The old chief answered warmly.

“Well, I owed their chief a debt of gratitude, I paid it. He is my friend.”

“Friend!” said Wacora, with a bitter smile; “since when has the pale-face been a friend to the red man?”

“Still unjust, Wacora. I thought you had changed. The foolish sentiments of youth should give place to the wisdom of age.”

Oluski’s eye brightened as he spoke. His heart swelled with noble feelings.

“I do not, will not, trust in the white man!” answered the young chief. “What has he done to our race that we should believe in him? Look at his acts and then trust him if you can. Where are the Mohawks, the Shawnees, the Delawares, and the Narragansets? How has the white man kept faith with them?”

“All white men are not alike,” responded Oluski. “A pale-face befriended me when I required aid. The deed always weighs against the word. I could not be ungrateful.”

“Well, Oluski’s gratitude has been proved,” returned Wacora. “But let him beware of those on whom it has been bestowed.”

The old chief did not answer, but stood in an attitude of thought.

Ideas, slumbering till now, were awakened by Wacora’s words. An unknown feeling appeared to gain possession of him.

So contagious is mistrust.

The nephew, too, seemed lost in thought. Still lying upon the ground he idly plucked the petals of a flower growing by his side.

The conversation was at length resumed by his uncle.

“I have nothing to charge the white chief with or his people. Our tribe yearly visits the place. We are welcomed on arrival, respected during our stay, and unmolested at leaving. No, Wacora, these white men are not like others.”

“Uncle, all white men are the same. They make their homes in our land. When space is needed, the Indian must yield to them. What faith or friendship can exist where there is no equality? Do not the Seminoles suffer at this very moment from the white man’s ambition? Are not their hunting grounds profaned by his presence – their towns pillaged for his fancied wrongs? Your friend is a white man, and, therefore the enemy of your race.”

Wacora spoke passionately.

The Indian is not always a savage. The reverse is often the case. In every tribe there are men of education, of quick intelligence, and with a high sense of right.

Both Oluski and Wacora were superior men, in the sense that education and natural intelligence gave the stamp of superiority over ignorance and superstition.

Chapter Eight.

Sansuta

As we have said, Wacora had white blood in his veins.

His mother was a Spaniard, the daughter of a planter, who had lived near the town of Saint Augustine.

Almost a child at the time of her capture, she eventually forgot her own kindred, and became devoted to the chief who had been her captor.

It ended in her becoming his wife, and the mother of Wacora.

Albeit that in Wacora’s veins white blood flowed, his soul was Indian, and he loved his father’s people as if he had been of their purest blood.

He was a patriot of the most enthusiastic stamp.

His judgment, clear in most things, was clouded in estimating the qualities of the white race, simply because he had seen the worst phases of their character, its cupidity and selfishness.

Oluski would have answered his companion’s address, but the same train of disagreeable thought that had entered his mind at the first part of Wacora’s speech held him silent.

Wacora proceeded.

“Enough, uncle. I did not intend to trouble you with my feelings; I meant only to warn you against danger, for danger exists in all dealings with the pale-faces. They, as ourselves, are true to their instincts, and those instincts blind them to justice. Your friend, the White Chief, may be all you think of him. If so, he will rather admire your caution than blame you for mistrust; natural, because not causeless.”

Whatever reply Oluski intended, was postponed by the arrival of a third person, at whose coming Wacora sprang from the ground with a gesture of surprise and admiration.

The new comer was an Indian maiden. A perfect wood nymph.

She was a girl of slight stature, beautifully rounded limbs, with hands and feet unusually small.

Her dress was simplicity itself; yet so gracefully worn that it seemed the result of laboured art.

A tunic of bright-coloured cloth, clasped round her neck by a silver brooch, descended to her ankles, while around her waist was twisted a scarf of many colours; over her shoulders fell a bright cloth mantle, bordered with shells worked into delicate patterns; upon her head was a bead-work cap, trimmed with the plumes of the white eagle, like a fringe of newly-fallen snow; her wrists were encircled with bead bracelets, whilst embroidered mocassins covered her small feet.

She smilingly approached Oluski, and nestled close to the old chief.

Wacora seemed puzzled by the fair presence.

“I had forgotten,” said Oluski, “that you are strangers to each other. Sansuta, your cousin Wacora stands before you.”

Sansuta – for she it was – smiled upon the young Indian.

He did not approach the spot where father and daughter stood.

His impassioned eloquence had vanished.

He could scarce find words for the simplest salutation.

Oluski, perceiving his bashfulness, hastened to his relief.

“Sansuta has been upon a visit, and has only now returned. It is many years since you have seen her, Wacora. You did not expect her to have grown so tall?”

Wacora finished the sentence.

“Nor so beautiful!” he said.

Sansuta cast down her eyes.

“No praise like that should reach an Indian maiden’s ear,” said Oluski, with a smile; “nevertheless, Sansuta is as the Great Spirit has made her, that is sufficient.”

The girl did not seem to share her father’s sentiments; a slight pout of her beautiful lips implied that the compliment was by no means unpleasant.

Wacora was again dumb, as if half regretting what he had said.

Such is the power that beauty exercises over bravery.

The young Indian warrior actually blushed at his boldness.

“But what brings you here, Sansuta?” asked her father. “Did you not know that your cousin and myself were in council?”

The pretty Sansuta had recovered her composure.

The pout had disappeared from her lips, which, opening to answer her father’s question, revealed two rows of teeth of a dazzling whiteness.

“I am here to bid you both to the evening meal,” she said.

Her voice, melodious and soft, struck upon Wacora’s ear like the music of the mocking-bird.

The charm was complete.

Forgetful of his late conversation, forgetful for a time of his thoughts and aspirations, oblivious of his enthusiasm, he stood a very child, eagerly watching her and listening for those tones again.

It was Oluski, however, who spoke.

“Come, Wacora, let us go with her.”

The old chief strode away from the spot, Sansuta by his side.

Wacora followed, with a new feeling in his heart.

It was love!

Chapter Nine.

The Indian Village

A week later the table top of the hill over-looking the settlement presented a changed picture.

It was one of active life.

The naked poles, formerly standing there, had disappeared, and comfortable Indian dwellings – wigwams – were in their place.

At the doors of several were planted lances and spears, with plumes and pennons depending from them.

These were the residences of the chiefs.

In the centre of the group was a large building, which was carefully, almost elaborately constructed, and which far o’ertopped over the others.

It was the council house of the tribe.

Around the doors of their respective dwellings, the owners might be seen engaged in every variety of employment or peaceful idleness. Children frolicked in the presence of their parents, and dusky maidens, in twos and threes, loitered up and down the main street or avenue.

At one of the doors an interesting group seemed rapt in attention at the recital of a story that was being told by an aged chief.

The chief was Oluski, and among the individuals around was his daughter, Sansuta.

The others were his kindred.

They had assembled, as was their usual evening custom, in front of his wigwam, to listen to tales of virtue or valour; of deeds done by their ancestors in the days of the early Spanish settlers.

The Indians are admirable listeners, and, in the easy natural attitudes into which they fell as they lent forward to catch Oluski’s words, they formed a charming tableau.

The venerable chief, with dignified action, measured speech, and great skill in modulating his voice, held their attention as much by the manner as the matter of his narrative.

As the incident he was relating developed pathos, chivalry, horror or revenge, so did his audience yield themselves to its influences. By turns they lowered their eyes, shuddered, stared wildly around with knit brows and clenched hands.

Like all people constantly communing with nature, they were easily moved to joy or sorrow; and not civilised enough to make any attempt at concealing it.

As Oluski sat in their midst, the observed of all observers, he looked the picture of a patriarch.

The time and piece were both in harmony with the subject.

Oluski’s story drew to a close. His hero had achieved his triumph. The distressed Seminole maiden was rescued, and joy and union wound up the tale, which had for more than an hour held his listeners enthralled.

“So now, children, away! The sun is sinking in the west; the hour of council is at hand, and I must leave you. Return to-morrow, and I will relate to you some other episode in the history of our tribe.”

The young people rose at the chief’s bidding, and with “thanks” and “good nights,” prepared to depart; Sansuta among the rest.

“Where are you going child?” asked her father.

“Only to the spring, father. I shall be back soon.”

As the girl said this, she turned, as if wishing to avoid her father’s gaze. The other people had all departed.

“Well,” said the old man, after a pause, “do not forget to return soon. I would not have you abroad after nightfall.”

She murmured a few words, and sauntered away from the spot.

Oluski did not immediately depart, but stood leaning against the spear that stood up in front of his dwelling.

The old man’s eyes were filled with tears, while a hand was laid upon his heart.

“Poor girl,” he reflected, as he watched her form disappearing in the fast darkening twilight; “she never knew her mother. I sometimes think I have been but a poor guardian of Sansuta’s steps. But the Great Spirit knows I have tried to do my duty.”

Sighing heavily, he brushed the tears from his eyes, and strode off to the council house.

Chapter Ten.

An Appointment Kept by Deputy

Let us follow the steps of Sansuta.

Once out of sight, and conscious that she had eluded her father’s observation, she quickened her steps, not in the direction of the spring, but towards a thick clump of live oaks which grew at the foot of the hill.

As she approached the spot, her pace gradually became slower, until she at length came to a stop.

As she paused, a shiver ran through her frame.

She was evidently in doubt as to the propriety of what she was doing.

The sun had sunk below the horizon, and darkness was rapidly falling over the landscape.

A distant murmuring alone gave token of the proximity of the Indian village upon the hill.

After a few moments, and while Sansuta still stood beside the grove, these sounds ceased, and perfect silence reigned around the spot.

Presently a cuckoo’s note was heard – followed by another nearer and louder – that in its turn succeeded by three others.

Whilst the echo of the last still vibrated on the evening air, the maiden was startled by a sudden apparition.

It sprang into view at her very feet, as if the ground had opened suddenly to give it passage.

When the girl regained courage sufficient to look upon it, her fears were in no way lessened.

Standing in a grotesque attitude, she beheld a negro, with arms enveloped in a ragged garment, moving about like the sails of a windmill, whilst a low chuckle proceeded from his huge mouth.

“He! ho! ho! brest if de ole nigga didn’t skear de galumpious Injun. He! he! he! ’gorry if de Injun beauty ain’t turn white at de show of dis chile!”

It was Crookleg who spoke.

He seemed to enjoy the fright he had given the maiden; for, after having ceased to speak, his gurgling cachinnation was continued.

It was some time before Sansuta recovered presence of mind sufficient to speak to the black deformity before her.

“What do you want?” was all she could gasp.

“Ha! ha! ha! It warn’t dis ugly ole nigga what the big chief’s chile ’pected to meet – war it? No, I know it warn’t. But don’t be skeared, ole Crookleg won’t hurt ye. He’s as innercent as a angel. He! he! he! as a angel.”

Here another caper, similar to the one with which he had introduced himself, placed him in a still more impish attitude.

The Indian girl had by this recovered from her first surprise, seeing that some attributes of humanity appertained to her strange interlocutor.

“Again, what do you want? Let me pass. I must return to the village.”

“Gorry, an it arn’t Crookleg dat will hinder you,” the negro answered, standing directly in her path. “He only want say a word to you – dat is if you is de beautiful Sansuta, de darter of de chief?”

“I am the chief’s daughter; that is my name. I am Sansuta!”

“Den de young gen’l’m’n tole dis old darkey true wen he say I find you down by de live-oak grove at sunset – he told de old nigga true.”

A blush overspread the girl’s face as Crookleg spoke. She did not answer him.

“He said to me,” continued the negro, “dat I were to tell de lady” (here he chuckled), “dat he de gen’l’m’ couldn’ come to meet her to-night, on accoun’ o’ de ole man his bossy wot hab gib him somethin’ ’tickler to do. He send ole Crookleg to tell her dat, and gib her sometin’ what I’ve got hyar in my pocket, he! he! he!”

Saying these words, the monster made a series of movements, having in view the discovery of his pocket.

After a most elaborate and vigorous search for its aperture among the multitudinous rags, he succeeded in finding it. Then, plunging his long right arm therein up to the elbow, he drew forth a small parcel wrapped in white paper, and tied with a string of dazzling beads.

With another acrobatic bound, he handed it to the trembling girl.

“Dere it am, safe and soun’. Dis ole nigga nebba lose nuffin and offen find a good deal. Dat, says de gen’l’m’, is for de most lubbly of her seek, de Missy Sansuta.”

The tender look accompanying this speech was something hideous to behold.

Sansuta hesitated before taking the parcel from him, as if in doubt whether she should not decline it.

“Da! take it,” urged he; “’tain’t nuffin as’ll go off and hurt ye; dis nigga kin swar to dat!”

Not so much this friendly assurance as a resolution the girl had come to, decided her.

She stretched forth her hand and took the package.

This done, she essayed once more to move past the negro in order to return to the hill.

Crookleg, however, still blocking up the path, made no movement to give way to her.

He had evidently something more to say.

“Lookee hyar,” he continued, “I war bid to tell the lubbly Injun lady that the gen’l’m’n wud be at dis berry spot to-morrow mornin’ early to meet her, and I war ’tickler told say dat it war private, and not to be told no ’quisitive folks wat might want to know. Now I think,” here Crookleg took off his tattered hat and scratched his wool. “Yes! dats all dis nigga war tole to say – yes, dats all.”

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