Mayne Reid - Osceola the Seminole - or, The Red Fawn of the Flower Land

“Shall I go? Once more behold her. Once more renew those sweet joys of tender love? Once more – Ha, perhaps it is too late! I might be no longer welcome – if my reception should be hostile? Perhaps – ”

“Wha’ you doin’ dar, Massr George? Daat’s not tha’ road to tha fort.”

“I know that, Jake; I was thinking of making a call at Madame Powell’s plantation.”

“Mar’m Powell plantayshun! Gollys! Massr George – daat all you knows ’bout it?”

“About what?” I inquired with anxious heart.

“Dar’s no Mar’m Powell da no more; nor hain’t a been, since better’n two year – all gone clar ’way.”

“Gone away? Where?”

“Daat dis chile know nuffin ’bout. S’pose da gone some other lokayshun in da rezav; made new clarin somewha else.”

“And who lives here now?”

“Dar ain’t neery one lib tha now: tha ole house am desarted.”

“But why did Madame Powell leave it?”

“Ah – daat am a quaw story. Gollys! you nebber hear um, Massr George?”

“No – never.”

“Den I tell um. But s’pose, massr, we ride on. I am a gettin’ a little lateish, an’ ’twont do nohow to be cotch arter night in tha woods.”

I turned my horse’s head and advanced along the main road, Jake riding by my side. With aching heart, I listened to his narrative.

“You see, Massr George, ’twar all o’ Massr Ringgol – tha ole boss 2 2 Master or proprietor; universally in use throughout the Southern States. From the Dutch “baas.” daat am – an’ I blieve tha young ’un had ’im hand in dat pie, all same, like tha ole ’un. Waal, you see Mar’m Pow’ll she loss some niggas dat war ha slaves. Dey war stole from ha, an’ wuss dan stole. Dey war tuk, an’ by white men, massr. Tha be folks who say dat Mass’ Ringgol – he know’d more ’n anybody else ’bout tha whole bizness. But da rubb’ry war blamed on Ned Spence an’ Bill William. Waal, Mar’m, Powell she go to da law wi’ dis yar Ned an’ Bill; an’ she ’ploy Massr Grubb tha big lawyer dat lib down tha ribba. Now Massr Grubb, he great friend o’ Massr Ringgol, an’ folks do say dat boaf de two put tha heads together to cheat dat ar Indyen ’ooman.”

“How?”

“Dis chile don’t say for troof, Massr George; he hear um only from da black folks: tha white folks say diffrent. But I hear um from Mass’ Ringgol’s own nigga woodman – Pomp, you know Massr, George? an’ he say that them ar two bosses did put tha heads together to cheat dat poor Indyen ’ooman.”

“In what way, Jake?” I asked impatiently.

“Waal, you see, Massr George, da lawya he want da Indyen sign ha name to some paper – power ob ’turney, tha call am, I believe. She sign; she no read tha writin. Whuch! daat paper war no power ob ’turney: it war what tha lawyas call a ‘bill ob sale’.”

“Ha!”

“Yes, Massr George, dat’s what um war; an’ by dat same bill ob sale all Mar’m Pow’ll’s niggas an’ all ha plantation-clarin war made ober to Massr Grubb.”

“Atrocious scoundrel?”

“Massr Grubb he swar he bought ’em all, an’ paid for ’em in cash dollar. Mar’m Pow’ll she swar de berry contr’y. Da judge he decide for Massr Grubb, ’kase great Massr Ringgoh he witness; an’ folks do say Massr Ringgol now got dat paper in um own safe keeping an’ war at tha bottom ob tha whole bizness.”

“Atrocious scoundrels! oh, villains! But tell me, Jake, what became of Madame Powell?”

“Shortly arter, tha all gone ’way – nob’dy know wha. Da mar’m haself an’ dat fine young fellur you know, an’ da young Indyen gal dat ebbery body say war so good-lookin’ – yes, Massr George, tha all gone ’way.”

At that moment an opening in the woods enabled me to catch a glimpse of the old house. There it stood in all its grey grandeur, still embowered in the midst of beautiful groves of orange and olive. But the broken fence – the tall weeds standing up against the walls – the shingles here and there missing from the roof – all told the tale of ruin.

There was ruin in my heart, as I turned sorrowing away.

It never occurred to me to question the genuineness of Jake’s story. What the “black folks” said was true; I had no doubt of it. The whole transaction was redolent of the Ringgolds and lawyer Grubbs – the latter a half planter, half legal practitioner of indifferent reputation.

Jake further informed me that Spence and Williams had disappeared during the progress of the trial. Both afterwards returned to the settlement, but no ulterior steps were taken against them, as there was no one to prosecute!

As for the stolen negroes, they were never seen again in that part of the country. The robbers had no doubt carried them to the slave-markets of Mobile or New Orleans, where a sufficient price would be obtained to remunerate Grubbs for his professional services, as also Williams and Spence for theirs. The land would become Ringgold’s, as soon as the Indians could be got out of the country – and this was the object of the “bill of sale.”

A transaction of like nature between white man and white man would have been regarded as a grave swindle, an atrocious crime. The whites affected not to believe it; but there were some who knew it to be true, and viewed it only in the light of a clever ruse !

That it was true, I could not doubt. Jake gave me reasons that left no room for doubt; in fact it was only in keeping with the general conduct of the border adventures towards the unfortunate natives with whom they came in contact.

Border adventures did I say? Government agents, members of the Florida legislature, generals, planters, rich as Ringgold, all took part in similar speculations. I could give names. I am writing truth, and do not fear contradiction.

It was easy enough, therefore, to credit the tale. It was only one of twenty similar cases of which I had heard. The acts of Colonel Gad Humphreys, the Indian agent – of Major Phagan, another Indian agent – of Dexter, the notorious negro-stealer – of Floyd – of Douglass – of Robinson and Millburn, are all historic – all telling of outrages committed upon the suffering Seminole. A volume might be filled detailing such swindles as that of Grubbs and Ringgold. In the mutual relations between white man and red man, it requires no skillful advocate to shew on which side must lie the wrongs unrepaired and unavenged. Beyond all doubt, the Indian has ever been the victim.

It is needless to add that there were retaliations: how could it be otherwise?

One remarkable fact discloses itself in these episodes of Floridian life. It is well-known that slaves thus stolen from the Indians always returned to their owners whenever they could ! To secure them from finding their way back, the Dexters and Douglasses were under the necessity of taking them to some distant market, to the far “coasts” of the Mississippi – to Natchez or New Orleans.

There is but one explanation of this social phenomenon; and that is, that the slaves of the Seminole were not slaves. In truth they were treated with an indulgence to which the helot of other lands is a stranger. They were the agriculturists of the country, and their Indian master was content if they raised him a little corn – just sufficient for his need – with such other vegetable products as his simple cuisine required. They lived far apart from the dwellings of their owners. Their hours of labour were few, and scarcely compulsory. Surplus product was their own; and in most cases they became rich – far richer than their own masters, who were less skilled in economy. Emancipation was easily purchased, and the majority were actually free – though from such claims it was scarcely worth while to escape. If slavery it could be called, it was the mildest form ever known upon earth – far differing from the abject bondage of Ham under either Shem or Japheth.