Exceptionally, the relation is worse. There are white my in the southern States who hold the life of a black at but slight value--just the value of his market price. An incident in the history of young Ringgold helps me to an ill.u.s.tration. But the day before, my "squire,"

Black Jake had given me the story.

This youth, with some other boys of his acquaintance, and of like dissolute character, was hunting in the forest. The hounds had pa.s.sed beyond hearing, and no one could tell the direction they had taken. It was useless riding further, and the party halted, leaped from their saddles, and tied their horses to the trees.

For a long time the baying of the beagles was not heard, and the time hung heavily on the hands of the hunters. How were they to pa.s.s it?

A negro boy chanced to be near "chopping" wood. They knew the boy well enough--one of the slaves on a neighbouring plantation.

"Let's us have some sport with the darkie," suggested one.

"What sport?"

"Let us hang him for sport."

The proposal of course produced a general laugh.

"Joking apart," said the first speaker, "I should really like to try how much hanging a n.i.g.g.e.r _could_ bear without being killed outright."

"So should I," rejoined a second.

"And so I, too," added a third.

The idea took; the experiment promised to amuse them.

"Well, then, let us make trial; that's the best way to settle the point."

The trial _was_ made--I am relating a _fact_--the unfortunate boy was seized upon, a noose was adjusted round his neck, and he was triced up to the branch of a tree.

Just at that instant, a stag broke past with the hounds in full cry.

The hunters ran to their horses, and in the excitement, forgot to cut down the victim of their deviltry. One left the duty to another, and all neglected it!

When the chase was ended, they returned to the spot; the negro was still hanging from the branch--he was dead!

There was a trial--the mere mockery of a trial. Both judge and jury were the relatives of the criminals; and the sentence was, that the negro _should be paid for_! The owner of the slave was contented with the price; justice was satisfied, or supposed to be; and Jake had heard hundreds of white Christians, _who knew the tale to be true_, laughing at it as a capital joke. As such, Arens Ringgold was often in the habit of detailing it!

You on the other side of the Atlantic hold up your hands and cry "Horror!" You live in the fancy you have no slaves--no cruelties like this. You are sadly in error. I have detailed an exceptional case--an individual victim. Land of the workhouse and the jail! your victims are legion.

Smiling Christian! you parade your compa.s.sion, but you have made the misery that calls it forth. You abet with easy concurrence the _system_ that begets all this suffering; and although you may soothe your spirit by a.s.signing crime and poverty to _natural causes_, nature will not be impugned with impunity. In vain may you endeavour to shirk your individual responsibility. For every cry and canker, you will be held responsible in the sight of G.o.d.

The conversation about runaways naturally guided my thoughts to the other and more mysterious adventure of yesterday; having dropped a hint about this incident, I was called upon to relate it in detail. I did so--of course scouting the idea that my intended a.s.sa.s.sin could have been Yellow Jake. A good many of those present knew the story of the mulatto, and the circ.u.mstances connected with his death.

Why was it, when I mentioned his name, coupled with the solemn declaration of my sable groom--why was it that Arens Ringgold started, turned pale, and whispered some words in the ear of his father?

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE TRAITOR CHIEFS.

Soon after, I retired from the mess-table, and strolled out into the stockade.

It was now after sunset. Orders had been issued for no one to leave the fort; but translating these as only applicable to the common soldier, I resolved to sally forth.

I was guided by an impulse of the heart. In the Indian camp were the wives of the chiefs and warriors--their sisters and children--why not she among the rest?

I had a belief that she was there--although, during all that day, my eyes had been wandering in vain search. She was not among those who had crowded around the council: not a face had escaped my scrutiny.

I resolved to seek the Seminole camp--to go among the tents of the Micosaucs--there, in all likelihood, I should find Powell--there I should meet with Maumee.

There would be no danger in entering the Indian camp--even the hostile chiefs were yet in relations of friendship with us; and surely Powell was still _my_ friend? He could protect me from peril or insults.

I felt a longing to grasp the hand of the young warrior, that of itself would have influenced me to seek the interview. I yearned to renew the friendly confidence of the past--to talk over those pleasant times--to recall those scenes of halcyon brightness. Surely the sterner duties of the chief and war-leader had not yet indurated a heart, once mild and amiable? No doubt the spirit of my former friend was embittered by the white man's injustice; no doubt I should find him rancorous against our race; he had reason--still I had no fears that I myself was not an exception to this wholesale resentment.

Whatever the result, I resolved to seek him, and once more extend to him the hand of friendship.

I was on the eve of setting forth, when a summons from the commander-in-chief called me to his quarters. With some chagrin, I obeyed the order.

I found the commissioner there, with the officers of higher rank--the Ringgolds and several other civilians of distinction.

On entering, I perceived that they were in "caucus," and had just ended the discussion of some plan of procedure.

"The design is excellent," observed General Clinch, addressing himself to the others; "but how are Omatla and 'Black Dirt' [Note 1] to be met?

If we summon them hither, it may create suspicion; they could not enter the fort without being observed."

"General Clinch," said the elder Ringgold--the most cunning diplomatist of the party--"if you and General Thompson were to meet the friendly chiefs outside?"

"Exactly so," interrupted the commissioner. "I have been thinking of that. I have sent a messenger to Omatla, to inquire if he can give us a secret meeting. It will be best to see them outside. The man has returned--I hear him."

At this moment, a person entered the room, whom I recognised as one of the interpreters who had officiated at the council. He whispered something to the commissioner, and then withdrew.

"All right, gentlemen!" exclaimed the latter, as the interpreter went out; "Omatla will meet us within the hour. Black Dirt will be with him.

They have named the 'Sink' as the place. It lies to the north of the fort. We can reach it without pa.s.sing the camp, and there will be no risk of our being observed. Shall we go, General?"

"I am ready," replied Clinch, taking up his cloak, and throwing it over his shoulders; "but, General Thompson," said he, turning to the commissioner, "how about your interpreters? Can they be intrusted with a secret of so much importance?"

The commissioner appeared to hesitate. "It might be imprudent," he replied at length, in a half soliloquy.

"Never mind, then--never mind," said Clinch; "I think we can do without them. Lieutenant Randolph," continued he, turning to me, "you speak the Seminole tongue fluently?"

"Not fluently, General; I speak it, however."

"You could interpret it fairly."

"Yes, General; I believe so."

"Very well, then; that will do. Come with us!"