ranking chief. Micanopy and Jumper stood close by.
Osceola pointed to the prisoners. Cow Tom tried to swallow, but found he could not. Even if they had weapons, they were less than a dozen against a field of two hundred warriors and seven hundred detained Seminoles who greeted Osceola as inspiration.
“They cannot hold you here. They have no power over you. They confine you and spread their sickness among you. You are free to return to Seminole lands in Florida instead of making the trip to the holding pens in the west.”
The crowd cheered again.
“I will make the white man red with blood; and then blacken him in the sun and rain, where the wolf shall smell of his bones, and the buzzard live upon his flesh.”
Osceola pointed his finger at Micanopy’s chest.
“You led your people here, but they know moving from the ancestral land is not the way. You are principle chief of the Seminole, and must be respected, but a true chief will lead his people away from this place. A true chief will continue to fight. A true chief will not Remove.”
Micanopy stood rooted, flanked by Jumper. For all his girth and title, he looked small and vulnerable alongside Osceola’s slimness and surety of purpose.
“The military have guns, and food, and might,” Micanopy said. His voice sounded whiny in the night air. “The search teams trackus like deer and drive us deeper into the Everglades to starve. What chance have we in Florida now? At least in Indian Territory we will not be hunted.”
Osceola played to the crowd. “Any who surrender are our enemy. We brought wagons and horses, and we will be on our way to Palaklikhaha before the break of day.”
Old man Micanopy seemed at a loss. Jumper inched closer to his chief, but before he could whisper into his ear, Osceola lowered his voice to speak directly to Micanopy.
“Micanopy, if you don’t lead your people out, I will, and I will leave you here for the enemy in your own blood.”
Micanopy assessed the sea of Seminole faces surrounding him. For this, he needed no adviser. He held up his hand.
“The Seminoles are a great people,” he announced in a thunderous voice to Osceola and the crowd, “and we will take up arms and fight the white man until our last breath.”
Once again there arose a group cry of support, and Cow Tom understood their time was short. All that remained was to loot the fort and flee into the Everglades. No need leaving prisoners alive to pursue them, or to alert the U.S. Army. Cow Tom wondered how Osceola would kill them, whether fast or slow, personally or through agents. His guess was fast, since they had to move so many in one night. He wondered whether it would be him or Harry who’d watch the other die first.
As if Cow Tom summoned attention with his thoughts, Osceola looked in the direction of the prisoners, assessing his options. They stood in wait, ringed by war-painted warriors.
Osceola motioned toward Cow Tom and Harry.
“Blacks,” he said.
Four braves grabbed Cow Tom and Harry by the arms. Cow Tom’s knees had gone feeble, and he thought they might have to help him move, but he refused to be dragged like a cow to slaughter. He straightened his legs and walked, until they were so close to Osceola he could see for the first time the burls of pitted scars downboth cheeks. The braves closed behind them like a curtain, separating them from the others. They prodded Cow Tom forward. There was no point resisting. Whatever was going to happen was already on its way into being.
“Who do you belong to?” Osceola asked.
Cow Tom found voice first, although he couldn’t quite marshal his thoughts, and answered the first thing that came into his head. “General Jesup sent us yesterday to the fort to report on conditions, but we came to seek out Abraham. My mother is with the Seminoles, and I’m trying to find her.”
Osceola considered this, deliberating. Cow Tom’s thoughts scattered, random images flitting through his head, of Amy’s
Osceola pointed to the prisoners. Cow Tom tried to swallow, but found he could not. Even if they had weapons, they were less than a dozen against a field of two hundred warriors and seven hundred detained Seminoles who greeted Osceola as inspiration.
“They cannot hold you here. They have no power over you. They confine you and spread their sickness among you. You are free to return to Seminole lands in Florida instead of making the trip to the holding pens in the west.”
The crowd cheered again.
“I will make the white man red with blood; and then blacken him in the sun and rain, where the wolf shall smell of his bones, and the buzzard live upon his flesh.”
Osceola pointed his finger at Micanopy’s chest.
“You led your people here, but they know moving from the ancestral land is not the way. You are principle chief of the Seminole, and must be respected, but a true chief will lead his people away from this place. A true chief will continue to fight. A true chief will not Remove.”
Micanopy stood rooted, flanked by Jumper. For all his girth and title, he looked small and vulnerable alongside Osceola’s slimness and surety of purpose.
“The military have guns, and food, and might,” Micanopy said. His voice sounded whiny in the night air. “The search teams trackus like deer and drive us deeper into the Everglades to starve. What chance have we in Florida now? At least in Indian Territory we will not be hunted.”
Osceola played to the crowd. “Any who surrender are our enemy. We brought wagons and horses, and we will be on our way to Palaklikhaha before the break of day.”
Old man Micanopy seemed at a loss. Jumper inched closer to his chief, but before he could whisper into his ear, Osceola lowered his voice to speak directly to Micanopy.
“Micanopy, if you don’t lead your people out, I will, and I will leave you here for the enemy in your own blood.”
Micanopy assessed the sea of Seminole faces surrounding him. For this, he needed no adviser. He held up his hand.
“The Seminoles are a great people,” he announced in a thunderous voice to Osceola and the crowd, “and we will take up arms and fight the white man until our last breath.”
Once again there arose a group cry of support, and Cow Tom understood their time was short. All that remained was to loot the fort and flee into the Everglades. No need leaving prisoners alive to pursue them, or to alert the U.S. Army. Cow Tom wondered how Osceola would kill them, whether fast or slow, personally or through agents. His guess was fast, since they had to move so many in one night. He wondered whether it would be him or Harry who’d watch the other die first.
As if Cow Tom summoned attention with his thoughts, Osceola looked in the direction of the prisoners, assessing his options. They stood in wait, ringed by war-painted warriors.
Osceola motioned toward Cow Tom and Harry.
“Blacks,” he said.
Four braves grabbed Cow Tom and Harry by the arms. Cow Tom’s knees had gone feeble, and he thought they might have to help him move, but he refused to be dragged like a cow to slaughter. He straightened his legs and walked, until they were so close to Osceola he could see for the first time the burls of pitted scars downboth cheeks. The braves closed behind them like a curtain, separating them from the others. They prodded Cow Tom forward. There was no point resisting. Whatever was going to happen was already on its way into being.
“Who do you belong to?” Osceola asked.
Cow Tom found voice first, although he couldn’t quite marshal his thoughts, and answered the first thing that came into his head. “General Jesup sent us yesterday to the fort to report on conditions, but we came to seek out Abraham. My mother is with the Seminoles, and I’m trying to find her.”
Osceola considered this, deliberating. Cow Tom’s thoughts scattered, random images flitting through his head, of Amy’s
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