alive.
“We aren’t clear yet,” said Harry.
Harry stated the obvious, and Cow Tom found amusement in the man’s seriousness. Something wasn’t working quite right with Cow Tom’s mood, as if he’d stumbled into some territory beyond fear whose mother tongues were acceptance and fate. Prudence seemed to have fled in the memory of Osceola waving his bloody ear flap before the crowd.
“If spared, I pledge the rest of my life to the Negro cause,” Cow Tom said. “Freedom and justice for every black man in the tribe. Bar none.”
A grand gesture. He imagined himself reflected in Harry’s gaze, his head leaking blood, grossly outnumbered, but offering up negotiation points. A true bargainer. A true linguister. He was almost dizzy with his boldness.
“I join you in that pledge,” said Harry. “A pact.”
“A pact.”
Cow Tom and Harry kept themselves unthreatening but visible,watching passively as the detainees emptied the storehouse, took military rifles, gathered their few belongings and meager, hoarded supplies, and prepared for escape into the Everglades.
By the hundreds, the Seminoles spilled out of the camp and into the nearby woods, where horses and wagons waited, Cow Tom and Harry atop their ponies at the fort’s gate as they streamed past. Osceola gave an order and two of his braves slit the throats of the captured soldiers, including the Fort King dragoon. They didn’t take time to scalp, but left them for dead, unceremoniously sprawled on the ground where they fell. Osceola seemed surprised to see Cow Tom and Harry as he passed through the Fort Brooke entrance, but finally nodded, as if remembering his earlier act of leniency.
They remained motionless until they were sure Osceola was gone. Only then did they dismount, and Harry doubled over, retching, and stayed down for some time. Cow Tom fought hard not to follow suit, waiting for Harry to right himself. He touched his ear, the blood no longer aflow, but soft-crusting, the steady throb familiar to him now.
They checked for survivors among the prisoners, but the soldiers were dead, and Harry and Cow Tom left them where they fell. They searched the rest of the camp, leading their horses. Among the detritus left behind, they came across a young Seminole woman who had stayed, ragged and frightened, hiding on the far side of an overturned wagon, holding a small, naked baby.
“Why didn’t you leave with Osceola?” Harry asked in Miccosukee.
She wouldn’t meet his eyes, continuing to look down. Harry asked again, less gently.
“Tired,” the woman finally said, and clutched her listless baby tighter to her bony chest. She refused to say more, rocking her baby, rocking herself, claiming her patch of littered, sandy ground.
They moved on, and secured the horses to a hitching post.
“We have to check inside,” said Cow Tom.
In the first of the fort’s outer buildings, they discovered several small bands of Seminole women in hiding who hadn’t fled. They eyed Cow Tom and Harry with caution, and the translators left them undisturbed, and entered the main building. They found a lantern with a small reservoir of kerosene in a side office, and struck a match to light their way. Osceola’s people had stripped the storage room of its contents. Spilled flour and stray husks of corn were scattered about. The lantern threw ghostly shadows against the walls, and they proceeded slowly, delaying the moment. Cow Tom went first, and then Harry, and they entered the outbuilding at the rear, set aside for the sick.
They heard groans as they entered the hallway, and braced themselves for the worst. The odor of sulfur and putrefying flesh hung heavy in the air. One swing of the lantern revealed at least two dozen single cots pushed close together, some elevated, some on the damp floor, some with more than one man inhabiting the space. By beard and look, Cow Tom assumed them all soldiers, although none were in military dress, stripped down to their dirty,
“We aren’t clear yet,” said Harry.
Harry stated the obvious, and Cow Tom found amusement in the man’s seriousness. Something wasn’t working quite right with Cow Tom’s mood, as if he’d stumbled into some territory beyond fear whose mother tongues were acceptance and fate. Prudence seemed to have fled in the memory of Osceola waving his bloody ear flap before the crowd.
“If spared, I pledge the rest of my life to the Negro cause,” Cow Tom said. “Freedom and justice for every black man in the tribe. Bar none.”
A grand gesture. He imagined himself reflected in Harry’s gaze, his head leaking blood, grossly outnumbered, but offering up negotiation points. A true bargainer. A true linguister. He was almost dizzy with his boldness.
“I join you in that pledge,” said Harry. “A pact.”
“A pact.”
Cow Tom and Harry kept themselves unthreatening but visible,watching passively as the detainees emptied the storehouse, took military rifles, gathered their few belongings and meager, hoarded supplies, and prepared for escape into the Everglades.
By the hundreds, the Seminoles spilled out of the camp and into the nearby woods, where horses and wagons waited, Cow Tom and Harry atop their ponies at the fort’s gate as they streamed past. Osceola gave an order and two of his braves slit the throats of the captured soldiers, including the Fort King dragoon. They didn’t take time to scalp, but left them for dead, unceremoniously sprawled on the ground where they fell. Osceola seemed surprised to see Cow Tom and Harry as he passed through the Fort Brooke entrance, but finally nodded, as if remembering his earlier act of leniency.
They remained motionless until they were sure Osceola was gone. Only then did they dismount, and Harry doubled over, retching, and stayed down for some time. Cow Tom fought hard not to follow suit, waiting for Harry to right himself. He touched his ear, the blood no longer aflow, but soft-crusting, the steady throb familiar to him now.
They checked for survivors among the prisoners, but the soldiers were dead, and Harry and Cow Tom left them where they fell. They searched the rest of the camp, leading their horses. Among the detritus left behind, they came across a young Seminole woman who had stayed, ragged and frightened, hiding on the far side of an overturned wagon, holding a small, naked baby.
“Why didn’t you leave with Osceola?” Harry asked in Miccosukee.
She wouldn’t meet his eyes, continuing to look down. Harry asked again, less gently.
“Tired,” the woman finally said, and clutched her listless baby tighter to her bony chest. She refused to say more, rocking her baby, rocking herself, claiming her patch of littered, sandy ground.
They moved on, and secured the horses to a hitching post.
“We have to check inside,” said Cow Tom.
In the first of the fort’s outer buildings, they discovered several small bands of Seminole women in hiding who hadn’t fled. They eyed Cow Tom and Harry with caution, and the translators left them undisturbed, and entered the main building. They found a lantern with a small reservoir of kerosene in a side office, and struck a match to light their way. Osceola’s people had stripped the storage room of its contents. Spilled flour and stray husks of corn were scattered about. The lantern threw ghostly shadows against the walls, and they proceeded slowly, delaying the moment. Cow Tom went first, and then Harry, and they entered the outbuilding at the rear, set aside for the sick.
They heard groans as they entered the hallway, and braced themselves for the worst. The odor of sulfur and putrefying flesh hung heavy in the air. One swing of the lantern revealed at least two dozen single cots pushed close together, some elevated, some on the damp floor, some with more than one man inhabiting the space. By beard and look, Cow Tom assumed them all soldiers, although none were in military dress, stripped down to their dirty,
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