The White Squaw

Bravely as the settlers fought, they had a foe to deal with implacable and determined.

As fast as the red warriors fell in the attack, others took their places, and from out the darkness legions seemed to rise to avenge the deaths of their fallen comrades.

The white women loaded the rifles, stood by their brothers and husbands assisting them in the fearful strife.

But valour availed not; the settlers were doomed.

Never had Elias Rody been seen to greater advantage.

He seemed ubiquitous, cheering and inspiring the men around him.

Many who had condemned him till then gave him credit for his bravery.

He seemed to bear a charmed life, and was seen where-ever bullets whistled, unharmed and undaunted!

All his hopes on earth were centred in successfully maintaining himself; and that strong physical courage which he undoubtedly possessed, stimulated by his frightful responsibility, made him for the moment heroic.

His daughter, the gentle Alice, showed herself equally brave.

She took under her care the wounded men – she who, at any other time, would have fainted at the sight of blood – bound up the ghastly wounds, and stood on that dreadful night by more than one death-bed, calm and courageous, upheld by the sustaining idea.

But what availed courage and devotion against numbers?

The stockade was at length carried, and, after it, the house, which was instantly given to the flames.

A horrible carnage ensued amongst those who, unable to fly, were left to the besiegers’ fury.

The worst passions were displayed in their worst forms, and helplessness pleaded in vain to hearts steeled with revenge.

The moon’s rays lighted up a fearful scene.

Corpses of Indians and settlers, with their wives and children strewed the ground of the enclosure!

The glare of the burning house added to the horror of the sight.

Some few of the colonists fled across the country, pursued by their relentless foes.

Though a small number escaped with life, many perished in their flight.

With revengeful cries the Indians sought for Elias Rody, but failed to find him.

Had he, too, escaped?

It seemed so, for nowhere could his body be discovered among the slain.

His daughter had also disappeared.

But half of their revenge seemed accomplished, and Wacora felt that, with Rody alive, his uncle’s death was not yet avenged.

In vain did he send warrior after warrior in search of the missing man.

All returned with the same answer.

The white chief was not to be found!

Enraged at being thus baffled in his revenge, Wacora called his straggling forces together, and returned with them to the Indian camp.

After their departure there was profound stillness within the stockade, more awful from contrast with the battle there so late raging.

The dead were left to repose in peace.

For a long time this stillness continued unbroken.

Then from afar sounds began to be heard, gradually drawing nearer and nearer.

It was the howling of the gaunt Florida wolves as they scented a rich repast.

Ere long they could be seen skulking through the enclosure, and quarrelling over the corpses upon the plain. Above them, with shadowy wings, the vultures hovered, waiting to come in for their share of the spoil.

The moon sank in the sky, and drew a pall over the dreadful sight.

At intervals a flickering tongue of flame shooting up from the expiring embers of the burnt house, imparted a weird aspect to the scene, lighting it up, only to display its ghastly horrors.

Where was Elias Rody?

He had proved deceitful to the last.

Wacora and his warriors had sought him everywhere, but had failed to find him.

For all that he was near.

In the last attack made by the red men, he had been wounded – not severely, but sufficiently to make him feel faint and giddy. He knew that he could no longer hope for success, and determined, if possible, to save his own life while there was a chance.

Amidst the smoke and confusion he found no difficulty in withdrawing from the combat. Remembering a species of cellar he had caused to be dug in the rear of the house, he staggered towards it, and reached it unobserved.

He paused before entering. A thought of Alice arrested him – the thought of the hopelessness of saving her, and tottering forward, half-blinded by his own blood, he descended the steps of the cellar, at the bottom of which he fell insensible to the floor.

The yells of the victorious Indians, the glare of the burning mansion, the shrieks of the wounded, and the agonising wail of defenceless women and children as they committed their souls to Heaven, Elias Rody, though the cause of all this, heard nothing.

Beneath his own burning house, miraculously sheltered by some huge timbers which had fallen over the excavation, he lay for a long time insensible to thought as to feeling.

When he at length recovered consciousness, and crawled forth from his concealment, the sun had risen, lighting up the ruined pile.

He shuddered at the sight.

He suffered a thousand deaths in the contemplation of the horrors his mad selfishness had caused.

Bitter remorse, stronger than his shattered physical frame could endure, gnawed at his heart. But it was selfish remorse for all that.