Runaway (2 page)

The White Tiger—the name given him when he had left his childhood behind and become a man—reined in his horse, aware of the subtle sounds within the cypress hammock and the marshlands and swamp that surrounded it. Though no tigers roamed the land, the powerful panthers here were often referred to as “tigers,” and the name had been given him with respect, for which he was grateful. He had ridden deep into Indian country in the Florida territory, a place he knew well, and he sensed he was not alone.

He paused for a moment. He wasn’t a man given to flights of fancy, nor was he in the least superstitious. But today he felt a curious sense of destiny, as if he were entering along some path from which there would be no turning back. Forces were being turned into motion, and he had now set his feet upon the trail, the course of action, he was destined to follow.

He held himself very still and listened.

He heard the faint sound of the water rippling beneath the light autumn breeze, the sway of the cypress branches. He heard the call of the bird and then the call that was not a bird. There was a slight rustle in the leaves that was not caused by the air moving so gently through them.

He lifted his hands above his head, showing that his knife was sheathed in the leather at his calf and that his rifle rested securely in the leather loop of his saddle.
Hands still high, he threw one leg around and hopped down the distance from the back of his horse.

“I’ve come alone,” he called out.

Three men instantly appeared, all of them exceptionally grand in their choice of clothing for the day. They wore deerskin breeches and cotton shirts exquisitely designed in a multitude of colors. Epaulets of brass adorned one, necklaces in silver ran in shimmering strands from the neck of another. White blood was obvious in the grave faces of two of the men, the one of medium height, with dark, intelligent eyes that gazed steadily at him. He was a striking man, one who had already earned a reputation, not as a hereditary leader, but as one who had risen among his people, for in the Muskogee culture a warrior chief did not have to come from a ruling lineage. When he had left his childhood name behind and taken on his warrior’s name, his people had called him Asi Yaholo, meaning Black-Drink-Singer, but the whites had put it together and called him Osceola.

The second mixed-blood Indian in the group was very tall, the White Tiger’s own height, and younger. He was an arresting man of lean muscularity and fluid motion. His face was a handsome one, having taken the best from both cultures. His cheekbones were high and bronzed, his mouth was generous, brow high and cleanly arched, and against the smooth copper of his sun-darkened flesh and the ebony sleek darkness of his hair, his eyes were a rich, startling shade of blue. He had earned the name Running Bear as a warrior, for as a hunter he could outdistance, outfight, and outclimb even the most dangerous of bruins. He was the first to greet the White Tiger, embracing him gravely, then stepping back in silence. It was he who had arranged the meeting here today, and though a powerful man himself and the head of his own family, one confident in himself
and his own abilities, he offered a respectful deference to the two warrior chiefs who had accompanied him here today.

The third man, of pure Indian blood, was Alligator, brother-in-law to Chief Micanopy of the old Alachua band, ready to influence this man who had hereditary sway over not only the Muskogee-speaking Seminoles, but the Hitichi-speaking Mikasukis as well. Alligator was clever, strong, and fierce, and in his dark eyes the White Tiger saw that the man had little hope for a peaceful future.

Osceola stretched out a hand to indicate a cove among the trees where the ground had been prepared for them to sit. They did so, in a square, all four facing one another.

“I have come,” the White Tiger said—quickly getting down to business as he knew that Osceola would be impatient to do—“because I bring the great sorrow from many good white men who are familiar with the Mico Osceola.”

Osceola nodded, waiting. The others remained silent. “Perhaps I am gifted more than most men with my knowledge of the People, and in that, I know that Asi Yaholo does not judge all white men as bad, that he is a clever man who has always taken what he has seen as good from his own world and that of others and put it to his own use. He has made good friends among the whites.”

“And enemies,” Alligator injected angrily.

The White Tiger sighed softly. This was why he had come. “Osceola, many good men have heard that you struck your knife through the treaty when Wiley Thompson insisted you move west. You know as well that many men are grieved that Thompson had you seized and put in chains.”

“No insult is greater to the Seminoles,” Running Bear reminded him. The White Tiger met Running Bear’s blue eyes, and he nodded, very much aware just what an insult Thompson’s actions had been to a warrior of Osceola’s wisdom and strength.

“The treaties have all been lies!” Alligator said, gnashing his teeth in a way that reminded the White Tiger of the reptile from which the Indian had drawn his name. “Moultrie Creek promised us lands for twenty years—nine of those remain. Monies promised us have been withheld. We have all but starved on the lands we have been pressed into. When we leave those lands, desperate to fish, to hunt, to find food, we are beaten back.”

They had stolen a lot of cattle and drawn a great deal of hatred as well, but the White Tiger knew that most of this had been because the Indians had in truth been starving. So far this year the weather had been mild, but last winter had been so cold and fierce in the north that a frost had killed almost all crops. The Seminoles had grown more and more desperate. Many whites had thought that the Indians’ desperate plight would make them more pliable.

It had merely served to toughen them.

The White Tiger stood. “I have brought cattle,” he said. “My men follow behind me with them now, ready to turn them over to the Seminoles if Osceola will accept the gift.”

“These cattle are from your own herds?” Osceola queried.

“Some. And some from others who respect Osceola and wish to apologize to him. Friends as well. Men you have met through me.”

Osceola, with his curiously arresting features, grinned.
“This is not an official apology from your government.” It was a statement, not a question.

“No,” the White Tiger stated honestly.

Osceola, Alligator, and Running Bear rose as well. Osceola offered his hand. It was small and refined, as were his speech and manners. “You are right—I do not judge all your people as evil. And I accept your gift, because many of our people are hungry. It grieves me to tell you that I cannot forgive the traitorous actions of the man Thompson, nor can I be sorry for any action I have taken for the good of the People, nor any that I intend to take.”

The last left a feeling of cold doom in the White Tiger’s heart.

“You are silent,” Osceola said.

“I am silent because I pray that there will be peace among us all. War brings pain and heartbreak, widows and hunger.”

“Peace has brought enough hunger!” Alligator said.

“War is still the more bitter course. Peace is life.”

“What is life without honor?” Osceola asked softly. “I have not meant to distress you, and I know that you fear for the People when you speak. Remember, we do not forget our friends,” Osceola said.

“Our brothers,” Running Bear added quietly.

Even Alligator grunted.

“And I will not take up arms against mine,” the White Tiger told them. “I will continue to pray for peace and seek it with my heart.”

Osceola stared at him with his pensive dark eyes. “We may all pray for peace, but whether it shall be or not is for our gods to decide.”

“One God, the same God,” the White Tiger said. “Ishtahollo, the Great Spirit of the Seminoles, is the same one God of the Christian whites. He is supreme,
no matter what men may call him. I believe he seeks life for your people and for mine.”

Osceola smiled but offered no words of agreement. “Where you ride, friend, you will ride in safety. Where you live will be sacred ground. Keep those dear to you upon it, and they will walk in safety too.”

“Mico Osceola, I beg of you, don’t think hastily upon the action of warfare—”

“You are too proud a man to beg. You are a warrior, a soldier, yourself.”

“I am a civilian now. And I dream of this land of ours being an Eden in which we all may live.”

“Rest assured, I think hastily on nothing,” Osceola said. He smiled. “Once you were a very young man eager for battle. Against the British, against some of my own kin!”

“I was rash. I learned my lessons the hard way.”

“You were a good warrior. You learned the courage to know that death is not easy.”

“And war is not all honor.”

“It is my understanding that you are leaving home for a journey?”

“I had planned on a trip. However, if my staying—”

“No, you must carry on with your business. I have listened to your words. There is nothing you can do here. Go, sail away, for Running Bear tells me that sailing is a great pleasure for you, and that it eases your spirit. The winds sweep away the pain of your loss.” He turned, starting to walk away, Alligator following him. But then he turned back. “Our sorrow remains with you. And we are proud that you have spoken for us, against those who would determine that we caused the death of your good wife. I fear that your words often do little good against the tide of hatred that arises between our two peoples, but we are grateful for them.”

“I have spoken nothing but the truth.”

“But to some the truth is hard to see. We remain grateful. Go on your trip, my friend. Perhaps, when you return, you will no longer need to run away from your pain.”

“I travel for business purposes—”

“Indeed. It is good.”

Again, Osceola turned, Alligator close on his heels. Only Running Bear remained behind for a moment, setting a hand upon the White Tiger’s shoulder. His fingers squeezed for a moment. “God go with you.”

“Which god?” The White Tiger queried, a slight smile twisting his lips.

“Didn’t we just agree that the gods were one and the same?”

“We tried to agree. What is going to happen?”

Running Bear shook his head. “I don’t know. I have too much white blood in me. I am sometimes part of the councils, sometimes not. I preach the way of peace as well, but Thompson was a fool to have Osceola arrested. He claimed Osceola was abusive and out of control. You know Osceola. It is my belief that Wiley Thompson wanted to prove that no Indian would dictate terms to him. Now the fury festers in Osceola’s heart. What exactly is in his mind, I don’t know. And there’s more, of course, than the incident with Thompson. There is constantly friction between the Indians and settlers. They say we raid; they hunt our land. They want our land. Little changes. It is the American destiny to stretch all across the continent, isn’t it?”

“There must be a solution.”

“You want a solution. Whether there must be one or not remains to be seen. I must go now, and you must ride on—and then sail away. Perhaps your voyage can bring
you happiness. Who knows what you’ll find? Time has passed. You still grieve. You should marry again.”

“I don’t want to marry again,” the White Tiger said flatly.

Running Bear nodded in sympathy, then smiled slightly, setting an arm around the White Tiger’s shoulder once again. “Then perhaps you should at least consider a mistress. Not that you’ve been a monk by any means, or so I’ve been told.”

“Damnit, but it is amazing how such news travels!” the White Tiger began angrily, but then he saw the concern in Running Bear’s eyes, and he sighed and then even laughed softly. “You’ll not leave me be, will you?”

“Surely I will. One day. For now, have a safe voyage.”

“You take heed as well,” he said.

They embraced quickly. Then Running Bear stepped away, turned, and followed the others down a trail. Fluidly, almost silently. In minutes he had disappeared.

For a moment the White Tiger stood in the cypress maze, feeling the breeze once more and again feeling that wheels were turning into motion.

The sun was falling low in the sky. Colors ripped across it, magentas, mauves, golden, glowing reds and yellows, reflecting upon the water, casting an artist’s palette upon the many different trees and brush.

He closed his eyes, felt the breeze on his flesh, smelled the cypress and the hammock, the clean water of the spring, and the musky scent of the marshland that bordered nearby. Listened to the rustle of the leaves. In the far distance he could even hear a swift, smooth plopping sound, one that others might not have heard. But he loved the land, and he had listened to it for a very long time, and he knew that hundreds of feet away an alligator had just slipped from the bank and into the water.

In a far different place the wheels of destiny were also turning.

Forces were being put into motion here as well. They began upon the same day, yet so very differently! There was no forest where she stood. No birds cried, no golden-red sun sat over a cypress wilderness.

Indeed, the young woman stood in one of the elegant homes in one of the most civilized cities of the young American nation. Women were dressed in silks and satins, coffee and tea were poured from silver servers. Persian carpets lay over polished wood floors, damask drapes lay ready to cover the windows from the coming night.