Читать книгу The Seminoles of Florida онлайн

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But such is the Irony of Fate. Osceola, the free son of the forest, fettered by the chains of Injustice, was destined to eat out his heart in a musty dungeon.

Thoroughly and thrillingly dramatic was the death scene of the noble Osceola as given by Dr. Weedon his attending surgeon. Confinement no doubt hastened his death, and his proud spirit sank under the doom of prison life. He seemed to feel the approach of death, and about half an hour before the summons came he signified by signs—he could not speak—that he wished to see the chiefs and officers of the post. Making known that he wished his full dress, which he wore in time of war, it was brought him, and rising from his bed he dressed himself in the insignia of a chief. Exhausted by these efforts the swelling heart of the tempest-tossed frame subsided into stillest melancholy. With the death sweat already upon his brow, Osceola lay down a few minutes to recover his strength. Then, rising as before, with gloom dispelled, and a face agleam with smiles, the young warrior reached forth his hand and in dead silence bade each and all the officers and chiefs a last farewell. By his couch knelt his two wives and his little children. With the same oppressive silence he tenderly shook hands with these loved ones. Then signifying his wish to be lowered on his bed, with slow hand he drew from his war belt his scalping knife which he firmly grasped in his right hand, laying it across the other on his breast. In another moment he smiled away his last breath, without a struggle or a groan. In that death chamber there was not one tearless eye. Friends and foes alike wept over the dying chief. Osceola died as he lived—a hero among men.