The speech of Osceola brought matters to a crisis. The commissioner’s patience was exhausted. The time was ripe to deliver the dire threat—the ultimatum—with which the president had armed him; and, not bating one jot of his rude manner, he pronounced the infamous menace:
“You will not sign?—you will not consent to go? I say, then you must. War will be declared against you—troops will enter your land—you will be forced from it at the point of the bayonet.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Osceola, with a derisive laugh. “Then be it so!” he continued. “Let war be declared! Though we love peace, we fear not war. We know your strength: your people outnumber us by millions; but were there as many more of them, they will not compel us to submit to injustice. We have made up our minds to endure death before dishonour. Let war be declared! Send your troops into our land; perhaps they will not force us from it so easily as you imagine. To your muskets we will oppose our rifles, to your bayonets, our tomahawks; and your starched soldiers will be met, face to face, by the warriors of the Seminole. Let war be declared! We are ready for its tempest. The hail may rattle, and the flowers be crushed; but the strong oak of the forest will lift its head to the sky and the storm, towering and unscathed.”
A yell of defiance burst from the Indian warriors at the conclusion of this stirring speech; and the disturbed council threatened a disruption. Several of the chiefs, excited by the appeal, had risen to their feet, and stood with lowering looks, and arms stretched forth in firm, angry menace.
The officers of the line had glided to their places, and in an undertone ordered the troops into an attitude of readiness; while the artillerists on the bastions of the fort were seen by their guns, while the tiny wreath of blue smoke told that the fuse had been kindled.
For all this, there was no danger of an outbreak. Neither party was prepared for a collision at that moment. The Indians had come to the council with no hostile designs, else they would have left their wives and children at home. With them by their sides, they would not dream of making an attack; and their white adversaries dared not, without better pretext. The demonstration was only the result of a momentary excitement, and soon subsided to a calm.
The commissioner had stretched his influence to its utmost. His threats were now disregarded as had been his wheedling appeal; and he saw that he had no longer the power to effect his cherished purpose.
But there was still hope in time. There were wiser heads than his upon the ground, who saw this: the sagacious veteran Clinch and the crafty Ringgolds saw it.
These now gathered around the agent, and counselled him to the adoption of a different course.
“Give them time to consider,” suggested they. “Appoint to-morrow for another meeting. Let the chiefs discuss the matter among themselves in private council, and not as now, in presence of the people. On calmer reflection, and when not intimidated by the crowd of warriors, they may decide differently, particularly now that they know the alternative; and perhaps,” added Arens Ringgold—who, to other bad qualities, added that of a crafty diplomatist—“perhaps the more hostile of them will not stay for the council of to-morrow: you do not want all their signatures.”