My fellow-captive fared as badly as myself. The homogenous colour of his skin elicited no sympathy from these female fiends. Black and white were alike the victims of their hellish spite.
Part of their jargon I was able to comprehend, aided by a slight acquaintance with the Spanish tongue, I made out what was intended to be done with us—we were to be tortured.
We had been brought to the camp to be tortured. We were to be the victims of a grand spectacle, and these infernal hags were exulting in the prospect of the sport our sufferings should afford them. For this only had, we been captured, instead of being killed.
Into whose hound hands had we fallen? Were they human beings? Were they Indians? Could they be Seminoles, whose behaviour to their captives hitherto, had repelled every insinuation of torture?
A shout arose as if in answer to my questions. The voices of all around were mingled in the cry, but the words were the same:
“Mulato-mico! mulato-mico! viva, mulato-mico!”
The trampling of many hoofs announced the arrival of a band. They were the warriors who had been engaged in the fight—who had conquered and made us captive. Only half a dozen guards had been with us on the night-march, and had reached the camp at daybreak. The new comers were the main body, who had stayed upon the field to complete the despoliation of their fallen foes. I could not see them, though they were near, for I heard their horses trampling around.
I lay listening to that significant shout:
“Mulato-mico! viva, mulato-mico!”
To me the words were full of terrible import. The phrase “Mulato-mico” was not new to me, and I heard it with a feeling of dread. But it was scarce possible to increase apprehensions already excited to the full. A hard fate was before me. The presence of the fiend himself could not make it more certain.