Chapter FIFTY NINE: A Hasty Messenger (2)

This melancholy finale to the festivities of Christmas was, if possible, rendered more sad by a rumour that shortly after reached Fort King. It was the rumour of an event, which has since become popularly known as "Dade's massacre."

The report was brought by an Indian runner--belonging to one of the friendly clans--but the statements made were of so startling a character, that they were at first received with a cry of incredulity.

Other runners, however, continuously arriving, confirmed the account of the first messenger, until his story--tragically improbable as it appeared--was accepted as truth. It was true in all its romantic colouring; true in all its sanguinary details. The war had commenced in real earnest, inaugurated by a conflict of the most singular kind-- singular both in character and result.

An account of this battle is perhaps of sufficient interest to be given.

In the early part of this narrative, it has been mentioned that an officer of the United States army gave out the vaunt that he "could march through all the Seminole reserve with only a corporal's guard at his back." That officer was Major Dade.

It was the destiny of Major Dade to find an opportunity for giving proof of his warlike prowess--though with something more than a corporal's guard at his back. The result was a sad contrast to the boast he had so thoughtlessly uttered.

To understand this ill-fated enterprise, it is necessary to say a word topographically of the country.

On the west coast of the peninsula of Florida is a bay called "Tampa"-- by the Spaniards, "Espiritu Santo." At the head of this bay was erected "Fort Brooke"--a stockade similar to Fort King, and lying about ninety miles from the latter, in a southerly direction. It was another of those military posts established in connection with the Indian reserve-- a depot for troops and stores--also an entrepot for such as might arrive from the ports of the Mexican gulf.

About two hundred soldiers were stationed here at the breaking out of hostilities. They were chiefly artillery, with a small detachment of infantry.

Shortly after the fruitless council at Fort King, these troops--or as many of them as could be spared--were ordered by General Clinch to proceed to the latter place, and unite with the main body of the army.

In obedience to these orders, one hundred men with their quota of officers, were set in motion for Fort King. Major Dade commanded the detachment.

On the eve of Christmas, 1835, they had taken the route, marching out from Fort Brooke in high spirits, buoyant with the hope of encountering and winning laurels in a fight with the Indian foe. They flattered themselves that it would be the first conflict of the war, and therefore, that in which the greatest reputation would be gained by the victors. They dreamt not of defeat.

With flags flying gaily, drums rolling merrily, bugles sounding the advance, cannon pealing their farewell salute, and comrades cheering them onwards, the detachment commenced its march--that fatal march from which it was destined never to return.

Just seven days after--on the 31st of December--a man made his appearance at the gates of Fort Brooke, crawling upon his hands and knees. In his tattered attire could scarcely be recognised the uniform of a soldier--a private of Dade's detachment--for such he was. His clothes were saturated with water from the creeks, and soiled with mud from the swamps. They were covered with dust, and stained with blood. His body was wounded in five places--severe wounds all--one in the right shoulder, one in the right thigh, one near the temple, one in the left arm, and another in the back. He was wan, wasted, emaciated to the condition of a skeleton, and presented the aspect of one. When, in a weak, trembling voice, he announced himself as "Private Clark of the 2nd Artillery," his old comrades had with difficulty identified him.

Shortly after, two others--privates Sprague and Thomas--made their appearance in a similar plight. Their report was similar to that already delivered by Clark: that Major Dade's command had been attacked by the Indians, cut to pieces, massacred to a man--that they themselves were the sole survivors of that band who had so lately gone forth from the fort in all the pride of confident strength, and the hopeful anticipation of glory.

And their story was true to the letter. Of all the detachment, these three miserable remnants of humanity alone escaped; the others--one hundred and six in all--had met death on the banks of the Amazura. Instead of the laurel, they had found the cypress.

The three who escaped had been struck down and left for dead upon the field. It was only by counterfeiting death, they had succeeded in afterwards crawling from the ground, and making their way back to the fort. Most of this journey Clark performed upon his hands and knees, proceeding at the rate of a mile to the hour, over a distance of more than sixty miles!

CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

THE BATTLE-GROUND.

The affair of Dade's massacre is without a parallel in the history of Indian warfare. No conflict of a similar kind had ever occurred--at least, none so fatal to the whites engaged in it. In this case they suffered complete annihilation--for, of the three wounded men who had escaped, two of them shortly after died of their wounds.

Nor had the Indians any great advantage over their antagonists, beyond that of superior cunning and strategy.

It was near the banks of the Amazura ["Ouithlacoochee" of the Seminoles], and after crossing that stream, that Major Dade's party had been attacked. The assault was made in ground comparatively open--a tract of pine-woods, where the trees grew thin and straggling--so that the Indians had in reality no great advantage either from position or intrenchment. Neither has it been proved that they were greatly superior in numbers to the troops they destroyed--not more than two to one; and this proportion in most Indian wars has been considered by their white antagonists as only "fair odds."

Many of the Indians appeared upon the ground mounted; but these remained at a distance from the fire of the musketry; and only those on foot took part in the action. Indeed, their conquest was so soon completed, that the horsemen were not needed. The first fire was so deadly, that Dade's followers were driven into utter confusion. They were unable to retreat: the mounted Indians had already outflanked them, and cut off their chance of escape.

Dade himself, with most of his officers, fell at the first volley; and the survivors had no choice but fight it out on the ground. A breastwork was attempted--by felling trees, and throwing their trunks into a triangle--but the hot fire from the Indian rifles soon checked the progress of the work; and the parapet never rose even breast-high above the ground. Into this insecure shelter the survivors of the first attack retreated, and there fell rapidly under the well-aimed missiles of their foes. In a short while the last man lay motionless; and the slaughter was at an end.

When the place was afterwards visited by our troops, this triangular inclosure was found, filled with dead bodies--piled upon one another, just as they had fallen--crosswise, lengthways, in every attitude of death!

It was afterwards noised abroad that the Indians had inhumanly tortured the wounded, and horribly mutilated the slain. This was not true. There were no wounded left to be tortured--except the three who escaped--and as for the mutilation, but one or two instances of this occurred--since known to have been the work of runaway negroes actuated by motives of personal revenge.

Some scalps were taken; but this is the well-known custom of Indian warfare; and white men ere now have practised the fashion, while under the frenzied excitement of battle.

I was one of those who afterwards visited the battle-ground on a tour of inspection, ordered by the commander-in-chief; and the official report of that tour is the best testimony as to the behaviour of the victors. It reads as follows:

"Major Dade and his party were destroyed on the morning of the 28th of December, about four miles from their camp of the preceding night. They were advancing in column of route when they were attacked by the enemy, who rose in a swarm out of the cover of long grass and palmettoes. The Indians suddenly appeared close to their files. Muskets were clubbed, knives and bayonets used, and parties clenched in deadly conflict. In the second attack, our own men's muskets, taken from the dead and wounded, were used against them; a cross-fire cut down a succession of artillerists, when the cannon were taken, the carriages broken and burned, and the guns rolled into a pond. Many negroes were in the field; but no scalps were taken by the Indians. On the other hand, the negroes, with hellish cruelty, pierced the throats of all whose cries or groans shewed that there was still life in them."

Another official report runs thus:

We approached the battle-field from the rear. Our advanced guard had passed the ground without halting when the commanding officer and his staff came upon one of the most appalling scenes that can be imagined. We first saw some broken and scattered boxes; then a cart, the two oxen of which were lying dead, as if they had fallen asleep, their yokes still on them: a little to the right, one or two horses were seen. We next came to a small inclosure, made by felling trees, in such a manner as to form a triangular breastwork. Within the triangle--along the north and west faces of it--were about thirty bodies, mostly mere skeletons, although much of the clothing was left upon them. They were lying in the positions they must have occupied during the fight. Some had fallen over their dead comrades, but most of them lay close to the logs, with their heads turned towards the breastwork, over which they had delivered their fire, and their bodies stretched with striking regularity parallel to each other. They had evidently been shot dead at their posts, and the Indians had not disturbed them, except by taking the scalps of some--which, it is said, was done by their negro allies. The officers were all easily recognised. Some still wore their rings and breastpins, and money was found in their pockets! The bodies of eight officers and ninety-eight men were interred.

"It may be proper to observe that the attack was not made from a hommock, but in a thinly-wooded country--the Indians being concealed by palmettoes and grass."

From this report, it appears that the Indians were fighting--not for plunder, not even from motives of diabolical revenge. Their motive was higher and purer--it was the defence of their country--of their hearths and homes.

The advantage they had over the troop of Major Dade was simply that of ambush and surprise. This officer, though a man of undoubted gallantry, was entirely wanting in those qualities necessary to a leader-- especially one engaged against such a foe. He was a mere book-soldier-- as most officers are--lacking the genius which enables the great military chieftain to adapt himself to the circumstances that surround him. He conducted the march of his detachment as if going upon parade; and by so doing he carried it into danger and subsequent destruction.

But if the commander of the whites in this fatal affair was lacking in military capacity, the leader of the Indians was not. It soon became known that he who planned the ambush and conducted it to such a sanguinary and successful issue, was the young chief of the Baton Rouge--Osceola.

He could not have stayed long upon the ground to enjoy his triumph. It was upon that same evening, at Fort King--forty miles distant from the scene of Dade's massacre--that the commissioner fell before his vow of vengeance!

CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

THE BATTLE OF "OUITHLACOOCHEE."

The murder of the commissioner called for some act of prompt retribution. Immediately after its occurrence, several expresses had been dispatched by different routes to Camp Drane--some of whom fell into the hands of the enemy, while the rest arrived safely with the news.

By daybreak of the following morning the army, more than a thousand strong, was in motion; and marching towards the Amazura. The avowed object of this expedition was to strike a blow at the _families_ of the hostile Indians--their fathers and mothers, their wives, sisters and children--whose lurking-place amidst the fastnesses of the great swamp-- the "Cove"--had become known to the general. It was intended they should be _captured, if possible_, and held as hostages until the warriors could be induced to surrender.

With all others who could be spared from the fort, I was ordered to accompany the expedition, and accordingly joined it upon the march. From the talk I heard around me, I soon discovered the sentiment of the soldiery. They had but little thought of making captives. Exasperated by what had taken place at the fort--further exasperated by what they called "Dade's massacre," I felt satisfied that they would not stay to take prisoners--old men or young men, women or children, all would alike be slain--no quarter would be given.

I was sick even at the prospect of such a wholesale carnage as was anticipated. Anticipated, I say, for all confidently believed it would take place. The hiding-place of these unfortunate families had become known--there were guides conducting us thither who knew the very spot-- how could we fail to reach it?

An easy surprise was expected. Information had been received that the warriors, or most of them, were absent upon another and more distant expedition, and in a quarter where we could not possibly encounter them. We were to make a descent upon the nest in the absence of the eagles; and with this intent the army was conducted by silent and secret marches.

But the day before, our expedition would have appeared easy enough--a mere exciting frolic, without peril of any kind; but the news of Dade's defeat had produced a magical effect upon the spirits of the soldiers, and whilst it exasperated, it had also cowed them. For the first time, they began to feel something like a respect for their foe, mingled perhaps with a little dread of him. The Indians, at least, knew how to kill.

This feeling increased as fresh messengers came in from the scene of Dade's conflict, bringing new details of that sanguinary affair. It was not without some apprehension, then, that the soldier marched onwards, advancing into the heart of the enemy's country; and even the reckless volunteer kept close in the ranks as he rode silently along.

About mid-day we reached the banks of the Amazura. The stream had to be crossed before the Cove could be reached, for the vast network of swamps and lagoons bearing this name extended from the opposite side.

A ford had been promised the general, but the guides were at fault--no crossing-place could be found. At the point where we reached it, the river ran past, broad, black, and deep--too deep to be waded even by our horses.

Were the guides playing traitor, and misleading us? It certainly began to assume that appearance; but no--it could not be. They were Indians, it is true, but well proved in their devotion to the whites. Besides, they were men compromised with the national party--doomed to death by their own people--our defeat would have been their ruin.

It was not treason, as shewn afterwards--they had simply been deceived by the trails, and had gone the wrong way.

It was fortunate for us they had done so! But for this mistake of the guides, the army of General Clinch might have been called upon to repeat on a larger scale the drama so lately enacted by Dade and his companions.

Had we reached the true crossing, some two miles further down, we should have entered an ambush of the enemy, skillfully arranged by that same leader who so well understood his forest tactics. The report of the warriors having gone on a distant expedition was a mere _ruse_, the prelude to a series of strategic manoeuvres devised by Osceola.

The Indians were at that moment where we should have been, but for the mistake of the guides. The ford was beset upon both sides by the foe-- the warriors lying unseen like snakes among the grass, ready to spring forth the moment we should attempt the crossing. Fortunate it was for Clinch and his army that our guides possessed so little skill.

The general acted without this knowledge at the time--else, had he known the dangerous proximity, his behaviour might have been different. As it was, a halt was ordered; and, after some deliberation, it was determined we should cross the river at the point where the army had arrived.

Some old boats were found, "scows," with a number of Indian canoes. These would facilitate the transport of the infantry, while the mounted men could swim over upon their horses.

Rafts of logs were soon knocked together, and the passage of the stream commenced. The manoeuvre was executed with considerable adroitness, and in less than an hour one half of the command had crossed.

I was among those who got first over; but I scarcely congratulated myself on the success of the enterprise. I felt sad at the prospect of being soon called upon to aid in the slaughter of defenceless people--of women and children--for around me there was no other anticipation. It was with a feeling of positive relief, almost of joy, that I heard that wild war-cry breaking through the woods--the well-known Yo-ho-ehee of the Seminoles.

Along with it came the ringing detonations of rifles, the louder report of musketry; while bullets, whistling through the air, and breaking branches from the surrounding trees, told us that we were assailed in earnest, and by a large force of the enemy.

That portion of the army already over had observed the precaution to post itself in a strong position among heavy timber that grew near the river-bank; and on this account the first volley of the Indians produced a less deadly effect. For all that, several fell; and those who were exposed to view were still in danger.

The fire was returned by the troops, repeated by the Indians, and again answered by the soldiers--now rolling continuously, now in straggling volleys or single shots, and at intervals altogether ceasing.

For a long while but little damage was done on either side; but it was evident that the Indians, under cover of the underwood, were working themselves into a more advantageous position--in fact, _surrounding_ us. The troops, on the other hand, dare not stir from the spot where they had landed, until a larger number should cross over. After that it was intended we should advance, and force the Indians from the covert at the point of the bayonet.

The troops from the other side continued to cross. Hitherto, they had been protected by the fire of those already over; but at this crisis a manoeuvre was effected by the Indians, that threatened to put an end to the passing of the river, unless under a destructive fire from their rifles.

Just below our position, a narrow strip of land jutted out into the stream, forming a miniature peninsula. It was a sand-bar caused by an eddy on the opposite side. It was lower than the main bank, and bare of timber--except at its extreme point, where a sort of island had been formed, higher than the peninsula itself.

On this island grew a thick grove of evergreen trees--palms, live-oaks, and magnolias--in short, a hommock.

It would have been prudent for us to have occupied this hommock at the moment of our first crossing over; but our general had not perceived the advantage. The Indians were not slow in noticing it; and before we could take any steps to hinder them, a body of warriors rushed across the isthmus, and took possession of the hommock.

The result of this skillful manoeuvre was soon made manifest. The boats, in crossing, were swept down by the current within range of the wooded islet--out of whose evergreen shades was now poured a continuous stream of blue fiery smoke, while the leaden missiles did their work of death. Men were seen dropping down upon the rafts, or tumbling over the sides of the canoes, with a heavy plunge upon the water, that told they had ceased to live; while the thick fire of musketry that was directed upon the hommock altogether failed to dislodge the daring band who occupied it.

There were but few of them--for we had seen them distinctly as they ran over the isthmus--but it was evident they were a chosen few, skilled marksmen every man. They were dealing destruction at every shot.

It was a moment of intense excitement. Elsewhere the conflict was carried on with more equality--since both parties fought under cover of the trees, and but little injury was sustained or inflicted by either. The band upon the islet were killing more of our men than all the rest of the enemy.

There was no other resource than to dislodge them from the hommock--to drive them forth at the bayonet's point--at least this was the design that now suggested itself to the commander-in-chief.

It seemed a forlorn hope. Whoever should approach from the land-side would receive the full fire of the concealed enemy--be compelled to advance under a fearful risk of life.

To my surprise, the duty was assigned to myself. Why, I know not--since it could not be from any superior courage or ardour I had hitherto evinced in the campaign. But the order came from the general, direct and prompt; and with no great spirit I prepared to execute it.

With a party of rifles--scarcely outnumbering the enemy we were to attack at such a serious disadvantage--I started forth for the peninsula.

I felt as if marching upon my death, and I believe that most of those who followed me were the victims of a similar presentiment. Even though it had been a certainty, we could not now turn back; the eyes of the whole army were upon us. We must go forwards--we must conquer or fall.

In a few seconds we were upon the island, and advancing by rapid strides towards the hommock. We had hopes that the Indians might not have perceived our approach, and that we should get behind them unawares.

They were vain hopes. Our enemies had been watchful; they had observed our manoeuvre from its beginning; had faced round, and were waiting with rifles loaded, ready to receive us.

But half conscious of our perilous position, we pressed forwards and had got within twenty yards of the grove, when the blue smoke and red flame suddenly jetted forth from the trees. I heard the bullets shower past my ears; I heard the cries and groans of my followers, as they fell thickly behind me. I looked around--I saw that every one of them was stretched upon the ground, dead or dying!

At the same instant a voice reached me from the grove:

"Go back, Randolph! go back! By that symbol upon your breast your life has been spared; but my braves are chafed, and their blood is hot with fighting. Tempt not their anger. Away! away!"

CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

A VICTORY ENDING IN A RETREAT.

I saw not the speaker, who was completely hidden behind the thick trellis of leaves. It was not necessary I should see him, to know who addressed me; on hearing the voice I instantly recognised it. It was Osceola who spoke.

I cannot describe my sensations at that moment, nor tell exactly how I acted. My mind was in a chaos of confusion--surprise and fear mingling alike in my emotions.

I remember facing once more towards my followers. I saw that they were not all dead--some were still lying where they had fallen, doubled up, or stretched out in various attitudes of death--motionless--beyond doubt, lifeless. Some still moved, their cries for help showing that life was not extinct.

To my joy, I observed several who had regained their feet, and were running, or rather scrambling, rapidly away from the ground; and still another few who had risen into half-erect attitudes, and were crawling off upon their hands and knees.

These last were still being fired upon from the bushes; and as I stood wavering, I saw one or two of them levelled along the grass by the fatal bullets that rained thickly around me.

Among the wounded who lay at my feet, there was a young fellow whom I knew. He appeared to be shot through both limbs, and could not move his body from the spot. His appeal to me for help was the first thing that aroused me from my indecision; I remembered that this young man had once done me a service.

Almost mechanically, I bent down, grasped him around the waist, and raising his body, commenced dragging him away.

With my burden I hurried back across the isthmus--as fast as my strength would permit--nor did I stop till beyond the range of the Indian rifles. Here I was met by a party of soldiers, sent to cover our retreat. In their hands I left my disabled comrade, and hastened onward to deliver my melancholy report to the commander-in-chief.

My tale needed no telling. Our movement had been watched, and our discomfiture was already known throughout the whole army.

The general said not a word; and, without giving time for explanation, ordered me to another part of the field.

All blamed his imprudence in having ordered such a desperate charge-- especially with so small a force. For myself, I had gained the credit of a bold leader; but how I chanced to be the only one, who came back unscathed out of that deadly fire, was a puzzle which at that moment I did not choose to explain.

For an hour or more the fight continued to be carried on, in the shape of a confused skirmish among swamps and trees, without either party gaining any material advantage. Each held the position it had taken up--though the Indians retained the freedom of the forest beyond. To have retired from ours, would have been the ruin of the whole army; since there was no other mode of retreat, but by recrossing the stream, and that could only have been effected under the fire of the enemy.

And yet to hold our position appeared equally ruinous. We could effect nothing by being thus brought to a stand-still, for we were actually besieged upon the bank of the river. We had vainly endeavoured to force the Indians from the bush. Having once failed, a second attempt to cut our way through them would be a still more perilous emprise; and yet to remain stationary had also its prospects of danger. With scanty provisions, the troops had marched out of their cantonments. Their rations were already exhausted--hunger stared the army in the face. Its pangs were already felt, and every hour would render them more severe.

We began to believe that we were _besieged_; and such was virtually the fact. Around us in a semi-circle swarmed the savages, each behind his protecting tree--thus forming a defensive line equal in strength to a fortified intrenchment. Such could not be forced, without the certainty of great slaughter among our men.

We perceived, too, that the number of our enemies was hourly increasing. A peculiar cry--which some of the old "Indian fighters" understood-- heard at intervals, betokened the arrival of fresh parties of the foe. We felt the apprehension that we were being outnumbered, and might soon be overpowered. A gloomy feeling was fast spreading itself through the ranks.

During the skirmishes that had already occurred, we noticed that many of the Indians were armed with fusils and muskets. A few were observed in uniform, with military accoutrements! One--a conspicuous leader--was still more singularly attired. From his shoulders was suspended a large silken flag, after the fashion of a Spanish cloak of the times of the _conquistadores_. Its stripes of alternate red and white, with the blue starry field at the corner, were conspicuous. Every eye in the army looked upon it, and recognised in the fantastic draping, thus tauntingly displayed, the loved flag of our country.

These symbols were expressive. They did not puzzle us. Their presence among our enemies was easily explained. The flag, the muskets and fusils, the uniforms and equipments, were trophies from the battle-field where Dade had fallen.

Though the troops regarded these objects with bitter indignation, their anger was impotent: the hour for avenging the disastrous fate of their comrades had not yet arrived.

It is not improbable we might have shared their destiny, had we remained much longer upon the ground; but a plan of retreat offered, of which our general was not loath to take advantage. It was the happy idea of a volunteer officer--an old campaigner of the "Hickory" wars--versed in the tactics of Indian fighting.

By his advice, a feint was made by the troops who had not yet crossed-- the volunteers. It was a pretended attempt to effect the passage of the river at a point higher up stream. It was good strategy. Had such a passage been possible, it would have brought the enemy between two fires, and thus put an end to the "surround;" but a crossing was not intended--only a ruse.

It had the effect designed; the Indians were deceived by it, and rushed in a body up the bank to prevent the attempt at crossing. Our beleaguered force took advantage of their temporary absence; and the "regulars," making an adroit use of the time, succeeded in getting back to the "safe side" of the river. The wily foe was too prudent to follow us; and thus ended the "battle of the Ouithlacoochee."

In the hurried council that was held, there was no two opinions as to what course of action we should pursue. The proposal to march back to Fort King was received with a wonderful unanimity; and, with little loss of time, we took the route, and arrived without farther molestation at the fort.

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

ANOTHER "SWAMP-FIGHT."

After this action, a complete change was observed in the spirit of the army. Boasting was heard no more; and the eagerness of the troops to be led against the enemy was no longer difficult to restrain. No one expressed desire for a second expedition across the Ouithlacoochee, and the "Cove" was to remain unexplored until the arrival of reinforcements. The volunteers were disheartened, wearied of the campaign, and not a little cowed by the resistance they had so unexpectedly encountered-- bold and bloody as it was unlooked for. The enemy, hitherto despised, if it had aroused by its conduct a strong feeling of exasperation and vengeance, had also purchased the privilege of respect.

The battle of the Ouithlacoochee cost the United States army nearly a hundred men. The Seminole loss was believed to be much greater; though no one could give a better authority for this belief than that of a "guess." No one had _seen_ the enemy's slain; but this was accounted for by the assertion, that during the fight they _had carried their dead and wounded from the field_!

How often has this absurd allegation appeared in the dispatches of generals both victorious and defeated! It is the usual explanation of a battle-field found too sparsely strewn by the bodies of the foe. The very possibility of such an operation argues either an easy conflict, or a strong attachment between comrade and comrade--too strong, indeed, for human nature. With some fighting experience, I can affirm that I never saw a _dead_ body, either of comrade or foeman, moved from the ground where he had fallen, so long as there was a shot ringing upon the ear.

In the battle of the Ouithlacoochee, no doubt some of our enemies had "bit the dust;" but their loss was much less than that of our own troops. For myself--and I had ample opportunity for observation--I could not swear to a single "dead Indian;" nor have I met with a comrade who could.

Notwithstanding this, historians have chronicled the affair as a grand "victory," and the dispatch of the commander-in-chief is still extant--a curious specimen of warlike literature. In this document may be found the name of almost every officer engaged, each depicted as a peerless hero! A rare monument of vanity and boasting.

To speak the honest truth, we had been well "whipped" by the red skins; and the chagrin of the army was only equalled by its exasperation.

Clinch, although esteemed a kind general--the "soldier's friend," as historians term him--was no longer regarded as a great warrior. His glory had departed. If Osceola owed _him_ any spite, he had reason to be satisfied with what he had accomplished, without molesting the "old veteran" further. Though still living, he was dead to fame.

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A fresh commander-in-chief now made his appearance, and hopes of victory were again revived. The new general was Gaines, another of the "veterans" produced by seniority of rank. He had not been ordered by the Government upon this especial duty; but Florida being part of his military district, had volunteered to take the guidance of the war.

Like his predecessor, Gaines expected to reap a rich harvest of laurels, and, like the former, was he doomed to disappointment. Again, it was the cypress wreath.

Without delay, our army--reinforced by fresh troops from Louisiana and elsewhere--was put in motion, and once more marched upon the "Cove."

We reached the banks of the Amazura, but never crossed that fatal stream--equally fatal to our glory as our lives. This time, _the Indians crossed_.

Almost upon the ground of the former action--with the difference that it was now upon the nether bank of the stream--we were attacked by the red warriors; and, after some hours of sharp skirmishing, compelled to shelter our proud battalions within the protecting pickets of a stockade! Within this inclosure we were besieged for a period of nine days, scarcely daring to trust ourselves outside the wooden walls. Starvation no longer stared us in the face--it had actually come upon us; and but for the _horses_ we had hitherto bestrode--with whose flesh we were fain to satisfy the cravings of our appetites--one half the army of "Camp Izard" would have perished of hunger.

We were saved from destruction by the timely arrival of a large force that had been dispatched to our rescue under Clinch, still commanding his brigade. Having marched direct from Fort King, our former general had the good fortune to approach the enemy from their rear, and, by surprising our besiegers, disentangled us from our perilous situation.

The day of our delivery was memorable by a singular incident--an armistice of a peculiar character.

Early in the morning, while it was yet dark, a voice was heard hailing us from a distance, in a loud "Ho there!--Halloa!"

It came from the direction of the enemy--since we were _surrounded_, it could not be otherwise--but the peculiar phraseology led to the hope that Clinch's brigade had arrived.

The hail was repeated, and answered; but the hope of a rescue vanished when the stentorian voice was recognised as that of Abram, the black chief, and quondam interpreter of the council.

"What do you want?" was the interrogatory ordered by the commander-in-chief.

"A talk," came the curt reply.

"For what purpose?"

"We want to stop fighting."

The proposal was agreeable as unexpected. What could it mean? Were the Indians starring, like ourselves, and tired of hostilities? It was probable enough: for what other reason should they desire to end the war so abruptly? They had not yet been defeated, but, on the contrary, victorious in every action that had been fought.

But one other motive could be thought of. We were every hour expecting the arrival of Clinch's brigade. Runners had reached the camp to say that he was near, and, reinforced by it, we should be not only strong enough to raise the siege, but to attack the Indians with almost a certainty of defeating them. Perhaps they knew, as well as we, that Clinch was advancing, and were desirous of making terms before his arrival.

The proposal for a "talk" was thus accounted for by the commander-in-chief, who was now in hopes of being able to strike a decisive blow. His only apprehension was, that the enemy should retreat, before Clinch could get forward upon the field. An armistice would serve to delay the Indians upon the ground; and without hesitation, the distant speaker was informed that the talk would be welcome.

A meeting of _parlementaires_ from each side was arranged; the hour, as soon as it should be light. There were to be three of the Indians, and three from the camp.

A small savanna extended from the stockade. At several hundred yards' distance it was bounded by the woods. As soon as the day broke, we saw three men emerge from the timber, and advance into the open ground. They were Indian chiefs in full costume; they were the commissioners. All three were recognised from the camp--Abram, Coa Hajo, and Osceola.

Outside musket-range, they halted, placing themselves side by side in erect attitudes, and facing the inclosure.

Three officers, two of whom could speak the native tongue, were sent forth to meet them. I was one of the deputation.

In a few seconds we stood face to face with the hostile chiefs.

CHAPTER SEVENTY.

THE TALK.

Before a word was uttered, all six of us shook hands--so far as appearance went, in the most friendly manner. Osceola grasped mine warmly; as he did so, saying with a peculiar smile:

"Ah, Randolph! friends sometimes meet in war as well as in peace."

I knew to what he referred, but could only answer him with a significant look of gratitude.

An orderly, sent to us with a message from the general, was seen approaching from the camp. At the same instant, an Indian appeared coming out of the timber, and, keeping pace with the orderly, simultaneously with the latter arrived upon the ground. The deputation was determined we should not outnumber it.

As soon as the orderly had whispered his message, the "talk began."

Abram was the spokesman on the part of the Indians, and delivered himself in his broken English. The others merely signified their assent by a simple nod, or the affirmation "Ho;" while their negative was expressed by the exclamation "Cooree."

"Do you white folk want to make peace?" abruptly demanded the negro.

"Upon what terms?" asked the head of our party.

"Da tarms we gib you are dese: you lay down arm, an' stop de war; your sogas go back, an' stay in dar forts: _we Indyen_ cross ober da Ouithlacoochee; an' from dis time forth, for ebber after, we make the grand ribber da line o' boundary atween de two. We promise lib in peace an' good tarms wi' all white neighbour. Dat's all got say."

"Brothers!" said our speaker in reply, "I fear these conditions will not be accepted by the white general, nor our great father, the president. I am commissioned to say, that the commander-in-chief can treat with you on no other conditions than those of your absolute submission, and under promise that you will now agree to the removal."

"_Cooree! cooree_! never!" haughtily exclaimed Coa Hajo and Osceola in one breath, and with a determined emphasis, that proved they had no intention of offering to surrender.

"An' what for we submit," asked the black, with some show of astonishment. "We not conquered! We conquer you ebbery fight--we whip you people, one, two, tree time--we whip you; dam! we kill you well too. What for we submit? We come here gib condition--not ask um."

"It matters little what has hitherto transpired," observed the officer in reply; "we are by far stronger than you--we must conquer you in the end."

Again the two chiefs simultaneously cried "_Cooree_!"

"May be, white men, you make big mistake 'bout our strength. We not so weak you tink for--dam! no. We show you our strength."

As the negro said this, he turned inquiringly towards his comrades, as if to seek their assent to some proposition.

Both seemed to grant it with a ready nod; and Osceola, who now assumed the leadership of the affair, faced towards the forest, at the same time giving utterance to a loud and peculiar intonation.

The echoes of his voice had not ceased to vibrate upon the air, when the evergreen grove was observed to be in motion along: its whole edge; and the next instant, a line of dusky warriors shewed itself in the open ground. They stepped forth a pace or two, then halted in perfect order of battle--so that their numbers could easily be told off from where we stood.

"Count the red warriors!" cried Osceola, in a triumphant tone--"count them, and be no longer ignorant of the strength of your enemy."

As the Indian uttered these words, a satirical smile played upon his lips; and he stood for some seconds confronting us in silence.

"Now," continued he, once more pointing to his followers, "do yonder braves--there are fifteen hundred of them--do they look starving and submissive? No! they are ready to continue the war till the blood of the last man sinks into the soil of his native land. If they must perish, it will be here--here in Florida--in the land of their birth, upon the graves of their fathers.

"We have taken up the rifle because you wronged us, and would drive us out. For the wrongs we have had revenge. We have killed many of your people, and we are satisfied with the vengeance we have taken. We want to kill no more. But about the removal, we have not changed our minds. We shall never change them.

"We have made you a fair proposition: accept it, and in this hour the war shall cease; reject it, and more blood shall be spilled--ay, by the spirit of Wykome! rivers of blood shall flow. The red poles of our lodges shall be painted again and again with the blood of our pale-faced foes. Peace or war, then--you are welcome to your choice."

As Osceola ceased speaking, he waved his hand towards his dusky warriors by the wood, who at the sign disappeared among the trees, silently, rapidly, almost mysteriously.

A meet reply was being delivered to the passionate harangue of the young chief, when the speaker was interrupted by the report of musketry, heard in the direction of the Indians, but further off. The shots followed each other in rapid succession, and were accompanied by shouts, that, though feebly borne from the far distance, could be distinguished as the charging cheers of men advancing into a battle.

"Ha! foul play!" cried the chiefs in a breath; "pale-faced liars! you shall rue this treason;" and, without waiting to exchange another sentence, all three sprang off from the spot, and ran at full speed towards the covert of the woods.

We turned back within the lines of the camp, where the shots had also been heard, and interpreted as the advance of Clinch's brigade attacking the Indian outposts in the rear. We found the troops already mustered in battle-array, and preparing to issue forth from the stockade. In a few minutes, the order was given, and the army marched forth, extending itself rapidly both right and left along the bank of the river.

As soon as the formation was complete, the line advanced. The troops were burning for revenge. Cooped up as they had been for days, half-famished, and more than half disgraced, they had now an opportunity to retrieve their honour; and were fully bent upon the punishment of the savage foe. With an army in their rear, rapidly closing upon them by an extended line--for this had been pre-arranged between the commanders-- another similarly advancing upon their front, how could the Indians escape? They must fight--they would be conquered at last.

This was the expectation of all--officers and soldiers. The commander-in-chief was himself in high spirits. His strategic plan had succeeded. The enemy was surrounded--entrapped; a great victory was before him--a "harvest of laurels."

We marched forward. We heard shots, but now only solitary or straggling. We could not hear the well-known war-cry of the Indians.

We continued to advance. The hommocks were carried by a charge, but in their shady coverts we found no enemy.

Surely they must still be before us--between our lines and those of the approaching reinforcement? Is it possible they can have retreated-- escaped?

No! Yonder they are--on the other side of the meadow--just coming out from the trees. They are advancing to give us battle! Now for the charge--now--

Ha! those blue uniforms and white belts--those forage-caps and sabres-- these are not Indians! It is not the enemy! They are our friends--the soldiers of Clinch's brigade!

Fortunate it was that at that moment there was a mutual recognition, else might we have annihilated one another.

CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE OF AN ARMY.

The two divisions of the army now came together, and after a rapid council had been held between the commanders, continued scouring the field in search of our enemy. Hours were spent in the search; but not an Indian foe could be found!

Osceola had performed a piece of strategy unheard of in the annals of war. He had carried an army of 1,600 men from between two others of nearly equal numbers, who had completely enfiladed him, without leaving a man upon the ground--ay, without leaving a trace of his retreat. That host of Indian warriors, so lately observed in full battle-array, had all at once broken up into a thousand fragments, and, as if by magic, had melted out of sight.

The enemy was gone, we knew not whither; and the disappointed generals once more marched their forces back to Fort King.

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The "dispersion," as it was termed, of the Indian army, was of course chronicled as another "victory." It was a victory, however, that killed poor old Gaines--at least his military fame--and he was only too glad to retire from the command he had been so eager to obtain.

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A third general now took the field as commander-in-chief--an officer of more notoriety than either of his predecessors--Scott. A lucky wound received in the old British wars, seniority of rank, a good deal of political buffoonery, but above all a free translation of the French "system of tactics," with the assumption of being their author, had kept General Scott conspicuously before the American public for a period of twenty years [Note 1]. He who could contrive such a system of military manoeuvring could not be otherwise than a great soldier; so reasoned his countrymen.

Of course wonderful things were expected from the new commander-in-chief, and great deeds were promised. He would deal with the savages in a different way from that adopted by his predecessors; he would soon put an end to the contemptible war.

There was much rejoicing at the appointment; and preparations were made for a campaign on a far more extensive scale than had fallen to the lot of either of the chiefs who preceded him. The army was doubled--almost trebled--the commissariat amply provided for, before the great general would consent to set foot upon the field.

He arrived at length, and the army was put in motion.

I am not going to detail the incidents of this campaign; there were none of sufficient importance to be chronicled, much less of sufficient interest to be narrated. It consisted simply of a series of harassing marches, conducted with all the pomp and regularity of a parade review. The army was formed into three divisions, somewhat bombastically styled "right wing," "left wing," and "centre." Thus formed, they were to approach the "Cove of the Ouithlacoochee"--again that fatal Cove--from three different directions, Fort King, Fort Brooke, and the Saint John's. On arriving on the edge of the great swamp, each was to fire minute-guns as signals for the others, and then all three were to advance in converging lines towards the heart of the Seminole fastness.

The absurd manoeuvre was carried out, and ended as might have been expected, in complete failure. During the march, no man saw the face of a red Indian. A few of their camps were discovered, but nothing more. The cunning warriors had heard the signal guns, and well understood their significance. With such a hint of the position of their enemy, they had but little difficulty in making their retreat between the "wings."

Perhaps the most singular, if not the most important, incident occurring in Scott's campaign was one which came very near costing me my life. If not worthy of being given in detail, it merits mention as a curious case of "abandonment."

While marching for the "Cove" with his centre wing, the idea occurred to our great commander to leave behind him, upon the banks of the Amazura, what he termed a "post of observation." This consisted of a detachment of forty men--mostly our Suwanee volunteers, with their proportion of officers, myself among the number.

We were ordered to fortify ourselves on the spot, and _stay_ there until we should be relieved from our duty, which was somewhat indefinitely understood even by him who was placed in command of us. After giving these orders, the general, at the head of his "central wing," marched off, leaving us to our fate.

Our little band was sensibly alive to the perilous position in which we were thus placed, and we at once set about making the best of it. We felled trees, built a blockhouse, dug a well, and surrounded both with a strong stockade.

Fortunately we were not _discovered_ by the enemy for nearly a week after the departure of the army, else we should most certainly have been destroyed to a man. The Indians, in all probability, had followed the "centre wing," and thus for a time were carried out of our neighbourhood.

On the sixth day, however, they made their appearance, and summoned us to surrender.

We refused, and fought them--again, and again, at intervals, during a period of fifty days!

Several of our men were killed or wounded; and among the former, the gallant chief of our devoted band, Holloman, who fell from a shot fired through the interstices of the stockade.

Provisions had been left with us to serve us for _two weeks_; they were eked out to last for seven! For thirty days we subsisted upon raw corn and water, with a few handfuls of acorns, which we contrived to gather from the trees growing within the inclosure.

In this way we held out for a period of fifty days, and still no commander-in-chief--no army came to relieve us. During all that gloomy siege, we never heard word of either; no white face ever showed itself to our anxious eyes, that gazed constantly outward. We believed ourselves abandoned--forgotten.

And such in reality was the fact--General Scott, in his eagerness to get away from Florida, had quite forgotten to relieve the "post of observation;" and others believing that we had long since perished, made no effort to send a rescue.

Death from hunger stared us in the face, until at length the brave old hunter, Hickman, found his way through the lines of our besiegers, and communicated our situation to our "friends at home."

His tale produced a strong excitement, and a force was dispatched to our relief, that succeeded in dispersing our enemies, and setting us free from our blockhouse prison.

Thus terminated "Scott's campaign," and with it his command in Florida. The whole affair was a burlesque, and Scott was only saved from ridicule and the disgrace of a speedy recall, by a lucky accident, that fell in his favour. Orders had already reached him to take control of another, "Indian war"--the "Creek"--that was just breaking out in the States of the southwest; and this afforded the discomfited general a well-timed excuse for retiring from the "Flowery Land."

Florida was destined to prove to American generals a land of melancholy remembrances. No less than seven of them were successively beaten at the game of Indian warfare by the Seminoles and their wily chieftains. It is not my purpose to detail the history of their failures and mishaps. From the disappearance of General Scott, I was myself no longer with the main army. My destiny conducted me through the more romantic by-ways of the campaign--the paths of _la petite guerre_--and of these only am I enabled to write. Adieu, then, to the grand historic.

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Note 1. Scott's whole career, political as well as military, had been a series of _faux pas_. His campaign in Mexico will not bear criticism. The numerous blunders he there committed would have led to most fatal results, had they not been neutralised by the judgment of his inferior officers, and the indomitable valour of the soldiery. The battle of Moline del Rey--the armistice with Santa Anna, were military errors unworthy of a cadet fresh from college. I make bold to affirm that every action was a mob-fight--the result depending upon mere chance; or rather on the desperate bravery of the troops upon one side, and the infamous cowardice of those on the other.

CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

THE CONDITION OF BLACK JAKE.