Читать книгу Nobody's Hero - Frank Laumer - Страница 11

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A fellow officer had described Captain Belton as “one of the most intelligent and accomplished officers of the United States Army.” Yet a decade ago he had been court-martialed and suspended, prompting another officer, Brig. Gen. Winfield Scott, to write him: “How has it happened that you have so many enemies? I will not believe there is anything wrong in your heart, but have been driven to the conviction that there is much which requires improvement in your temper. It would be idle to say that you could, otherwise, have made so many of your associates your personal enemies. Your case calls for all your fortitude. Show yourself a man.”

Belton, along with his men, had been in virtual exile at Fort Morgan since October 1835 when Fraser and his company had been transferred to Fort Brooke on Tampa Bay. As the long, listless, empty days passed, Clark had often seen the captain sitting outdoors with his easel, placidly sketching the fort and vicinity, adding color with pencils and paint. Having discovered that Clark could read and even write, Belton had assigned him the sometime job of clerk, sending for him whenever a ship called. Aside from letters to Harriet, his wife, he liked to have Clark read his military correspondence aloud to him, the better to make reply. In August he had received a letter from Col. James M. Fannin Jr. in Texas, whom he had met briefly the previous winter in Mobile. Fannin had proposed that Belton join him in the service of Texan independence, offered him the command of “as brave a set of backwoodsmen as ever were led to battle.” Clark knew from the papers that Fannin, along with William Barret Travis, James Bowie, and David Crockett, planned to join the Mexican province of Texas in a bid for secession. Belton had hesitated, replying to Fannin in September that “it would be a step of great importance to me to discard as nothing domestic duties and military responsibilities.” He had agreed only to visit New Orleans, act as inspector of cannon, arms, and other military stores gathering for the coming struggle with Gen. Martin Perfecto do Cos, brother-in-law of the Mexican president, Santa Anna. De Cos had established his headquarters in an abandoned mission east of San Antonio called the Alamo.

While Clark had sat, pen in hand, Belton paced, talked to himself. To join Fannin would be a gamble of all against nothing. He would have to resign his commission after twenty-three years of slow progress rank by rank, years spent trying to overcome the stain of court-martial, suspension, all gone for the hope of rank and glory under a foreign flag. And what of his only child, Winfield Scott Belton, sixteen, whom he was preparing for West Point? Fort Morgan was as secure but as lonely a spot as military service offered and the idea of adventure and advancement had a lot of appeal—from a distance. He was finally spared the agony of decision when, on the twenty-second of November, 1835, he received orders to take his company to Florida.

Clark boarded ship with his company on the 30th, glad to be in motion, glad to leave their lonely brick fortress. Headwinds and stormy weather slowed the long crossing of the Gulf, not reaching Tampa Bay until the 11th of December. Men crowded the rail as they made the last thirty miles north and east up the bay. Fort Brooke finally in sight, Clark could see the partially palisaded area set back only a little from the water’s edge, docks thrusting out like fingers from a wooden fist. Among the log buildings were giant live oaks laced with yellow jasmine, like a woman with flowers in her hair. The area looked more like the grounds of the courthouse in Geneseo than the encampment ground of an army. Immediately beyond were the blackened skeletons of perhaps a hundred orange trees, probably killed in last winter’s hard freeze. The only defenses looked to be blockhouses at two of the angles of a parallelogram, the line of men’s quarters and other structures between making the exterior defense.

Long boats brought them to the wharf, a handful of sailors pulling at the sweeps. Non-coms got the men sorted out, formed into ranks. Belton indicated that Clark was to accompany him. It made no difference to Clark. As orderly he had lighter duty and a better knowledge of events than others.

Captain Fraser was in command. With Capt. George Gardiner and a dozen others, he greeted Belton and his junior officers. Clark hovered attentively. Introductions were made, acquaintances renewed. At the first pause Fraser led the little group down the dock and headed up the rise toward the fort. He explained that he and the others were huddled within the encampment, their backs to Tampa Bay—three undermanned companies, 119 men in all, many with wives and children. “I am responsible as well for a hundred civilians sheltered within the fort,” Fraser explained. “Sick reports are high from fevers and inflammatory diseases. Since the first of the month, the excited state of the Seminoles in the neighborhood, the plunder and burning of property all around the bay, the expectation of attack, have galvanized the entire garrison, soldier and civilian, to extraordinary effort to place the position in a state of defense.” He waved an arm. “As you see, we’ve begun to palisade the area with pine logs planted shoulder to shoulder around the encampment, block houses built at opposite corners. We’ll soon be secure” he added confidently.

A junior officer spoke up: “As a measure of their respect, the men refer to one as the ‘Fraser Redoubt.’ ”

Fraser smiled, motioned deprecatingly. “I’ve had ditches, three feet wide and eight feet deep, dug around the fort to slow an attack, sharpened stakes set in the bottom and covered with straw. And some thirty civilians have organized themselves as mounted rangers. They patrol the approaches to the fort during the early morning hours.”

He glanced at Belton, over his shoulder at the others, back to Belton. He paused, said quietly, heavily, “Still, in the dead of night the alarm drum frequently sounds.” A friendly murmur of talk ended. “Under the circumstances, Captain, I suggest we go directly to my office, let Gardiner and I brief you on our circumstances.” In a moment of silence, he noticed Belton silently looking around at the hasty defensive improvisations on the grounds surrounding the fort. Accepting Belton’s silence as agreement, he led the group on toward the fort.

“You must understand,” Fraser continued, “the real problem is that defense was not a circumstance anticipated when ‘Cantonment’ Brooke was established eleven years ago. It was built more as a symbol of American authority than as a military fort. Ten years ago there were rumors of a possible attack and the camp was hastily stockaded, but a month later the rumors had passed, the pickets pulled up and stacked. Since then attack has never been anything more than a rumor. Seminoles have been looked upon more as a nuisance than a threat.”

Fraser knew Belton was from Maryland, neither stranger nor foe to slavery, yet his own explanation of their problem seemed to beg the question: Why now? “The abomination of slavery has changed all that.” He stopped, looked at Belton, saw the tightening of his lips. He looked at Gardiner. Gardiner nodded. The other officers eddied about, silent, listening. “When we bought Florida from Spain in 1821, the Territory was no longer a safe haven for escaped slaves, a trapdoor in the bottom of the nation through which they could drop out of Alabama and Georgia and land in freedom. The slave catchers were turned loose. To the whites who own them, of course, slaves are a capital investment; to the Seminoles they are men and women. Among the Seminoles they were scattered, absorbed, difficult for the slave catchers to find. The larger the Seminole land, the more difficult the search.”

He spread his hands. “You will recall that a year after the acquisition President Monroe, a slave owner, stated flatly that the Seminoles ‘should be removed . . . or concentrated within narrower limits.’ In twenty-three, the ‘limits’ were defined in the Treaty of Moultrie Creek as a tract in the middle of the territory some sixty miles wide, one hundred and twenty miles long. If the Seminoles and their black neighbors could be rounded up, you see, it would be easier to catch the blacks, send them back to slavery. And to keep them isolated, cut them off from foreign contact, or possible escape, it was deemed necessary to build a series of forts around the coast, including the bay here.” He turned, nodded toward the fort, continued moving.

They reached the top of the gentle slope that led up to the open west side of the encampment. Fraser motioned with one arm, changing the subject. “The whole area was covered with live oak trees and pine then. Most have been cut down to make a clear field of fire. Boredom, not danger, was the problem then.” He paused. “But that was eighteen-twenty-four. A fort that needed no walls. We’ve made treaty after treaty, Moultrie Creek, Paynes Landing, Fort Gibson, promising better treatment while taking more land, squeezing them tighter, taking the Negroes.” He sighed heavily. “Now Washington has decided the Seminoles must go, lock, stock, and barrel. With the Seminoles gone there’ll be no safe haven for slaves.”

Clark trailed the officers closely, listening. He was reminded of Lucy’s words, “Every white person in America is a foreigner. Our parents or grandparents took the Indians’ land. We’re still taking it.” It had been a new thought to him then. The taking of land in New York had been done a long time ago. If it was still being taken, he had thought vaguely that it was far away, on the western frontier, far from New York. In his life he had seen no personal evidence of it beyond a few dissolute Senecas. He realized now that Florida was such a frontier and the Seminoles were preparing to fight for this land, their land. He looked toward the frail structure in front of them. If it came to that, this could be a very dangerous place.

It was evident that Belton was impatient with the lecture. He had sucked in his upper lip, was fanning himself with his hat. Fraser ignored the signals, determined that Belton, the junior officers, make no mistake about the cause of their problems, the gravity of their position. Even in the fort they were at constant risk. With his own and Gardiner’s companies under orders and Zantzinger ill, it was clear that Belton would be taking over here. When he revealed General Clinch’s request for reinforcements at Fort King, Belton, in ignorance of their circumstances, might consider giving the order to march. Before turning over command it was Fraser’s responsibility to make clear the risk.

They walked on. “And what have we accomplished?” he asked. “Sent a few men, women, and children back to slavery and stirred up the whole Seminole Nation. It’s true that some have agreed to give up their land and go west; they’re encamped just across the river, over there.” He pointed. “For them emigration is to begin on January first, three weeks from now. Fort Brooke is the point of emigration.” He paused. “The problem is that an ever-growing majority of Seminoles, the ‘Nation,’ threatens war instead.”

They had reached headquarters. The building set aside for the commanding officer stood alone just west of the officers’ quarters. Belton glanced around. Instead of the security of eight million bricks he found himself within a three-sided log palisade that reeked of pine sap. If the Seminoles didn’t burn it first the white ants would soon eat it, he thought sourly. Scattered around the dusty parade ground were groups of scruffy civilians, idling soldiers. This was a fort?

Leading the way into his office, Fraser motioned Belton, Gardiner to chairs at a large plank table. Junior officers gathered in the gloom around them. Without being told, Clark sat at a small side table that served as desk with paper, ink, and pen. He knew from experience that Belton would want him to take notes, commit to paper everything discussed, any agreements reached, any orders given. The office was dim, the only natural light coming through the open door and the firing slits cut in the horizontal log walls. A lamp hung from a ceiling hook. The room smelled of burning oil and fresh-cut pine. Clark stared down at his paper letting his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom.

Fraser took a deep breath, sighed. He had known Belton for years but had never felt the slightest bond, no feeling of camaraderie. He shrugged his shoulders, pushed several papers aside, smoothed out a map. “First thing, Captain. Of the other three companies already here, mine and George’s are already under orders to take a detachment north to Fort King, ‘as soon as practicable,’ in the general’s words. Major Zantzinger is ill; he turned over command of the fort to me when I arrived in October.” He sat back in his chair, folded his hands. “Gardiner, Zantzinger, and I are agreed, Captain, that under the circumstances, you will now want to, need to, assume command here.”

He motioned to a soldier who had appeared in the doorway. The orderly entered carrying a bottle and three glasses. Fraser thanked the soldier, poured, passed the glasses. “To your health, gentlemen.”

Belton’s uniform had grown tighter over the years, his collar suddenly looking like it had him by the throat. “Well. Well.” In the silence his swallow was audible. Accepting that as an acknowledgement, Fraser drew his chair in, sat primly straight, looked at Belton across the table, down at the map, pointed a slim finger. “Fort Brooke.” His finger moved east and north, tracing a line that led away. “The Fort King Road.” He followed the line across the map to a small, dark circle. “We understand that Clinch is here, at Fort King. About one hundred miles. As you know, General Clinch commands all U.S. troops in Florida. Here’s the order. I received it two weeks ago.” He pushed a paper toward Belton, leaned back, picked up his glass, waited for Belton to read.

The order was dated November 13th at Fort King, addressed to “The Officer in Command at Fort Brooke.”

“On the arrival of Capt. Belton’s & Capt. Gardiner’s Companies at Fort Brooke, you will order Captn. Fraser’s and Captn. Gardiner’s Companies to proceed to this Post as soon as practicable . . . and on the arrival of Bvt. Maj. Mountfort’s Company and Captn. Taylor’s, . . . they will proceed to this Post with as little delay as practicable . . .”

Belton put down the paper. Fraser cleared his throat, continued. “George here came in two weeks ago. Brought his company down from Fort Pickens in Pensacola Bay, along with Mrs. Gardiner and their two small children. We have no word on Mountfort or Taylor.” He paused, considering his words. “Captain, the general is out of touch, does not know our situation here.” He pointed to Clinch’s order with one stiff finger. “To move in accordance with this order at the present time is in opposition to the opinion of every officer here, every man and woman, every soldier and civilian.” He paused again, raised his narrow chin. “One hundred men, one hundred miles through Seminole country. I thought it best to wait.” He gestured toward Belton. “But ‘practicable’ is up to you now, Captain.”

The day was overcast and warm, showers had come and gone and come again. Water dripped idly from the eaves. Clark sat silently, pen poised, watching, listening. He moved his eyes from Fraser to Gardiner. It seemed obvious as they silently stared at Belton that they were expecting some sign that he was alert to the inherent risk.

Belton pushed a finger slowly across the map following the Fort King Road. He gave no acknowledgement of the danger. “One hundred miles. Rivers? Two, three?”

“Four.” Fraser counted them on his fingers. “Little Hillsborough, Big Hillsborough, Big Withlacoochee, Little Withlacoochee. Bridges likely burnt.” He paused, repeating his warning, wanting to make sure his point was not missed. “A risky march.”

To further strengthen the message, he leaned forward, pointed at the map again. “Saunders, sutler here at the Big Hillsborough, has been driven in by Seminoles, his white people fired on, his store plundered, likely burnt. A settler, Simmons, twenty-eight miles out, was attacked three days ago, his plantation crop burnt. Another settler, Levi Collar, down the bay six miles, was driven in with his family and more than a dozen others.”

He paused, leaned back. “I sent a couple of men in a ship’s boat, thought they might be in trouble. Their boats and horses had been stolen. Had to leave everything but the clothes on their backs. No sooner got to the fort than we could see the smoke from the fire.” Fraser sat with his elbows on the arms of his chair, chin resting on his laced fingers.

“As to supplies on hand, scanty—men, ammunition, rations. We have begun to issue a reduced ration of forage for those citizens who have volunteered as rangers. Some rations have been issued to Indians who will work but as prudently as possible. We’re expecting more ships any day but nothing certain.”

“Strength of the Seminoles?” Belton’s question was abrupt, almost angry. It was a reasonable question but from Belton it sounded like a challenge. Fraser tapped his fingertips together. “The whole force of the enemy has been estimated as high as fourteen hundred warriors, but their total number, according to the best official data, including men, women, and Negroes is estimated at four thousand.” He inclined his head, looking out of the top of his eyes. “A detachment of one hundred men might face up to one thousand Seminoles.” He held up one hand. “Such a concentration is unlikely, but not impossible.”

He pointed at the map again. “Here, forty miles north at the bend in the river, the Withlacoochee turns west, heads for the Gulf. From this point, south and west, an area some twenty miles wide by fifty long, these are the floodlands of the river, the Great Swamp. As you see, the Fort King Road passes just to the east of the swamp, parallels it some seven miles up to the Little Withlacoochee crossing. The whole area is known as the ‘Cove of the Withlacoochee.’ ” Fraser took a breath. “A Cretan labyrinth. No place for a white man. In short, like all of the difficult parts of Florida, it is what the mapmakers call ‘terra incognita.’ The government has no information to give. Bookseller’s maps only afford outlines filled with unlucky guesses.” Fraser laid the tip of a narrow finger on the area. “We understand the hostiles are gathered here, in the Cove, like a nest of hornets. The whole area is trackless—in dry weather a morass swarming with snakes, alligators, and insects. In the rainy season it floods out for miles, putting the whole swamp under water. Here and there are hummocks, small rounded knolls or hillocks where the Seminoles keep their camps. Since the trouble started they’ve been moving their families into the swamp, taking all they have with them. They can live there for years—forever, maybe. They can, and do, slip out, attack, disappear back in the swamp.” He paused. The three men stared at the map, Gardiner and Belton trying to translate the marks, Fraser’s words, into a military reality.

Belton glanced up, said nothing, looked back down at the map. Fraser continued. “On the other hand, there is the encampment of ‘friendly’ Seminoles just across the river. They’ve been coming in since September. Another week and they’re scheduled to board ship for the trip west. Must be more than four hundred of them over there by now, a hundred of them warriors. On orders of General Thompson, Zantzinger put them west of the river to keep them out of reach of the ‘whisky gentry.’ ” He snorted politely. “White squatters. Their only object is to sell ardent spirits to the Seminoles, stir them up, cheat them of whatever they have.” Fraser paused again, continued.

“Their leader is Holata Emathla. He and his people are under deep concern to do nothing that will excite further resentment or revenge from the hostiles. His brother Chalo Emathla, or ‘Charley,’ as he was called, a Seminole leader who agreed to relocation, was killed by the squatters just last month.” He paused, hoping that Belton was taking in the implications of the Seminole stronghold near the military road, the murder of one of their own. Finally he dropped his hands, leaned forward.

“Rumor is that the Seminoles held a secret council in October in the Great Swamp. The hostile faction is said to have prevailed upon the leaders of the nation to adopt a policy of death to any Indian who would not stand and fight for the land, who agreed to emigrate. So, under the circumstances, Holata and his people can probably be trusted, but that’s as far as it goes. They are allowed on this side of the river only with my permission, generally to work.”

Another pause. “Make no mistake, Captain. The Seminoles are on the war path, armed and dangerous. Sending two companies, even four, within reach of the swamp would be folly, a forlorn hope.”