Chapter Sixty Four. A Banquet with a Bad Ending
As by duty bound, I delivered a report of the scene I had involuntarily been witness to. It produced a lively excitement within the fort, and an expedition was instantly ordered forth, with myself to act as guide.
A bit of sheer folly. The search proved bootless, as any one might have prophesied. Of course, we found the place, and the bodies of those who had fallen – upon which the wolves had already been ravening – but we discovered no living Indians – not even the path by which they had retreated!
The expedition consisted of several hundred men – in fact, the whole garrison of the fort. Had we gone out with a smaller force, in all probability, we should have seen something of the enemy.
The death of Omatla was the most serious incident that had yet occurred; at all events, the most important in its bearings. By the whites, Omatla had been constituted king; by killing, the Indians shewed their contempt for the authority that had crowned him, as well as their determination to resist all interference of the kind. Omatla had been directly under the protection of the white chiefs: this had been guaranteed to him by promise as by treaty; and therefore the taking his life was a blow struck against his patrons. The government would now be under the necessity of avenging his death.
But the incident had its most important bearings upon the Indians, especially upon Omatla’s own people. Terrified by the example, and dreading lest similar retribution might be extended to themselves, many of Omatla’s tribe – sub-chiefs and warriors – forsook their alliance, and enrolled themselves in the ranks of the patriots. Other clans that had hitherto remained undecided, acting under similar motives, now declared their allegiance to the national will, and took up arms without further hesitation.
The death of Omatla, besides being an act of stern justice, was a stroke of fine policy on the part of the hostile Indians. It proved the genius of him who had conceived and carried it into execution.
Omatla was the first victim of Osceola’s vow of vengeance. Soon after appeared the second. It was not long before the tragedy of the traitor’s death was eclipsed by another, far more thrilling and significant. One of the chief actors in this drama disappears from the stage.
On our arrival at the fort, it was found that the commissariat was rapidly running short. No provision had been made for so large a body of troops, and no supplies could possibly reach Fort King for a long period of time. We were to be the victims of the usual improvidence exhibited by governments not accustomed to warlike operations. Rations were stinted to the verge of starvation; and the prospect before us began to look very like starvation itself.
In this emergency, the commander-in-chief performed an act of great patriotism. Independent of his military command, General Clinch was a citizen of Florida – a proprietor and planter upon a large scale. His fine plantation lay at a short distance from Fort King. His crop of maize, covering nearly a hundred acres, was just ripening; and this, without more ado, was rationed out to the army.
Instead of bringing the commissariat to the troops, the reverse plan was adopted; and the troops were marched upon their food – which had yet to be gathered before being eaten.
Four-fifths of the little army were thus withdrawn from the fort, leaving rather a weak garrison; while a new stockade was extemporised on the general’s plantation, under the title of “Fort Drane.”
There were slanderous people who insinuated that in this curious matter the good old general was moved by other motives than those of mere patriotism. There was some talk about “Uncle Sam” – well-known as a solvent and liberal paymaster – being called upon to give a good price for the general’s corn; besides, so long as an army bivouacked upon his plantation, no danger need be apprehended from the Indian incendiaries. Perhaps these insinuations were but the conceits of camp satire.
I was not among those transferred to the new station; I was not a favourite with the commander-in-chief, and no longer upon his staff. My duties kept me at Fort King, where the commissioner also remained.
The days passed tamely enough – whole weeks of them. An occasional visit to Camp Drane was a relief to the monotony of garrison-life, but this was a rare occurrence. The fort had been shorn of its strength, and was too weak for us to go much beyond its walls. It was well-known that the Indians were in arms. Traces of their presence had been observed near the post; and a hunting excursion, or even a romantic saunter in the neighbouring woods – the usual resources of a frontier station – could not have been made without some peril.
During this period I observed that the commissioner was very careful in his outgoings and incomings. He rarely passed outside the stockade, and never beyond the line of sentries. Whenever he looked in the direction of the woods, or over the distant savanna, a shadow of distrust appeared to overspread his features, as though he was troubled with an apprehension of danger. This was after the death of the traitor chief. He had heard of Osceola’s vow to kill Omatla; perhaps he had also heard that the oath extended to himself; perhaps he was under the influence of a presentiment.
Christmas came round. At this season, wherever they may be found – whether amid the icy bergs of the north, or on the hot plains of the tropic – on board ship, within the walls of a fortress – ay, even in a prison – Christians incline to merry-making. The frontier post is no exception to the general rule; and Fort King was a continued scene of festivities. The soldiers were released from duty – alone the sentinels were kept to their posts; and, with such fare as could be procured, backed by liberal rations of “Monongahela,” the week passed cheerily enough.
A “sutler” in the American army is generally a thriving adventurer – with the officers liberal both of cash and credit – and, on festive occasions, not unfrequently their associate and boon companion. Such was he, the sutler, at Fort King.
On one of the festal days, he had provided a sumptuous dinner – no one about the fort so capable – to which the officers were invited – the commissioner himself being the honoured guest.
The banquet was set out in the sutler’s own house, which, as already mentioned, stood outside the stockade, several hundred yards off, and near to the edge of the woods.
The dinner was over, and most of the officers had returned within the fort, where – as it was now getting near night – it was intended the smoking and wine-drinking should be carried on.
The commissioner, with half a dozen others – officers and civilian visitors – still lingered to enjoy another glass under the hospitable roof where they had eaten their dinner.
I was among those who went back within the fort.
We had scarcely settled down in our seats, when we were startled by a volley of sharp cracks, which the ear well knew to be the reports of rifles. At the same instant was heard that wild intonation, easily distinguishable from the shouting of civilised men – the war-cry of the Indians!
We needed no messenger to inform us what the noises meant: the enemy was upon the ground, and had made an attack – we fancied upon the fort itself.
We rushed into the open air, each arming himself as best he could.
Once outside, we saw that the fort was not assailed; but upon looking over the stockade, we perceived that the house of the sutler was surrounded by a crowd of savages, plumed and painted in full fighting costume. They were in quick motion, rushing from point to point, brandishing their weapons, and yelling the Yo-ho-ehee.
Straggling shots were still heard as the fatal gun was pointed at some victim endeavouring to escape. The gates of the fort were standing wide open, and soldiers, who had been strolling outside, now rushed through, uttering shouts of terror as they passed in.
The sutler’s house was at too great a distance for the range of musketry. Some shots were discharged by the sentries and others who chanced to be armed, but the bullets fell short.
The artillerists ran to their guns; but on reaching these, it was found that the stables – a row of heavy log-houses – stood directly in the range of the sutler’s house – thus sheltering the enemy from the aim of the gunners.
All at once the shouting ceased, and the crowd of dusky warriors was observed moving off towards the woods.
In a few seconds they had disappeared among the trees – vanishing, as if by magic, from our sight.
He who commanded at the fort – an officer slow of resolve – now mustered the garrison, and ventured a sortie. It extended only to the house of the sutler, where a halt was made, while we contemplated the horrid scene.
The sutler himself, two young officers, several soldiers and civilians, lay upon the floor dead, each with many wounds.
Conspicuous above all was the corpse of the commissioner. He was lying upon his back, his face covered with gore, and his uniform torn and bloody. Sixteen bullets had been fired into his body; and a wound more terrible than all was observed over the left breast. It was the gash made by a knife, whose blade had passed through his heart.
I could have guessed who gave that wound, even without the living testimony that was offered on the spot. A negress – the cook – who had concealed herself behind a piece of furniture, now came forth from her hiding-place. She had been witness of all. She was acquainted with the person of Osceola. It was he who had conducted the tragedy; he had been the last to leave the scene; and before taking his departure, the negress had observed him give that final stab – no doubt in satisfaction of the deadly vow he had made.
After some consultation, a pursuit was determined upon, and carried out with considerable caution; but, as before, it proved fruitless: as before, even the track by which the enemy had retreated could not be discovered!