Nobody's Hero. Frank Laumer
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