Nobody's Hero. Frank Laumer
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.”
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