Nobody's Hero. Frank Laumer
you leave it.”
Well, maybe so for some fellows, thought Clark, but not me. I can read and write. I got skills. I can plant and hoe, do a little blacksmithing, carpentry, work with horses. In the army I’ve traveled, met all kinds of people, put by a little money. Soldiering isn’t easy, but I’ve held, learned to handle myself. Six months and I’m done. I’m gonna see it through, I’m goin’ back to Lucy, I’m gonna live. Eunice Luceba French had become his talisman, his hope, his future. Before her there was nothing. With her he would learn, build, have a life. He knew it might only be a dream, but it was the dream that had helped him survive, helped him live.
While the column was orderly, route step allowed the men a certain leeway in their movement, swinging along, maintaining a loose order side to side, front to back, some silent, moody, others talking whether anyone listened or not. Time was, he reflected, when he would have paid no more attention to the men around him than was necessary for survival, would not have joined them in talk, given or received a greeting. Until Lucy he had not known the meaning of friendship, had had no concern for others nor reason to believe they would have any concern for him. Old Benjamin had taught him only to work and to curse. Now he knew an interest in others, felt a rough affection even for DeCourcy, Wilson, the rest. He looked around now, watching, listening. Some men marched straight and tall, others with rounded shoulders shuffled like they were still pulling the plow. Remembering the barren early years, he felt a wince of affection. Good men, he thought, most of them, sturdy, steady. He suddenly realized he was proud to be with them, a part of this command.
And while only three of the American enlisted men were from the South, five of the eight officers were Southerners; Major Dade from Virginia and 1st Lt. William Elon Basinger from Savannah, Georgia, twenty-nine, West Point class of 1830, whose wife waited for him back at Fort Brooke. He had assured her that he would be back to her “in a couple of weeks at the furthest.” Richard Henderson was from Jackson, Tennessee, a brevet second lieutenant, nineteen years old, class of 1835, classmate of John Low Keais, also a brevet second lieutenant, an orphan from Washington, North Carolina. And Assist. Surgeon John Slade Gatlin, twenty-nine years old, was from Kinston, North Carolina. At Fort Brooke Dr. Nourse had offered to trade places with him if he could be provided with a horse but none could be found. Now Gatlin was on foot with the men.
Capt. George Washington Gardiner, commanding Company C, 2nd Regiment of Artillery, from Washington, D.C., was forty-two, had graduated first in his West Point class of 1814. His wife, very ill, was in Key West with their two children. Fraser was from New York and Mudge from Massachusetts. Of the entire command, only Luis Pacheco had been born in Florida.
Along with the other men Clark wore the standard-issue black leather forage cap, seven inches high in front and back. It added to his height but nothing to his safety. In a pinch it could double as a bucket for water or grain. Like all artillerymen’s hats, Clark’s carried a brass A above the bill, Dade’s eleven infantrymen a silver I. His gray-blue overcoat was single breasted, woolen, lined with white serge with a standup collar and a cape. In the mild Florida winter it was hot on a march, heavy when wet. Running from collar to hem, seven inches above the knee, was a single row of nine gilt buttons. The thin, sharp edges could cut a man’s fingers if he was in a hurry, pressed too hard. Clark and a few others had rolled the coats, damp with rain, along with their five by six and a half foot, four-pound blue woolen blankets, tied them on the top of the black leather knapsacks carried high on their shoulders.
Clark’s knapsack cover had yellow painted crossed cannons for artillery. The one and a half inch number 2 above the emblem indicated his regiment, the letter C below, company. He wore a short sky blue jacket, collar edged with red, shoulder straps with pads and half fringe.
Under his jacket his long-sleeved white cotton shirt was already soaked with sweat, sticking to his skin. His woolen trousers, still damp and heavy from the last river crossing yesterday afternoon, matched the blue jacket, were held up by white cloth suspenders. The wide front flap of the trousers was secured with seven buttons, eleven if you counted those holding the suspenders. Not too handy when a fellow had a serious call of nature, was caught with his pants down.
His leather boots were short and black, with leather laces. No matter how many miles he walked, the soles were still smooth and stiff as an oak plank. With his right hand he reached up, readjusted the two white leather straps, worn and dirty, that crisscrossed his chest. Regulations now forbade cleaning them with white lead, claiming it had been found “injurious to health.” Not as injurious as the lead of a Seminole bullet, he thought.
One strap supported a bayonet in a leather sleeve that rode behind his left hip, the sixteen-inch-long triangular blade designed for stabbing, pointed but not sharp. The second strap carried a leather-cased wooden box on his right hip, bored to hold twenty-six cartridges under an ornamented leather flap, another twenty-four in a metal tray below. The straps were secured with a round brass clasp surmounted by a spread eagle that rested over his heart.
Beneath his cartridge box hung a canvas forage bag holding his ration issue: eighteen ounces of stale hard bread called “ship’s biscuit,” said to be healthier than fresh, along with a chunk of hard cheese. Each man had had the choice of one and a quarter pounds of salted beef or three quarters of a pound of raw pork. Clark had taken beef, knowing it would not spoil as quickly. He had wrapped the meat in cloth, then leaves, in order not to stain the haversack. In addition, he still had a few sweet oranges, a rare treat for the men enterprising enough to have hustled them from a load brought into Fort Brooke from Cuba the day before they marched. He had seen a few men drop their prizes along the way as the days passed, more eager to lighten their burden than to enjoy the treat.
Behind his bayonet hung a round blue wooden canteen with a cork stopper and U.S. stenciled across its seven-inch face. It had a capacity of twenty-two ounces, could be dipped and filled in any pond or stream. The forage bag and canteen were supported by canvas straps across the shoulder and chest. He was armed with an 1816 model .69-caliber smooth-bore flintlock musket, five feet long, eight pounds of steel and walnut stock equipped with a leather carrying strap. His left hand gripped the strap just below his shoulder.
Captain Fraser rode close behind the advance, the black interpreter staying close. Luis spoke four languages, English, Spanish, French, and Seminole, and had been hired from his owner for twenty-five dollars a month. He had taken the surname of his master, Pacheco, who owned a fishery at the little village of Sarasota fifty miles south of Fort Brooke. He had told Clark that it had been his ill luck to have come up to the fort on an errand for his master a couple hours after the command had left. He’d been hired on the spot, sent to join them. Clark figured he wouldn’t be much help unless they came on Indians who wanted to talk instead of shoot. The slave, barefooted, wore a cast-off army jacket over worn shirt and trousers. He carried a musket.
Behind Clark tramped another ninety or so men. Word had come before they had ever left the fort that two hundred and fifty Seminoles were lying in wait at the Big Withlacoochee. A fellow couldn’t help but wonder what kind of fool would send one hundred men against two hundred and fifty, but nobody had asked his opinion. The command had reached the Withlacoochee the afternoon of the fourth day. It had been a tense time with more joking and swearing than usual, but they had made that crossing, like the others, without trouble. Officers and men alike were still watchful but now more at ease. Seminoles were out there all right, no doubt about that, but out of sight, out of range, watching, waiting. For what, Clark wondered?
Earlier, pulling out of last night’s camp, sky oozing rain, Major Dade had told them, “You can’t put your muskets on the supply wagon as it would be unmilitary, but you can carry them under your greatcoats to keep your powder dry.” Now, couple of miles from camp, the drizzle gone, a cool breeze, some men who still wore the heavy coats had pulled them open, taken their weapons out, turned them muzzle up, shrugging an arm back through the black leather sling, working the buttons back through the tight wet buttonholes one by one. The rest continued as they had started, muskets under their greatcoats, over their short jackets, barrels down to keep them dry, coats or jackets buttoned from neck to hem against the damp winter chill.
Clark watched Dade as he drifted up and down the column, advance guard to rear guard, sitting his horse like a king, left hand casually holding the reins, right