Nobody's Hero. Frank Laumer
or expected of enlisted men. To turn a civilian into a soldier the army counted on discipline. From reveille at dawn to retreat at sunset there were fatigue details, cleaning and putting in proper order clothing, equipment, bedding, and quarters, often interrupted by roll calls, but no marksmanship practice, no standardized training program at the recruiting depot. Only some time after reaching his regiment had Clark been issued a musket and begun to receive a few hours a day of drill instruction. If it came to a fight, some of these fellows would have to learn fast.
He looked around, back toward the wagon, gun, and rear guard. Most men had been at least five days without a shave, their faces dark, hair sticking out from under their hats like damp straw, their clothes dirty and damp with rainwater and sweat, their bodies unclean. In spite of that, and danger, Clark thought they looked cheerful, confident, even eager. They’d make Fort King in a couple of days, be safe, have a rest.
Brevet Second Lieutenants Keais and Henderson were on foot with the men, usually near the head of their companies, sometimes drifting up and down the lines, giving a rebuke or an encouraging word here and there. Henderson, tall, thin, was attached to Gardiner’s company, while his classmate, John Low Keais, was attached to Fraser’s. This was their first field service since graduation. Back at the fort, Clark had heard that Henderson had applied for discharge soon after graduation in July. Approval of his application had been received at Fort Brooke only days before they marched, yet he had volunteered to stay with his company. Maybe figured he’d have a story to tell the folks back home in Jackson, Tennessee.
Lieutenant Keais, only a year older than Clark, had come down to Tampa Bay from New York in November. Finding Clark was from New York, surprised to find a literate, moderately educated enlisted man, Keais sometimes passed a few words with him. He told Clark he was glad to be in motion again. He had smiled. “When I received orders to come to Florida I was convinced that to come here would be equivalent to interring myself alive. Indians for companions, alligators, deer, bear, and what-not for playthings.” He waved a hand, taking in the weed-covered road, the palmettos, the forest backdrop, indicating that it was just as he had imagined. An orphan, he was obviously proud of the advancement he had won through his own exertions. He trudged along with the men, fine new uniform a little rumpled and dirty, a sword at his side, a small pistol in his pocket.
Lieutenant Basinger, mounted, rode near the rear of the column, in charge of the cannon, crew, and rear guard. A three-horse team was harnessed to the limber, a two-wheeled, single-axle vehicle carrying the ammunition box stocked with fifty rounds, both canister and round shot. Two men rode the limber bench driving the team. Attached to the limber was the two-thousand-pound double trail carriage and cannon, called a six-pounder from the weight of the iron balls it fired. The carriage was built of white oak, equipped with portfire stock, rammer, and handspike. The black forty-two-inch-long, thousand-pound iron barrel rode snugly between the high wheels, both limber and carriage painted with a mixture of Prussian blue and white lead matching the pale blue trousers of the men. Behind the gun marched the nine-man crew: one non-commissioned officer, two gunners, and half a dozen mattresses or gunner’s assistants, assigned numbers one to six.
And following the crew came the canvas-covered wagon carrying ten days’ rations and more ammunition for the muskets. Each wooden box of ball and buckshot cartridges weighed seventy-one pounds, held a thousand rounds when full. In addition to supplies, the wagon carried Dr. Gatlins’ two double-barreled shotguns, other officers’ gear, a mail pouch. The front wheels were thirty-six inches in diameter, the rear forty-two, giving it the appearance of rolling downhill. The two-inch axles were made of white oak, the bed of ash. The driver rode on a single board seat, U.S. painted in large black letters on the white canopy top over his head, canvas and bows swaying from side to side. The wagon was drawn by three oxen whose top speed was one mile per hour at best, still an anchor on the tail of the column. Finally, some fifty yards back, the rear guard followed—half a dozen men, muskets at the ready, looking left, right, back.
Stray dogs that had joined at Fort Brooke trotted alongside the column, some staying close to the men who had thrown them an occasional scrap, most independent, pink tongues lolling from their mouths, noses to the ground, sorting through invisible spoors that covered the ground like a web. Clark hitched his pack a little higher. We’re all right, he thought. We’re all right.
A dog bayed off to the right, others rushing toward the sound. Men jerked out of their thoughts, stared. Captain Fraser, with Pacheco still beside him, left the advance to investigate, moved back past Clark, then pushed out through the heavy palmetto.
Fraser’s face was narrow, nose long and sharp, his lips thin. His forehead was high, thick black hair brushed back from a widow’s peak, his eyes as large and dark as black olives. Fellow officers described him as “gay and gallant.” Clark could understand the slave sticking to him like a sandbur. He had overheard Fraser earlier remonstrating with Dade over the risk to the black man in being used as scout, protesting that if he were found by Seminoles he would likely be killed. “Major,” Fraser had said, “it’s dangerous to send this man on. You don’t know what the Indians will do.” Dade had dismissed his concern with a wave of his hand. Fraser had turned to Pacheco. “What do you think about it, Luis?” Pacheco had replied, “If the Indians catch me, Massa, they’ll kill me sure.”
Word came back up the column minutes later; only an ancient gray horse gumming the stiff winter grass. Fraser and Pacheco returned, passing the long column of men to follow again in the wake of the advance.
Clark glanced back at the sound of the major’s voice, saw him riding up from the rear, turning in his saddle, one white gloved hand in the air, calling out to the men, “Have a good heart. Our difficulties and dangers are over now. As soon as we arrive at Fort King you shall have three days rest and keep Christmas gaily.” The promise of reward brought smiles, shouts, hurrahs. Dade paused near Clark, turned off, sat watching the column pass in review.
The road was bearing a little to the left, the glitter of sunlight on water beginning to wink between the pines ahead and to the right. It was like walking on a brown carpet through a cathedral of pines. Clark, staring through the trees, frowned. In a moment something had changed. He looked around, left, right, up in the tall pines, across the sawgrass around a pond, then down, along the column, front, back.
The pond, maybe three, four hundred feet across, bordered with green reeds, was in clear view now on his right, maybe sixty yards away. He looked, then stared, suddenly frowned. No waterbirds, no sound. None. Only the soft brush of men’s boots against the pine straw, the rustle of palmetto. The trees were silent, no quarreling of jays, no scolding of gray squirrels. The world was holding its breath. He wondered if the major, if anyone else, had noticed the silence. His scalp tightened, he felt an instant chill. He clamped his teeth, gripped his slung musket with his left hand, swallowed hard, jerked his head from right to left, pond to forest. Something was terribly wrong.
2
Ransom Clark was twenty-three years old; he was born in March 1812, the second son of five sons and five daughters of Benjamin and Catherine Clark of Greigsville, New York. He had swarthy skin, hazel eyes, black hair, taller than most at five feet nine. He dreamed of home, not that he had ever had one. He had gone to Rochester, New York, from Livingston County in the summer of 1833, on the 9th of August had enlisted in the 2nd Regiment of Artillery for three years under 2nd Lt. Abner Riviere Hetzel.
In Hetzel’s presence he was examined by a doctor to determine that he was sober, neither a habitual drunkard nor subject to convulsions. The doctor then verified that his sight, hearing, and intelligence were adequate. Next he was told to strip in order to ensure that, as regulations specified, he had no tumors, ulcerated legs, or ruptures, nor chronic cutaneous affliction, and that he had “perfect use of all his limbs.” The doctor looked at his hips and under his arms for the D that would have branded him for life as a deserter. Young and strong, he passed the physical without any trouble and then, as Hetzel scratched the information on the enlistment form, he gave his age, twenty-one, born in the town of York, Livingston County, New York. Hetzel added his height, complexion, the color of his eyes and hair. Clearly Clark had the required command of English. He could read, write, had even picked up more than a few words in French. Hetzel read to him the Articles for the government of