hard freeze. The only defenses looked to be blockhouses at two of the angles of a parallelogram, the line of men’s quarters and other structures between making the exterior defense.
Long boats brought them to the wharf, a handful of sailors pulling at the sweeps. Non-coms got the men sorted out, formed into ranks. Belton indicated that Clark was to accompany him. It made no difference to Clark. As orderly he had lighter duty and a better knowledge of events than others.
Captain Fraser was in command. With Capt. George Gardiner and a dozen others, he greeted Belton and his junior officers. Clark hovered attentively. Introductions were made, acquaintances renewed. At the first pause Fraser led the little group down the dock and headed up the rise toward the fort. He explained that he and the others were huddled within the encampment, their backs to Tampa Bay—three undermanned companies, 119 men in all, many with wives and children. “I am responsible as well for a hundred civilians sheltered within the fort,” Fraser explained. “Sick reports are high from fevers and inflammatory diseases. Since the first of the month, the excited state of the Seminoles in the neighborhood, the plunder and burning of property all around the bay, the expectation of attack, have galvanized the entire garrison, soldier and civilian, to extraordinary effort to place the position in a state of defense.” He waved an arm. “As you see, we’ve begun to palisade the area with pine logs planted shoulder to shoulder around the encampment, block houses built at opposite corners. We’ll soon be secure” he added confidently.
A junior officer spoke up: “As a measure of their respect, the men refer to one as the ‘Fraser Redoubt.’ ”
Fraser smiled, motioned deprecatingly. “I’ve had ditches, three feet wide and eight feet deep, dug around the fort to slow an attack, sharpened stakes set in the bottom and covered with straw. And some thirty civilians have organized themselves as mounted rangers. They patrol the approaches to the fort during the early morning hours.”
He glanced at Belton, over his shoulder at the others, back to Belton. He paused, said quietly, heavily, “Still, in the dead of night the alarm drum frequently sounds.” A friendly murmur of talk ended. “Under the circumstances, Captain, I suggest we go directly to my office, let Gardiner and I brief you on our circumstances.” In a moment of silence, he noticed Belton silently looking around at the hasty defensive improvisations on the grounds surrounding the fort. Accepting Belton’s silence as agreement, he led the group on toward the fort.
“You must understand,” Fraser continued, “the real problem is that defense was not a circumstance anticipated when ‘Cantonment’ Brooke was established eleven years ago. It was built more as a symbol of American authority than as a military fort. Ten years ago there were rumors of a possible attack and the camp was hastily stockaded, but a month later the rumors had passed, the pickets pulled up and stacked. Since then attack has never been anything more than a rumor. Seminoles have been looked upon more as a nuisance than a threat.”
Fraser knew Belton was from Maryland, neither stranger nor foe to slavery, yet his own explanation of their problem seemed to beg the question: Why now? “The abomination of slavery has changed all that.” He stopped, looked at Belton, saw the tightening of his lips. He looked at Gardiner. Gardiner nodded. The other officers eddied about, silent, listening. “When we bought Florida from Spain in 1821, the Territory was no longer a safe haven for escaped slaves, a trapdoor in the bottom of the nation through which they could drop out of Alabama and Georgia and land in freedom. The slave catchers were turned loose. To the whites who own them, of course, slaves are a capital investment; to the Seminoles they are men and women. Among the Seminoles they were scattered, absorbed, difficult for the slave catchers to find. The larger the Seminole land, the more difficult the search.”
He spread his hands. “You will recall that a year after the acquisition President Monroe, a slave owner, stated flatly that the Seminoles ‘should be removed . . . or concentrated within narrower limits.’ 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
