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 to supplies on hand, scanty—men, ammunition, rations. We have begun to issue a reduced ration of forage for those citizens who have volunteered as rangers. Some rations have been issued to Indians who will work but as prudently as possible. We’re expecting more ships any day but nothing certain.”
“Strength of the Seminoles?” 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,
