Without delay, our army — reinforced by fresh troops from Louisiana and elsewhere — was put in motion, and once more marched upon the "Cove."
We reached the banks of the Amazura, but never crossed that fatal stream — equally fatal to our glory as our lives. This time, the Indians crossed.
Almost upon the ground of the former action — with the difference that it was now upon the nether bank of the stream — we were attacked by the red warriors; and, after some hours of sharp skirmishing, compelled to shelter our proud battalions within the protecting pickets of a stockade! Within this inclosure we were besieged for a period of nine days, scarcely daring to trust ourselves outside the wooden walls. Starvation no longer stared us in the face — it had actually come upon us; and but for the horses we had hitherto bestrode — with whose flesh we were fain to satisfy the cravings of our appetites — one half the army of "Camp Izard" would have perished of hunger.
We were saved from destruction by the timely arrival of a large force that had been dispatched to our rescue under Clinch, still commanding his brigade. Having marched direct from Fort King, our former general had the good fortune to approach the enemy from their rear, and, by surprising our besiegers, disentangled us from our perilous situation.
The day of our delivery was memorable by a singular incident — an armistice of a peculiar character.
Early in the morning, while it was yet dark, a voice was heard hailing us from a distance, in a loud "Ho there! — Halloa!"
It came from the direction of the enemy — since we were surrounded, it could not be otherwise — but the peculiar phraseology led to the hope that Clinch’s brigade had arrived.
The hail was repeated, and answered; but the hope of a rescue vanished when the stentorian voice was recognised as that of Abram, the black chief, and quondam interpreter of the council.
"What do you want?" was the interrogatory ordered by the commander-in-chief.
"A talk," came the curt reply.
"For what purpose?"
"We want to stop fighting."
The proposal was agreeable as unexpected. What could it mean? Were the Indians starring, like ourselves, and tired of hostilities? It was probable enough: for what other reason should they desire to end the war so abruptly? They had not yet been defeated, but, on the contrary, victorious in every action that had been fought.
But one other motive could be thought of. We were every hour expecting the arrival of Clinch’s brigade. Runners had reached the camp to say that he was near, and, reinforced by it, we should be not only strong enough to raise the siege, but to attack the Indians with almost a certainty of defeating them. Perhaps they knew, as well as we, that Clinch was advancing, and were desirous of making terms before his arrival.
The proposal for a "talk" was thus accounted for by the commander-in-chief, who was now in hopes of being able to strike a decisive blow. His only apprehension was, that the enemy should retreat, before Clinch could get forward upon the field. An armistice would serve to delay the Indians upon the ground; and without hesitation, the distant speaker was informed that the talk would be welcome.
A meeting of parlementaires from each side was arranged; the hour, as soon as it should be light. There were to be three of the Indians, and three from the camp.
A small savanna extended from the stockade. At several hundred yards’ distance it was bounded by the woods. As soon as the day broke, we saw three men emerge from the timber, and advance into the open ground. They were Indian chiefs in full costume; they were the commissioners. All three were recognised from the camp — Abram, Coa Hajo, and Osceola.
Outside musket-range, they halted, placing themselves side by side in erect attitudes, and facing the inclosure.
Three officers, two of whom could speak the native tongue, were sent forth to meet them. I was one of the deputation.
In a few seconds we stood face to face with the hostile chiefs.
Chapter Seventy
The Talk
Before a word was uttered, all six of us shook hands — so far as appearance went, in the most friendly manner. Osceola grasped mine warmly; as he did so, saying with a peculiar smile:
"Ah, Randolph! friends sometimes meet in war as well as in peace."
I knew to what he referred, but could only answer him with a significant look of gratitude.
An orderly, sent to us with a message from the general, was seen approaching from the camp. At the same instant, an Indian appeared coming out of the timber, and, keeping pace with the orderly, simultaneously with the latter arrived upon the ground. The deputation was determined we should not outnumber it.
As soon as the orderly had whispered his message, the "talk began."
Abram was the spokesman on the part of the Indians, and delivered himself in his broken English. The others merely signified their assent by a simple nod, or the affirmation "Ho;" while their negative was expressed by the exclamation "Cooree."
"Do you white folk want to make peace?" abruptly demanded the negro.
"Upon what terms?" asked the head of our party.
"Da tarms we gib you are dese: you lay down arm, an’ stop de war; your sogas go back, an’ stay in dar forts: we Indyen cross ober da Ouithlacoochee; an’ from dis time forth, for ebber after, we make the grand ribber da line o’ boundary atween de two. We promise lib in peace an’ good tarms wi’ all white neighbour. Dat’s all got say."
"Brothers!" said our speaker in reply, "I fear these conditions will not be accepted by the white general, nor our great father, the president. I am commissioned to say, that the commander-in-chief can treat with you on no other conditions than those of your absolute submission, and under promise that you will now agree to the removal."
"Cooree! cooree! never!" haughtily exclaimed Coa Hajo and Osceola in one breath, and with a determined emphasis, that proved they had no intention of offering to surrender.
"An’ what for we submit," asked the black, with some show of astonishment. "We not conquered! We conquer you ebbery fight — we whip you people, one, two, tree time — we whip you; dam! we kill you well too. What for we submit? We come here gib condition — not ask um."
"It matters little what has hitherto transpired," observed the officer in reply; "we are by far stronger than you — we must conquer you in the end."
Again the two chiefs simultaneously cried "Cooree!"
"May be, white men, you make big mistake ’bout our strength. We not so weak you tink for — dam! no. We show you our strength."
As the negro said this, he turned inquiringly towards his comrades, as if to seek their assent to some proposition.
Both seemed to grant it with a ready nod; and Osceola, who now assumed the leadership of the affair, faced towards the forest, at the same time giving utterance to a loud and peculiar intonation.
The echoes of his voice had not ceased to vibrate upon the air, when the evergreen grove was observed to be in motion along: its whole edge; and the next instant, a line of dusky warriors shewed itself in the open ground. They stepped forth a pace or two, then halted in perfect order of battle — so that their numbers could easily be told off from where we stood.
"Count the red warriors!" cried Osceola, in a triumphant tone — "count them, and be no longer ignorant of the strength of your enemy."
As the Indian uttered these words, a satirical smile played upon his lips; and he stood for some seconds confronting us in silence.
"Now," continued he, once more pointing to his followers, "do yonder braves — there are fifteen hundred of them — do they look starving and submissive? No! they are ready to continue the war till the blood of the last man sinks into the soil of his native land. If they must perish, it will be here — here in Florida — in the land of their birth, upon the graves of their fathers.