Our little band was sensibly alive to the perilous position in which we were thus placed, and we at once set about making the best of it. We felled trees, built a blockhouse, dug a well, and surrounded both with a strong stockade.
Fortunately we were not discovered by the enemy for nearly a week after the departure of the army, else we should most certainly have been destroyed to a man. The Indians, in all probability, had followed the "centre wing," and thus for a time were carried out of our neighbourhood.
On the sixth day, however, they made their appearance, and summoned us to surrender.
We refused, and fought them — again, and again, at intervals, during a period of fifty days!
Several of our men were killed or wounded; and among the former, the gallant chief of our devoted band, Holloman, who fell from a shot fired through the interstices of the stockade.
Provisions had been left with us to serve us for two weeks; they were eked out to last for seven! For thirty days we subsisted upon raw corn and water, with a few handfuls of acorns, which we contrived to gather from the trees growing within the inclosure.
In this way we held out for a period of fifty days, and still no commander-in-chief — no army came to relieve us. During all that gloomy siege, we never heard word of either; no white face ever showed itself to our anxious eyes, that gazed constantly outward. We believed ourselves abandoned — forgotten.
And such in reality was the fact — General Scott, in his eagerness to get away from Florida, had quite forgotten to relieve the "post of observation;" and others believing that we had long since perished, made no effort to send a rescue.
Death from hunger stared us in the face, until at length the brave old hunter, Hickman, found his way through the lines of our besiegers, and communicated our situation to our "friends at home."
His tale produced a strong excitement, and a force was dispatched to our relief, that succeeded in dispersing our enemies, and setting us free from our blockhouse prison.
Thus terminated "Scott’s campaign," and with it his command in Florida. The whole affair was a burlesque, and Scott was only saved from ridicule and the disgrace of a speedy recall, by a lucky accident, that fell in his favour. Orders had already reached him to take control of another, "Indian war" — the "Creek" — that was just breaking out in the States of the southwest; and this afforded the discomfited general a well-timed excuse for retiring from the "Flowery Land."
Florida was destined to prove to American generals a land of melancholy remembrances. No less than seven of them were successively beaten at the game of Indian warfare by the Seminoles and their wily chieftains. It is not my purpose to detail the history of their failures and mishaps. From the disappearance of General Scott, I was myself no longer with the main army. My destiny conducted me through the more romantic by-ways of the campaign — the paths of la petite guerre — and of these only am I enabled to write. Adieu, then, to the grand historic.
Note 1. Scott’s whole career, political as well as military, had been a series of faux pas. His campaign in Mexico will not bear criticism. The numerous blunders he there committed would have led to most fatal results, had they not been neutralised by the judgment of his inferior officers, and the indomitable valour of the soldiery. The battle of Moline del Rey — the armistice with Santa Anna, were military errors unworthy of a cadet fresh from college. I make bold to affirm that every action was a mob-fight — the result depending upon mere chance; or rather on the desperate bravery of the troops upon one side, and the infamous cowardice of those on the other.
Chapter Seventy Two
The Condition of Black Jake
We had escaped from the blockhouse in boats, down the river to its mouth, and by sea to Saint Marks. Thence the volunteers scattered to their homes — their term of service having expired. They went as they listed; journeying alone, or in straggling squads of three and four together.
One of these groups consisted of old Hickman the hunter, a companion of like kidney, myself, and my ever faithful henchman.
Jake was no longer the "Black Jake" of yore. A sad change had come over his external aspect. His cheek-bones stood prominently out, while the cheeks themselves had fallen in; his eyeballs had retreated far within their sockets, and the neglected wool stood out over his temples in a thick frizzled shock. His skin had lost its fine ebon polish, and showed distinct traces of corrugation. Wherever "scratched" by his now elongated finger-nails, a whitish dandruffy surface was exhibited.
The poor fellow had fared badly in the blockhouse; and three weeks of positive famine had played sad havoc with his outward man.
Starvation, however, but little affected his spirits. Throughout all, he had preserved his jovial mood, and his light humour often roused me from my despondency. While gnawing the corn cob, and washing down the dry maize with a gourd of cold water, he would indulge in rapturous visions of "hominy and hog-meat," to be devoured whenever it should please fate to let him return to the "ole plantayshun." Such delightful prospects of future enjoyment enabled him the better to endure the pinching present — for anticipation has its joys. Now that we were free, and actually heading homewards; now that his visions were certain soon to become realities, Jake’s jovialty could no longer be kept within bounds; his tongue was constantly in motion; his mouth ever open with the double tier of "ivories" displayed in a continuous smile; while his skin seemed to be rapidly recovering its dark oily lustre.
Jake was the soul of our party, as we trudged wearily along; and his gay jokes affected even the staid old hunters, at intervals eliciting from both loud peals of laughter. — For myself I scarcely shared their mirth — only now and then, when the sallies of my follower proved irresistible. There was a gloom over my spirit, which I could not comprehend.
It should have been otherwise. I should have felt happy at the prospect of returning home — of once more beholding those who were dear — but it was not so.
It had been so on my first getting free from our blockhouse prison; but this was only the natural reaction, consequent upon escape from what appeared almost certain death. My joy had been short-lived: it was past and gone; and now that I was nearing my native home, dark shadows came over my soul; a presentiment was upon me that all was not well.
I could in no way account for this feeling, for I had heard no evil tidings. In truth, I had heard nothing of home or of friends for a period of nearly two months. During our long siege, no communication had ever reached us; and at Saint Marks we met but slight news from the settlements of the Suwanee. We were returning in ignorance of all that had transpired there during our absence — if aught had transpired worthy of being known.
This ignorance itself might have produced uncertainty, doubt, even apprehension; but it was not the sole cause of my presentiment. Its origin was different. Perhaps the recollection of my abrupt departure — the unsettled state in which I had left the affairs of our family — the parting scene, now vividly recalled — remembrances of Ringgold — reflections upon the wicked designs of this wily villain — all these may have contributed to form the apprehensions under which I was suffering. Two months was a long period; many events could happen within two months, even in the narrow circle of one’s own family. Long since it had been reported that I had perished at the hands of the Indian foe; I was believed to be dead, at home, wherever I was known; and the belief might have led to ill results. Was my sister still true to her word, so emphatically pronounced in that hour of parting? Was I returning home to find her still my loved sister? Still single and free? or had she yielded to maternal solicitation, and become the wife of the vile caitiff after all?