After this action, a complete change was observed in the spirit of the
army. Boasting was heard no more; and the eagerness of the troops to be
led against the enemy was no longer difficult to restrain. No one
expressed desire for a second expedition across the Ouithlacoochee, and
the "Cove" was to remain unexplored until the arrival of reinforcements.
The volunteers were disheartened, wearied of the campaign, and not a
little cowed by the resistance they had so unexpectedly encountered--
bold and bloody as it was unlooked for. The enemy, hitherto despised,
if it had aroused by its conduct a strong feeling of exasperation and
vengeance, had also purchased the privilege of respect.
The battle of the Ouithlacoochee cost the United States army nearly a
hundred men. The Seminole loss was believed to be much greater; though
no one could give a better authority for this belief than that of a
"guess." No one had _seen_ the enemy's slain; but this was accounted
for by the assertion, that during the fight they _had carried their dead
and wounded from the field_!
How often has this absurd allegation appeared in the dispatches of
generals both victorious and defeated! It is the usual explanation of a
battle-field found too sparsely strewn by the bodies of the foe. The
very possibility of such an operation argues either an easy conflict, or
a strong attachment between comrade and comrade--too strong, indeed, for
human nature. With some fighting experience, I can affirm that I never
saw a _dead_ body, either of comrade or foeman, moved from the ground
where he had fallen, so long as there was a shot ringing upon the ear.
In the battle of the Ouithlacoochee, no doubt some of our enemies had
"bit the dust;" but their loss was much less than that of our own
troops. For myself--and I had ample opportunity for observation--I
could not swear to a single "dead Indian;" nor have I met with a comrade
who could.
Notwithstanding this, historians have chronicled the affair as a grand
"victory," and the dispatch of the commander-in-chief is still extant--a
curious specimen of warlike literature. In this document may be found
the name of almost every officer engaged, each depicted as a peerless
hero! A rare monument of vanity and boasting.
To speak the honest truth, we had been well "whipped" by the red skins;
and the chagrin of the army was only equalled by its exasperation.
Clinch, although esteemed a kind general--the "soldier's friend," as
historians term him--was no longer regarded as a great warrior. His
glory had departed. If Osceola owed _him_ any spite, he had reason to
be satisfied with what he had accomplished, without molesting the "old
veteran" further. Though still living, he was dead to fame.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A fresh commander-in-chief now made his appearance, and hopes of victory
were again revived. The new general was Gaines, another of the
"veterans" produced by seniority of rank. He had not been ordered by
the Government upon this especial duty; but Florida being part of his
military district, had volunteered to take the guidance of the war.
Like his predecessor, Gaines expected to reap a rich harvest of laurels,
and, like the former, was he doomed to disappointment. Again, it was
the cypress wreath.
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.