did not mean the end of fighting for Jackson. There were still several
odd jobs to be done. During the war a British colonel named Nicholls
had been sent on a secret mission to Florida in an attempt to incite
the Seminoles, the fugitive Creeks, and the runaway negroes who
infested the northern part of the province to harass the borders of the
United States. While in Florida he built a fort on the Appalachicola
River, not far above its mouth and well within Spanish territory, and
collected there a large store of arms and ammunition. When the war
ended and Colonel Nicholls was recalled, he turned the fort over to
the Seminoles in the hope that it would prove a thorn in the side of
the United States. From the Seminoles the place passed into the hands
of the negro refugees and quickly became a source of anxiety to the
American military authorities on our southern border. But, though it
was garrisoned by escaped slaves and was a constant menace to the
peace of the frontier, the Americans were powerless--according to
international law, at least--because it was built on Spanish soil. But
when the matter was referred to Jackson he showed how much he cared for
international law by writing to General Gaines that the “Negro Fort,”
as it was called, “ought to be blown up, regardless of the ground on
which it stands.” That was all the hint that Gaines needed, and in
July, 1816, he ordered an expedition under Colonel Duncan Clinch to
ascend the river and destroy the fort. As the flotilla approached, a
boat’s crew which had been sent forward to reconnoitre was fired upon,
whereupon the gunboats were warped up-stream until they were within
range. The bombardment was of short duration, for scarcely had the
gunboats opened fire before a red-hot shot struck the magazine of the
fort, where eight hundred barrels of gunpowder were stored. In the
explosion that followed, the fort vanished from the earth, and for
some moments it fairly rained negroes--or parts of them. Of the three
hundred and thirty-four inmates of the fort, two hundred and seventy
were blown to kingdom come, and of the sixty-four left alive, all but
three were so terribly injured that they died--which was just as well,
perhaps, in view of what happened to two out of the three survivors.
These, an Indian chief and Garçon, the negro commander, were handed
over to some friendly Seminoles to be put to death in the ingenious
Indian fashion in retaliation for the death by torture of one of the
American sailors, who had been taken prisoner a few days before. From
all accounts, the Seminoles performed their task well but slowly.
The destruction of the Negro Fort, though unimportant in itself,
served to stir up the uneasiness and discontent which prevailed along
the Florida border and which was shared in by Creeks, Seminoles,
Spaniards, and Americans. By March, 1817, several thousand whites had
settled on the rich lands that Jackson had taken from the Creeks, and
the friction which quickly developed between the new owners and the
old ones, now fugitives in Florida, resulted in a series of defiances
and depredations. While relations with the Indians were thus strained
almost to the breaking point there again sprang up the historic
irritation against Spain, whom the American settlers accused, rightly
or wrongly, of inciting the Indians against them. Meanwhile President
Monroe was negotiating for the purchase of Florida, for he fully
realized that there could be no permanent peace along the border
as long as that province remained in Spanish hands. Doubtful of his
success, however, he took care to see that an army under Jackson was
stationed within striking distance, for there is no doubt that the
government, now that the war with England was over, was determined to
take Florida by force if it could not be obtained by purchase. Nor
could anything give Jackson keener satisfaction than the prospect of
once more getting his hands on the rich prize which he had joyfully
held for a brief moment in 1814. Indeed, he frankly expressed his
attitude when he wrote to President Monroe: “Let it be signified to
me, through any channel, that the possession of the Floridas would
be desirable to the United States, and in sixty days it will be
accomplished.” In other words, if the government wished to seize the
province but lacked the courage to take the responsibility, Jackson was
ready to do the job himself.
But suddenly a new element was injected into the already complicated
situation. The series of revolts against Spanish rule in South America
had attracted thither European adventurers, freelances, and soldiers
of fortune of many nationalities, and these, when the revolutionary
business grew dull in other places, turned their eyes toward Florida.
It had a fertile soil, marvellous vegetation, a healthful climate,
a notoriously weak government, and, everything considered, seemed
to have been made to order for the filibusters. The first to make
the attempt to “free” Florida was a Scottish nobleman, Sir Gregor
MacGregor. No more picturesque character ever swaggered across the
pages of our history. He was a prototype of Kipling’s “The Man Who
Would Be King.” Resigning his commission in the British army, he went
to Caracas in 1811 and offered his services to the Venezuelans in their
struggle for independence. He became adjutant-general to Miranda and,
upon the capture of that ill-fated leader, repeatedly distinguished
himself in the renewed struggle under Bolivar. He led a handful of
Venezuelans from Ocumare to Barcelona in one of the most brilliant and
skilfully conducted retreats in history and, upon Venezuela achieving
her independence, was publicly thanked for his services by President
Bolivar, commissioned a general of division, and decorated with the
Order of Libertadores. But an ineradicable love of adventure ran in
his veins; so, when peace settled for a time on war-torn Venezuela
MacGregor looked elsewhere for excitement. Florida was still under the
obnoxious rule of Spain, and Florida, he decided, needed to be freed.
Early in 1817, therefore, he fitted out an expedition in Baltimore and
descended upon Fernandina, which, as I have previously remarked, is
built on the twenty-two-mile-long Amelia Island, off Florida’s upper
right-hand corner. MacGregor declared that as soon as he achieved the
independence of the province he intended to hand it over to the United
States, which was certainly thoughtful and considerate, seeing how much
the United States wanted it; but nobody seems to have believed him.
His intentions were of small consequence, however, for a few months
after he had seized the island and raised the green-cross flag, along
came another adventurer, an Englishman named Hubbard, and drove him
off. Disappointed in his Floridan ambitions, MacGregor re-entered the
service of Venezuela, and in 1819, organizing an expedition in Jamaica,
he eluded the vigilance of the British authorities and made a most
daring descent upon Puerto Bello, which he captured after a desperate
assault, though subsequently he was surprised by an overwhelming force
of Spaniards and was forced to flee. In 1821 he quitted the service of
Venezuela--then become a part of the Colombian Republic--and settled
among the Poyais Indians, a warlike tribe on the Mosquito Coast of
Nicaragua, where he obtained a grant of a tract of fertile land
and, making himself ruler of the region, assumed the title of “his
Highness the MacGregor, Cacique of Poyais.” He organized a government,
established an army, encouraged commerce and agriculture, built roads
and schools, cultivated plantations, and for nearly twenty years ruled
in middle America as an independent and enlightened sovereign. But
misfortune finally overtook him; Great Britain declared a protectorate
over his little kingdom, which was not abrogated until 1905, and its
late ruler retired to Caracas, where the Venezuelan Government granted
him a pension and restored him to his rank of general of division, and
where he died, generally respected, in the early forties.
Shortly after Hubbard had ejected MacGregor from Amelia Island, along
came one of the latter’s friends and companions in arms, Commodore
Louis de Aury, who, as I have related in “Adventurers All,” had himself
been ousted from Galveston Island by Lafitte, and kicked out Hubbard.
De Aury’s plan was to make Florida a free and independent republic,
such as her sister provinces in South America had become. But it was
not to be. The government at Washington, which had other plans for
Florida, now decided it was time to interfere, for it seemed probable
that Florida might soon be sold to the United States, provided the
spirit of revolution and independence which was rapidly stripping Spain
of her colonial possessions left her Florida to sell. Nothing was
further from the intention of the United States, therefore, than to let
these South American adventurers get a foothold in the province she had
so long had a covetous eye upon; so, in the autumn of 1817, General
Gaines was ordered to march on Fernandina and eject De Aury, while a
fleet under Commodore Henley went down the coast for the same purpose.
Henley reached there first and successfully accomplished the ejection,
and the green-cross flag of the filibusters came down for good and all.
About this time Indian depredations had recommenced along the Florida
frontier, and in November, 1817, General Gaines despatched a detachment
of troops to an Indian village called Fowltown, the headquarters of
the hostile Seminoles and Creeks. The troops approached the town at
dawn and were fired upon, the village was taken and burned, and the
United States had another Indian war upon its hands. Jackson was
immediately ordered to take command of the operations. He jumped at
the chance, for was this not the very opportunity for which he had
been longing and praying? The Indians caused him no concern, mind you;
it was the Spaniards--and Florida--that he was after. Disregarding
his instructions to raise his command from the militia of the border
States, he recruited a volunteer force from the Tennesseeans who had
served under him at the Horseshoe Bend and New Orleans and whom he
could count on to follow him anywhere, and with these veterans at his
back straightway crossed the Florida border. On the site of the Negro
Fort he built and garrisoned another, which he called Fort Gadsden--all
this in Spanish territory, mind you, though the United States was
(officially, at least) at peace with Spain. Easily dispersing the few
Seminoles who ventured to dispute his progress, he pushed southward to
St. Marks (the port of Tallahassee), where a war party of Indians, he
heard, had taken refuge. The fact that his information was incorrect
and that there were no Indians in the town did not disconcert him in
the least: he took the place, hauled down the Spanish colors, replaced
them with the stars and stripes, and left an American garrison in
occupation. Not only this, but he captured two Englishmen who had
taken refuge in the town. One was a well-known trader named Alexander
Arbuthnot, who had had commercial dealings of one sort and another with
the Indians; the other was a young officer of marines named Ambrister,
a nephew of the governor of the Bahamas, who had been suspended from
duty for a year for engaging in a duel and who had joined the Florida
Indians out of a boyish love for adventure. Though captured on Spanish
soil, Jackson ordered both men tried by court martial for inciting the
Indians to rebellion. Both were sentenced to death. Ambrister died
before a firing-party; Arbuthnot was hung from the yard-arm of one of
his own ships. Needlessly drastic and unquestionably illegal as these
executions were, they brought home to those who were plotting against
the United States that Spanish territory could not protect them.
From St. Marks Jackson struck across country to Suwanee, which was
the headquarters of the notorious Billy Bowlegs; but in the skirmish
that ensued that chieftain and his followers escaped, though, by means
of a ruse unworthy of a civilized commander, he captured two of the
most celebrated of the Seminole chieftains, Francis and Himollimico.
Seeing a vessel enter the harbor, the two chieftains, who had just
returned from a visit to England, rowed out and asked to be afforded
protection. They were courteously received, laid aside their weapons,
and went below to have a drink with the commander, when they were
seized, bound, and, upon protesting at this breach of hospitality,
were informed that they were prisoners on an American gunboat which
Jackson had despatched to patrol the coast in the hope of intercepting
fugitives. The next day the two prisoners, by orders of Jackson,
were summarily hung. By such ruthless methods as these did the grim
backwoodsman, who well deserved the title of “Old Hickory,” which his
soldiers bestowed upon him, impress on Indians and Spaniards alike
the fact that those who opposed him need expect no mercy. He had
reached Fort Gadsden on his return march when a protest against this
unwarranted invasion of Spanish territory was sent him by the governor
of Pensacola, the same place, you will remember, which he had captured
three years before. Jackson, who always carried a chip on his shoulder
and lived in hopes that some one would dare to knock it off, turned
back on the instant, occupied Pensacola for the second time, captured
the governor and his troops, deported them to Havana with a warning
never to return, and left an American garrison in occupation. He
regretted afterward, as he wrote to a friend, that he had not carried
the place by storm and hanged the governor out of hand.
In five months Jackson had broken the Indian power, established peace
along the border, and to all intents and purposes added Florida to
the Union. Though the Spanish minister at Washington (for after
the fall of Napoleon Spain resumed the foreign relations he had so
rudely interrupted) vigorously protested against this invasion of the
territory of his sovereign, he nevertheless hastened--whether it was
intended or not that his movements should be thus accelerated--to
negotiate a treaty ceding Florida to the United States in consideration
of our paying the claims held by American citizens against Spain to
the amount of five million dollars. Though the historians dismiss
the subject with the bald assertion that Florida was acquired by
purchase--which, no doubt, is technically correct--I think you will
agree with me that “conquest” is a more appropriate word and that its
conqueror was the backwoods soldier Andrew Jackson. No wonder that the
land he gave us yields so many oranges after having been fertilized
with so much blood. No wonder that it has restored so many sick men
after having swallowed up so many well ones.
THE FIGHT AT QUALLA BATTOO
THE FIGHT AT QUALLA BATTOO
It was so hot that the little group of sailors under the forward
awnings lay stretched upon the deck, panting like hunted rabbits, while
rivers of perspiration coursed down their naked chests and backs. The
unshaded portions of the deck were as hot to the touch as the top of a
stove; bubbles of pitch had formed along the seams between the planks,
and turpentine was exuding, like beads of sweat, from the spars. Though
occasional puffs of land-wind stirred the folds of the American flag
which drooped listlessly from the taffrail sufficiently to disclose
the legend _Friendship, of Salem_ in raised and gilded letters on the
stern, they brought about as much relief to the exhausted men as a
blast from an open furnace door. Even the naked Malays who were at work
under the direction of a profane and sweating first mate, transferring
innumerable sacks of pepper from a small boat to the vessel’s hold,
showed the effects of the suffocating atmosphere by performing their
task with more than ordinary listlessness and indolence.
Half a mile away the nipa-thatched huts of Qualla Battoo, built amid
a thicket of palms on the sandy shores of a cove where a mountain
torrent debouched into the sea, seemed to flicker like a scene on a
moving-picture screen in the shifting waves of heat. Immediately at
the back of the town rose the green wall of the Sumatran jungle, which
bordered the yellow beach in both directions as far as the eye could
reach. Behind this impenetrable screen of vegetation, over which the
miasma hung in wreathlike clouds, rose the purple peaks of the Bukit
Barisan Range, of which Mount Berapi, twelve thousand feet high, is
the grim and forbidding overlord. Upon this shore a mighty surf pounds
unceasingly. Farming far to seaward, the tremendous rollers come
booming in with the speed of an express train, gradually gathering
volume as they near the shore until they tower to a height of twenty
feet or more, when, striking the beach, they break upon the sands with
a roar which on still nights can be heard up-country for many miles. So
dangerous is the surf along this coast that when trading vessels drop
anchor off its towns to pick up cargoes of pepper, copra, or coffee,
they invariably send their boats ashore in charge of natives, who are
as familiar with this threatening, thunderous barrier of foam as is
a housewife with the cupboards in her kitchen. But even the Malays,
marvellously skilful boatmen as they are, can effect a landing only at
those places where the mountain streams, of which there are a great
number along the western coast of Sumatra, have melted comparatively
smooth channels through the angry surf to the open sea. The pepper,
which is one of the island’s chief articles of export, is grown on the
high table-lands in the interior and is brought down to the trading
stations on the coast by means of bamboo rafts, their navigation
through the cataracts and rapids which obstruct these mountain streams
being a perilous and hair-raising performance.
Thus it came about that while the New England merchantman rocked lazily
in the Indian Ocean swells on this scorching afternoon in February,
1831, her master, Mr. Endicott, her second mate, John Barry, and four
of her crew, were at the trading station, a short distance up the
river from Qualla Battoo, superintending the weighing of the pepper
and making sure that it was properly stowed away in the boats where
the water could not reach it, for, as Captain Endicott had learned
from many and painful experiences, the Malays are not to be trusted in
such things. Now, Captain Endicott had not traded along the coasts of
Malaysia for a dozen years without learning certain lessons by heart,
and one of them was that the lithe and sinewy brown men with whom he
was doing business were no less cruel and treacherous than the surf
that edged their shores. Hence his suspicions instantly became aroused
when he noticed that the first boat, after being loaded at the trading
station and starting for the river mouth instead of making straight for
the _Friendship_, as it should have done, stopped on its way through
the town and took aboard more men. Concluding, however, that the Malay
crew required additional oarsmen in order to negotiate the unusually
heavy surf, his suspicions were allayed and he turned again to the
business of weighing out pepper for the second boat-load, though he
took the precaution, nevertheless, of detailing two of his men to keep
their eyes on the boat and to instantly report anything which seemed
out of the ordinary.
Instead of taking on more oarsmen, as Captain Endicott had supposed,
the boat’s crew had exchanged places with double their number of
armed warriors, who, concealing their weapons, sent the boat smashing
through the wall of surf and then pulled leisurely out toward the
unsuspecting merchantman. Though the first mate, who was in charge
of the loading, remarked that the boat had an unusually large crew,
he drew the same conclusions as the captain and permitted it to come
alongside. No sooner was it made fast to the _Friendship’s_ side,
however, than the Malays, concealing their _krises_ in their scanty
clothing, began to scramble over the bulwarks, until a score or more
of them were gathered on the vessel’s decks. The mate, ever fearful
of treachery, ordered them back into their boat, but the Malays,
pretending not to understand him, scattered over the ship, staring at
the rigging and equipment with the open-mouthed curiosity of children.
So well did they play their parts, indeed, that the mate decided that
his suspicions were unfounded and turned again to the work of checking
up the bags of pepper as they came over the side. When the Malays had
satisfied themselves as to the strength and whereabouts of the crew,
whom they outnumbered three to one, they unostentatiously took the
positions their leader assigned to them. Then, choosing a moment when
the mate was leaning over the side giving orders to the men in the
boat, one of their number, moving across the deck on naked feet with
the stealth and silence of a cat, drew back his arm and with a vicious
downward sweep buried his razor-edged _kris_ between the American’s
brawny shoulders. Though mortally wounded, the mate uttered a scream
of warning, whereupon five of the sailors who had been lounging under
the forward awning, snatching up belaying-pins and capstan-bars, ran
to his assistance. But the Malays were too many for them and too well
armed, and after a brief but desperate struggle two other Americans
lay dead upon the blood-stained deck, while the other three, less
fortunate, were prisoners with a fate too horrible for words in store
for them. The four remaining seamen, who had been below, aroused by the
noise of the struggle, had rushed on deck in time to witness the fate
of their comrades. Realizing the utter helplessness of their position
and appreciating that only butchery or torture awaited them if they
remained, they burst through the ring of natives who surrounded them
and dived into the sea. They quickly discovered, however, that the
shore held no greater safety than the ship, for whenever they were
lifted on the crest of a wave they could see that the beach was lined
with armed warriors, whooping and brandishing their spears. Seeing that
to land was but to invite death in one of its most unpleasant forms,
the four swimmers held a brief consultation and then, abruptly changing
their course, struck out for a rocky promontory several miles away,
which offered them at least temporary safety, as the Malays could not
readily reach them.
In the meantime, the two seamen who had been detailed by Captain
Endicott to keep watch of the boat, observing the confusion on the
_Friendship’s_ decks and seeing the sailors jumping overboard, summoned
their commander, who quickly surmised what had happened. Endicott
realized that there was not an instant to lose. Ordering his second
mate and the four seamen into the boat which was then being loaded,
they pulled madly for the mouth of the river. Nor were they a second
too soon, for, as they swung into that reach of the river which is
bordered on either bank by the huts of the town, the Qualla Battooans
ran out and attempted to intercept them. But the Americans, spurred on
by the knowledge that death awaited them if they were captured, bent
to their oars, and, amid a rain of bullets, spears, and arrows, the
boat swept through the town as a racing shell sweeps down the Hudson at
Poughkeepsie. Though they succeeded by something akin to a miracle in
reaching the mouth of the river unharmed, it now looked as though they
would perish in the mountain-high surf, for they were ignorant of the
channel and had none of the Malay skill for handling a boat in heavy
breakers. But at this crucial moment they saw a man’s head bobbing in
the water alongside, a familiar voice hailed them in English, and a
moment later a friendly Malay named Po Adam, the rajah of a neighboring
tribe which was on none too friendly terms with the Qualla Battooans,
drew himself into the boat.
“What on earth are you doing here, Adam?” exclaimed Endicott, when he
recognized his caller from the sea. “Are you coming with us?”
“Yes, cap’n,” said the Malay; “if they kill you they must kill me
first.” Po Adam, it seemed, had come to Qualla Battoo in his armed
coasting schooner, had witnessed the capture of the American vessel,
and, fearing that the attack might be extended to him because of his
known friendship for foreigners, he had swum to the American boat. With
him for a pilot they managed, with extreme difficulty, to negotiate the
breakers, though no sooner was this danger behind them than another one
appeared in front, for the Malays, foiled in their attempt to intercept
the Americans as they passed down the river, had put off in several war
canoes, which could easily overtake them on the sea. The Americans were
defenseless, for in their haste to embark they had left their weapons
behind them. Po Adam, however, had managed to cling to his scimitar
during his swim, and this he brandished so ferociously and uttered
such appalling threats of what his tribesmen would do to the Qualla
Battooans if he were molested that they sheered off without attacking.
Realizing that it was foolhardiness to attempt to retake the
_Friendship_ with half a dozen men, Captain Endicott, after touching at
the promontory to pick up the four sailors who had jumped overboard,
regretfully laid his course for Muckie, Po Adam’s capital, twenty miles
down the coast. As he departed there rang in his ears the exultant
shouts of the Malays who were looting his beloved vessel. Turning,
he shook his fist in the direction of Qualla Battoo. “I’ll come back
again, my fine fellows,” he muttered, “and when I do you’ll wish to
Heaven that you’d never touched Americans.”