The reinforcement that Russell had ordered to Florida, commanded by General Esmé Steuart Erskine[1] turned out to be a relief force. It arrived at Fort Amelia on September 6, just five days after the invasion, and moved quickly to cut off the American army from reinforcements.
By sheer luck, General Twiggs was not in Florida—he had crossed the St. Marys again the previous night to begin organizing the invasion of Apalachicola and Muscoguea. It is unlikely that he could have organized the scattered and outnumbered Americans already in Florida into something capable of holding its own. The result was (after the burning of the Naval Academy) the second major humiliation of U.S. armed forces…
Eric Wayne Ellison, Anglo-American Wars of the 19th Century
“Fools! You took notes on your own criminal conspiracy?”
—David Levy Yulee, overheard during the Fannin trial
September 11, 1837
Fort Colborne
I’m sick for three goddamn days and everything falls apart, thought Bragg.
Who knew I was so important? The truth was, he was still feeling ill, but the worst of the fever had passed and now he had the strength to stand upright.
But it still astonished him how little time it had taken for the Creeks and Seminoles to round up the whole scattered army and imprison it here. From his point of view, it hardly seemed as though there had been a fight. The day after his retreat from Pilaktakta, his wound had been red and burning, as if soaking it in the St. Johns had done something to it. He and some of the people who’d taken a little too much of that damn smoke in their eyes or lungs had been left behind.
When that Indian leader—what was his name? William… Osceola? Something like that—had told them to surrender or die, Bragg and his sick, half-blind crew had seen no reason not to comply. He figured they’d be rescued soon enough. Instead Osceola had led them here, throwing Bragg over a saddle when he was too sick to walk. And while Bragg had been pretty much out of it for a couple of days, he couldn’t help but notice more and more of his fellows were being shepherded in by Brits or Indians or recruits from St. Augustine—“joffies,” the Creeks had called them, or something like that—or mobs of those dark-skinned peasants with sickles and big cane-cutting knives.
The minute the Brits got in the river and cut us off, the whole countryside went from being the hunted to being the hunters. Whose bright idea was this campaign? Whoever it was, I hope they locked him in a smokehouse full of that poisonous shit and smoked him through like a ham.
Now that he was on his feet, they’d made him stand out in the yard in front of the fort along with everybody else. Someone named Captain Davidson was haranguing them about the slave-taking and what the authorities meant to do about it.
“This was not war,” he was saying as he paced up and down in front of them. He was almost in front of Bragg right now. “These were crimes which no civilized nation can tolerate within its borders. You sought to steal away our neighbors, our friends, our families—”
Bragg couldn’t resist. “
Your family?” Davidson was quite obviously a white man.
The captain turned to him with the unmistakable expression of a man about to do violence. Bragg raised his fists—and found himself flat on his back with a feeling of shock in his jaws. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it had been very fast and there had definitely been an uppercut in it somewhere.
“Yes. My family. My stepfather. My half-siblings. Do you have something to say about that?”
Bragg propped himself up on one elbow and spat on the ground. He was trying for a haughty, targeted spit of contempt, but what came out was the undignified, splattering spit of a man trying to get a lot of blood out of his mouth all at once.
“I didn’t think so.” Glancing around the yard, Bragg saw that the other prisoners were silent. From the looks on their faces, it was less that they were intimidated by the captain than that they were shocked at what he’d just told them all, and the fact that he’d said it without a hint of shame. If he’d dropped his trousers and fucked a mule in front of the whole crowd while singing “God Save the King” at the top of his lungs, their reactions would have been much the same.
What the hell kind of place is Florida? And what were we thinking, trying to take it over? Who told us we wanted it?
“We have a list of those who participated in this vile scheme, obtained from the very men who ran it.”
What is he talking about? Bartow never said anything about a list. But it made sense—if they had enough names, they’d have to write them all down somewhere.
“Every man whose name is on that list will be taken to the city of Trafalgar, put on trial, and—if found guilty—hanged by the neck until dead.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Major Lee. “We are prisoners of war, sir.”
“Some of you are, yes, and you will be treated as such. Others are slave-taking brigands and bandits, and will most certainly be treated as such.” With that, he began reading off the list, starting with the As. At every name, the guards stepped forward and dragged a man away.
“Lieutenant John Francis Bartow.”[2] He pronounced it the funny British way (
why the hell do they think there’s an F
in lieutenant
?) but Bragg would know the man they were dragging forward anywhere—that mustache could not be mistaken. If they had him, there was no hope of escape.
“Captain Henry Lewis Benning.” The blond officer shouted in protest as they pulled him out of the row.
Bragg was on his feet again, still trying to have the air of a man about him in spite of the circumstances.
If they’re doing the Bs now, they’ll get to me pretty soon.
“Private James Jonathan Berry.”
“No! I’ll be damned if I’ll let you—oof!” They walloped the private a few more times, then dragged him off.
Am I ready to die?
Well, it’s not like they’re going to shoot me out of hand. There’ll be some kind of trial first.
And I knew when I joined the Army we might be doing things that were dangerous. But there was something different about the prospect of being hanged like a common criminal, something that made it more horrible than other, more painful ways to go.
“Sergeant Natchez Boyd.”
“Please! I got a wife and a baby back in Macon!”
“Shouldn’t have tried to steal somebody else’s, then.”
This is it. I’m going to die. The least I can do is show a little more courage than these wretches.
“Private Thomas Henry Caldwell.”
What? Bragg did his best not to look surprised.
Is this a trick? How can I not be on the list?
“Private John Randolph Charlton.” Bragg shut his eyes and pictured Bartow’s face again—not terrified as he was right now, but solemnly assuring him that he would get his share.
Bartow, you lying bastard. You tried to cheat me out of my money, and you might have just saved my life.
“Lieutenant Howell Cobb.” Cobb at least had the dignity to step forward of his own free will.
Or maybe they let the boy go. Maybe they decided he wasn’t a proper nigger, or he was too dangerous. They wouldn’t pay me in a case like that.
Or they decided I’m Hooper Bragg and they’d as soon keep a promise to an Injun or a nigger as keep one to the likes of me.
Bragg kept still as scores more names were read off. Col. Fannin was called, but Major Lee was not, and Cols. Johnston and Trousdale were not. None of them were anybody he knew, still less anyone he called friend. Nearest and dearest to his heart was the fact that none of them were
him.
Then Private Yingling was dragged off, sobbing uncontrollably… and just as everybody was about to breathe a sigh of relief, Davidson said, “We’re not done here.”
“Now what?” Bragg muttered.
Davidson turned to him. For a moment Bragg thought he was going to get another punch in the face.
“I’m glad you asked,” he said. “We have witnesses. Some of your victims have agreed to come forward and testify. We will see if any of them recognize you.”
There were many witnesses. Most of them were black. A few of them were sort of not-blacks like the boy he’d fought, which made Lee protest that surely none of his men could have been so uncouth as to attempt to enslave someone who wasn’t a Negro. The majority of them were women, and some of these cried or spat as they pointed out a man—Bragg had no trouble guessing why. But most of them didn’t point out anybody.
Most of the people were on that list.
One last escapee was being let into the yard.
No. I was out free and clear. My luck can’t be that bad.
But it was. There was the boy. Someone had shaved his head—whether to get rid of lice or to hide the straightness of his hair, Bragg didn’t know—smacked him across the mouth to make his lips swell, and punched him in the nose to break it and make it look flatter, but you never forgot somebody who’d sliced your brisket for you.
The boy walked up the row, looking each man up and down, then moving on to the next.
Maybe he can’t tell one white man from another. Especially since I’m damn near as beat-up as he is, and lost a few pounds besides.
But Bragg didn’t have his shirt on. The boy glanced at the stitched-up wound on Bragg’s chest.
He must remember making that cut.
He looked Bragg in the eye. Bragg still remembered the murderous fury with which he’d wielded that damned sickle.
They knew each other.
Bragg could feel the seconds ticking by as they looked into each others’ eyes.
I will not look away. He’ll point me out and they’ll hang me and there’s nothing I can do about it. But I will not look away.
Then the boy walked back to Davidson.
“He is not here, sir.”
What?
“You sure?”
“I am sure. He is not here.”
What the hell?
Davidson glanced at Bragg, then said, “Then I’ll take your word on it.”
Bragg tried not to look shocked, but he had a feeling he was failing.
Why would he do that?
Part of Bragg’s mind thought
he didn’t dare testify against a white man. The rest of his mind replied:
so how do you explain the others? They had no problem pointing the finger at a white man and letting him swing. He chose
to let you go.
Why? Yes, it’s the sort of thing Jesus said to do, but Jesus said to do lots of things nobody ever does. Why?
Maybe to make himself look good? As much as Bragg wanted to believe this, he couldn’t make it make sense in his mind.
Look good to who? Everybody else here thinks we all need to be put down like mad dogs.
Before they went back to their tents, Davidson took Bragg aside. “That young man left a note for you.”
“For me? By name?”
“Of course not. He said it was for ‘the man I looked at, with the cut on his chest.’” Davidson handed him the letter. It was unsealed, a single folded piece of paper. Bragg was sure Davidson already knew what was in it.
What it said was so confusing that he found himself reading it aloud. “‘Sir: May the All-Compassionate and Most Merciful guide your steps—’ wait. The All-Compassionate and Most Merciful what?”
“He is speaking of God, which I’m told is the same God we Christians worship. Mohametans have many… titles for Him, I suppose you could call them.”
“Huh. ‘May the All-Compassionate and Most Merciful guide your steps on the path of compassion and mercy all the days of your life.’ It’s signed… A nil? Anal?”
“Ah-neel.”
“‘Anil… Malakar.’” Bragg was pretty sure he’d mispronounced the last name too.
“‘The path of mercy and compassion.’ To that I can only say, ‘Amen.’ This Mohametan appears to be a better Christian than most I know. You may still be a prisoner of war, Sergeant Bragg, but you have your life. And soon enough you’ll be out of my hair.”
“Are they letting us go?”
“No. You will be taken to a prisoner-of-war camp. There you will wait until this war is over, or until you can be paroled or exchanged.”
Bragg nodded. It would be good to get away from this bastard… but even then, the man’s mere existence raised questions he didn’t really want to think about.
This fellow’s mother married a nigger—had children with him, even—and he holds his head high among white men. And here you are, cringing and begging for favors from planters’ sons because your father works with his hands and people spread damnable lies about your mother. You’ll be twenty in January—are you a man yet, or aren’t you?
And this was on top of the really big question.
Why did that boy let me go?
[1] This is in fact the British ambassador’s son.
[2] Some of these are actual historical figures or their allohistorical brothers. Others I just made up.