Thomas Mayne Reid - Osceola the Seminole / The Red Fawn of the Flower Land

The sight of these trees, therefore, would have created no curiosity, had I not noticed in their appearance something peculiar. Instead of the deep green which should have been exhibited by their long, drooping leaves, they appeared of a brownish yellow.

Was it fancy? or was it the deceptive light of the moon that caused this apparent change from their natural hue?

One or the other, soliloquised I, on first noticing them; but as I continued to gaze, I perceived that I was in error. Neither my own fancy nor the moon’s rays were at fault; the foliage was really of the colour it appeared to be. Drawing nearer to them, I observed that the leaves were withered, though still adhering to the twigs. I noticed, moreover, that the trunks were dry and dead-like — the bark scaled or scaling off — that the trees, in short, were dead and decaying.

I remembered what Hickman had stated while groping for the direction. That was at some distance off; but, as far as I could see, the woods presented the same dim colour.

I came to the conclusion that the whole forest was dead .

The inference was correct, and the explanation easy. The sphinx (Note 1) had been at work. The whole forest was dead.

Note 1. Sphinae coniferarum . Immense swarms of insects, and especially the larva of the above species, insinuate themselves under the bark of the "long-leafed" (broom) pine, attack the trunk, and cause the tree to perish in the course of a year. Extensive tracts are met with in Florida covered solely with dead pines that have been thus destroyed.

Strange as it may seem, even in that hour these observations had interested me; but while making them I observed something that gratified me still more. It was the blue dawn that, mingling with the yellower light of the moon, affected the hue of the foliage upon which I had been gazing. Morning was about to break.

Others had noticed it at the same instant, and already the sleepers were rising from their dewy couch, and looking to the girths of their saddles.

We were a hungry band; but there was no hope of breakfast, and we prepared to start without it.

The dawn was of only a few minutes’ duration, and, as the sky continued to brighten, preparations were made for the start. The sentries were called in — all except four, who were prudently left to the last minute, to watch in four different directions. The horses were unpicketed and bridled — they had worn their saddles all night — and the guns of the party were carefully re-primed or capped.

Many of my comrades were old campaigners, and every precaution was taken that might influence our success in a conflict.

It was expected that before noon we should come up with the savages, or track them home to their lair. In either case, we should have a fight, and all declared their determination to go forwards.

Some minutes were spent in arranging the order of our march. It was deemed prudent that a few of the more skilled of the men should go forwards as scouts on foot, and thoroughly explore the woods before the advance of the main body. This would secure us from any sudden attack, in case the enemy had formed an ambuscade. The old hunters were once more to act as trackers, and lead the van.

These arrangements were completed, and we were on the point of starting — the men had mounted their horses, the scouts were already entering the edge of the timber, when, all on a sudden, several shots were heard, and at the same time, the alarm-cries of the sentries who had fired them. The four had discharged their pieces almost simultaneously.

The woods appeared to ring with a hundred echoes. But they were not echoes — they were real reports of rifles and musketry; and the shrill war-cry that accompanied them was easily distinguished above the shouting of our own sentries. The Indians were upon us.

Upon us, or, to speak less figuratively, around us. The sentries had fired all at once, therefore, each must have seen Indians in his own direction. But it needed not this to guide us to the conclusion that we were surrounded. From all sides came the fierce yells of the foe — as if echoing one another — and their bullets whistled past us in different directions. Beyond doubt, the glade was encompassed within their lines.

In the first volley two or three men were hit, and as many horses. But the balls were spent and did but little damage.

From where they had fired, the glade was beyond the "carry" of their guns. Had they crept a little nearer, before delivering their fire, the execution would have been fearful — clumped together as we were at the moment.

Fortunately, our sentries had perceived their approach, and in good time given the alarm.

It had saved us.

There was a momentary confusion, with noise — the shouting of men — the neighing and prancing of horses; but above the din was heard the guiding voice of old Hickman.

"Off o’ yer horses, fellers! an’ take to the trees — down wi’ ye, quick! To the trees, an’ keep ’em back! or by the tarnal arthquake, every mother’s son o’ us’ll git sculped! To the trees! to the trees!"

The same idea had already suggested itself to others; and before the hunter had ceased calling out, the men were out of their saddles and making for the edge of the timber.

Some ran to one side, some to another — each choosing the edge that was nearest him, and in a few seconds our whole party had ensconced itself — the body of each individual sheltered behind the trunk of a tree. In this position we formed a perfect circle, our backs turned upon each other, and our faces to the foe.

Our horses, thus hurriedly abandoned, and wild with the excitement of the attack, galloped madly over the ground, with trailing bridles, and stirrups striking against their flanks. Most of them dashed past us; and, scampering off, were either caught by the savages, or breaking through their lines, escaped into the woods beyond.

We made no attempt to "head" them. The bullets were hurtling past our ears. It would have been certain death to have stepped aside from the trunks that sheltered us.

The advantage of the position we had gained was apparent at a single glance. Fortunate it was, that our sentries had been so tardily relieved. Had these been called in a moment sooner, the surprise would have been complete. The Indians would have advanced to the very edge of the glade, before uttering their war-cry or firing a shot, and we should have been at their mercy. They would have been under cover of the timber, and perfectly protected from our guns, while we in the open ground must have fallen before their fire.

But for the well-timed alarm, they might have massacred us at will.

Disposed as we now were, our antagonists had not much advantage. The trunks of the trees entrenched us both. Only the concave side of our line was exposed, and the enemy might fire at it across the opening. But as the glade was fifty yards in diameter, and at no point had we permitted the Indians to get up to its edge, we knew that their bullets could not carry across; and were under no apprehension on this score.

The manoeuvre, improvised though it was, had proved our salvation. We now saw it was the only thing we could have done to save ourselves from immediate destruction. Fortunate it was that the voice of Hickman had hurried us so quickly to our posts.

Our men were not slow in returning the enemy’s fire. Already their pieces were at play; and every now and then was heard the sharp whip-like "spang" of the rifles around the circle of the glade. At intervals, too, came a triumphant cheer, as some savage, who had too rashly exposed his red body, was known to have fallen to the shot.

Again the voice of the old hunter rang over the glade. Cool, calm, and clear, it was heard by every one.