Diary in America, Series Two

The force of the Indians is supposed to have been about three hundred and fifty or four hundred. The contest lasted six hours; and it must be admitted that nothing could be more gallant than the defence made by the troops against such a superior force.

On the afternoon of the same day, the Americans had to lament the loss of General Thompson, the Indian agent at Fort King. Imprudently strolling out about three hundred yards from the fort, he was attacked by the Indians, who waited in ambush for him, and, with Lieutenant Smith and three other people belonging to the fort, was shot dead. This party of Indians was headed by Asseola, who had warned General Thompson that the white men should suffer for their treatment of him. His peculiar and shrill war-yell was given as the Indian party retreated, to let the whites know to whom they were indebted for the massacre.

General Clinch having been reinforced at Fort Brooke, (where he had two hundred regular troops,) with five hundred volunteers under the command of General Call, now moved with the whole force of seven hundred men.

On the 30th of December, as they were passing the Ouithlacoochee river, the Indians watched their opportunity, and, when a portion only of the troops had gained the opposite side, commenced an attack, which was vigorously and successfully resisted; the Indians, in little more than an hour, were beaten off. The battle was, however, severe, and the Americans sustained a loss of sixty-three killed and wounded. The Indian force is supposed to have amounted to seven hundred men.

But independently of these conflicts with the militia and regulars, the ravages of the Indians over the whole country are stated to have been most fearful. Women and children were murdered, and the hearth made desolate in every portion of the country. In the more settled parts near St. Augustine, the sugar-cane plantations, with the expensive works attached to them, were destroyed, and in many cases the slaves who were on the plantations were either carried off, or, voluntarily joining the Indians, increased the strength of the enemy. More than a hundred estates were thus laid waste, the average loss upon each estate being computed, independently of the loss of the negroes, at fifty thousand dollars.

The intelligence of this havoc, and the massacre of Major Dade and his whole party, soon reached the neighbouring States, and a requisition for assistance made by General Clinch, was promptly responded to. Meetings were organised at Augusta, Savannah, Darien, and Charleston, and in a few days nearly two thousand volunteers were ready to march to the theatre of war. Indeed, the cause now became the cause of all the slave-holding States, and was taken up with the usual energy of the Americans.

In Louisiana the same spirit was shewn. General Gaines was at that time on a tour of inspection, and had received orders to take charge of the troops assembling on the Mexican frontier; but, at the request of the volunteers, he took the command of them until he could receive further orders from Washington. The assistance of the American naval forces were demanded and obtained, and General Gaines having received intelligence that Fort Brooke was invested by the Indians, sent an express to General Clinch at Fort King, to say that he would join him with his forces to relieve the post. The Seminole Indians who had agreed to the treaty, remained firm to their word, and took up arms against their brethren, and a large force was now marching from all directions to the succour of the whites. I ought here to observe, that not only at the commencement, but ever since the war has continued, the difficulty and expense of forwarding supplies have been very great, and the American troops have undergone the severest privations, as well as great mortality from sickness and disease.

On the 13th February 1836, General Gaines, having arrived at Fort Brooke, reviewed his force, which amounted to between eleven hundred and twelve hundred men, and commenced his march to relieve Fort King, at which post he arrived on the 2nd February, without falling in with any of the Indians. The general then made a detour in pursuit of the enemy. On the 27th, when the force was crossing the Ouithlacoochee River, it was assailed by the Indians, who retired after a skirmish of three-quarters of an hour, the loss of the Americans being very trifling. On the 28th, when again fording the river, the Indians made another attack, which was continued for nearly four hours, and the Americans had to lament the loss of Major Izard, who was killed, and two other officers were wounded. On the 29th, the Indians again attacked, with a force of at least a thousand men, with a view of forcing the American troops from the breastwork which they had thrown up; the Indians, after about two hours’ fighting, set fire to the high grass; but, unfortunately for them, the wind suddenly changed, and, instead of burning out the American troops, all their own concealed positions were burnt up and exposed, and they were compelled to retire. The loss on the Indian side was not known, but was supposed to be heavy; that on the part of the Americans amounted to thirty-two killed and wounded. General Gaines, finding that the Indians were so near him, now despatched expresses for a supply of ammunition, being resolved, if possible, to bring them to a general action. The sufferings of the American troops were very severe, and they were killing their horses for subsistence; but the camp was secure, in consequence of the Indians having burnt down all the means of concealment so necessary in their mode of warfare. Notwithstanding which, on the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd of March, the camp was vigorously assailed. On the evening of the 5th, the Indian interpreter came in from the Seminoles, stating that they wished to hold a council, and did not want any more fighting. On the 6th, a truce was held, when Asseola and other chiefs made their appearance, saying, that if the Americans would not cross the river, they would remain on their own side of it, and not commit any more ravages. This was, in fact, nothing but the original proposal of the Indians, that they should remain upon the land which had been assigned to them by the treaty of Camp Moultrie. The reply of General Gaines was, that he was not authorised to make a treaty with them; their arms must be given up, and they must remain on the other side of the river, until the American Government sent them away west of the Mississippi. While this negotiation was pending, General Clinch arrived with the succour and reinforcements, much to the joy of the American troops, who were half starved. General Gaines, who had heard that General Scott had been appointed to the command in Florida, now resigned that authority to General Clarke, and on the 11th, the troops arrived at Fort Drane. It hardly need be observed, that the treating with the Indians ended in nothing. General Scott having assumed the command, arrived at Fort Drane on the 13th March 1836. He had had previously to contend with heavy rains and almost impracticable roads, and was encumbered with a heavy baggage train; his whole force amounted to nearly 5,000 men. This he divided into a centre and two wings, with a view to scour the whole country, and force the Indians from their retreats; but in vain. The Indians being on the flanks of each division, occasional skirmishes took place; but when the troops arrived to where the Indians were supposed to be, not a man was to be seen, nor could they discover the retreat of their families. Occasionally the Indians attacked the outposts with great vigour, and were bravely repulsed; but the whole army, of 5,000 men, did not kill and capture more than twenty Indians. As far as I can judge, nothing could be better than the arrangements of General Scott, but the nature of the country to which the Indians had retreated, rendered it almost impossible for troops to act. The swamps extended over a great surface of ground; here and there was an island on which the Indians could remain; while to attack them, the troops would have to wade up to their necks for miles, and as soon as they arrived the Indians were gone.

It is not my intention to follow up all the details of the petty warfare which has continued to the present time. General Scott resigned the command, and was succeeded by General Jessopp. On the 20th October 1837, after nearly a year’s skirmishing, Asseola was persuaded to come in, to a council. The flags of truce were hoisted by the Americans, and Asseola, carrying a flag of truce in his hand, and accompanied by other chiefs and about 50 warriors, came in to talk. On their arrival, they were surrounded by bayonets, and made prisoners by the orders of the Federal Government, who, despairing of subduing the Indians, had recourse to this shameful breach of faith. The proud spirit of Asseola could not endure confinement: he died in prison. Other chiefs were kidnapped in the same traitorous manner; but, severe as the loss must have been to the Indians, it did not appear to discourage them. The war was still carried on by those who were left, and, indeed, is still continued; for the ranks of the Indians are said to be filled up by runaway slaves, and some of the Creek Indians who have not yet quitted Georgia. On the 25th of December 1837, a severe battle was fought between the Indians and the American troops, at a spot between Pease Creek and the Big Cypress Swamps; on this occasion the Americans lost Colonels Thompson and Guntry, with twenty-eight killed, and one hundred and eleven wounded. Since that I am not aware that any important combat has taken place; but it is certain that the Seminoles, notwithstanding the loss of their leaders, still hold out and defy the whole power of the United States.

It is asserted in the American papers that the loss of lives on the American side, from the enemy and from disease, amounts to between two and three thousand men, and that the expenses of the war are now estimated at 30,000,000 of dollars. How far these calculations may be correct I cannot pretend to say, but it is notorious that a handful of Indians, estimated, at the commencement of the war, at about 1,900, have contended against armies of four or five times their number, commanded by gallant and able officers; that this small band of Indians, notwithstanding their losses from the weapons of the enemy, and their still greater losses from breach of faith, have now for four years held out against the American Government, and have contrived to subsist during that period; and that the retreat of their wives and families has never been discovered, notwithstanding the Americans have a friendly portion of the Seminoles acting with them. Indeed, if we are to believe the American statements, the war is almost as far from its conclusion now as it was at its commencement.37

I have hastily narrated the causes and principal events of the war, as they are little known in England. The Americans, even if they expend twice as much money, must persevere, until they have extirpated every Indian, and settled the territory with white people; if they do not, the Florida swamps will become the resort of runaway slaves, and the precedent of what can be done, will encourage a general rising of the slaves in the adjoining States, who will only have to retire to the banks of the Ouithlacoochee and defend themselves. So fatal is the climate to the European, that America even now will probably have to sacrifice life and treasure to a much greater extent before she obtains possession of the territory. I shall conclude by quoting a portion of a letter from the Genevese Traveller which appeared in the Times newspaper.

“The war was unrighteous in its commencement, and has been continued for years under circumstances the most profligate. There has not been a single campaign in which the army has not reaped a plentiful harvest of mortification and disgrace. When brought into action both officers and men fought valiantly, but the character of the country, its deep morasses and swamps, and the ignorance of the troops of Indian warfare, have uniformly tended to produce the most disastrous defeats.

“There is not to be found on the page of history, in any country, an instance of a scattered remnant of a tribe, so few in number, defending themselves against the assaults of a disciplined and numerous army, with the same heroism and triumphant results with those of the Seminoles in resisting the American troops. In every campaign the invaders have been at least ten to one against the invaded. At no period have the Indians been able to muster more than 700 or 800 warriors, and it is doubtful whether they have ever had more than half that number, while the American army, when in the field, has uniformly amounted to from 6,000 to 10,000 men.”

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven

Reply to the Edinburgh Review

The art of reviewing may be compared to French cookery; it has no medium—it must either be first-rate or it is worth nothing: nay, the comparison goes much further, as the attempt at either not only spoils the meat, but half poisons the guests. The fact is, good reviewing is of the highest order of literature, for a good reviewer ought to be superior to the party whose writings he reviews. Such men as Southey, Croker, and Lockhart on the one side, Brougham, Fontblanque, and Rintoul on the other, will always command respect in their vocations, however much they may be influenced by political feelings, or however little you may coincide with them in opinion. But, passing over these, and three or four more cordons bleus, what are reviewers in general? men of a degree of talent below that of the author whose works they presume to decide upon; the major portion of whom, having failed as authors, are possessed with but one feeling in their disappointment, which is to drag others down to their own debased level. To effect this, you have malevolence substituted for wit, and high-sounding words for sense; every paltry advantage is taken that can be derived from an intentional misrepresentation of your meaning, and (what is the great secret of all) from unfair quotations of one or two lines, carefully omitting the context—an act of unpardonable dishonesty towards the author, and but too often successful in misleading the reader of the Review. By acting upon this last-mentioned system, there is no book, whatever its merits may be, which cannot be misrepresented to the public: a work espousing atheism may be made to appear wholly moral; or, the Holy Scriptures themselves condemned as licentious and indecent. If such reviewing is fair, a jury may, upon a similar principle, decide upon a case by the evidence in favour of the prosecution; and beauty or deformity in architecture be pronounced upon by the examination of a few bricks taken out from different portions of a building.

That, latterly, the public have been more inclined to judge for themselves, than to pin their faith upon reviews, is certain; nevertheless, when what is termed a “slashing article” upon a popular work makes its appearance, the public are too apt to receive it without scrutiny. Satisfied with the general effect, as with that produced in a theatrical representation, they do not bear in mind that that which has the appearance of gold, would prove upon examination to be nothing more than tinsel.

Were all reviewers to be reviewed by authors as well as all authors by reviewers, the authors would have the best of it in the mélée. Again, were reviewers obliged to put their names to their several articles, there would be a great difference in their style; but, secure in their incognito from the disgrace of exposure, they make no scruple to assert what they well know to be false, and, coward-like, to assail those who have seldom an opportunity, whatever may be their power, to defend themselves. Never, perhaps, was there a better proof of the truth of the foregoing observations than is afforded by the article in the Edinburgh Review upon the first portion of my work on America; and as I have some pages to spare, I shall now take the unusual liberty of reviewing the Reviewer.

First, let me introduce to the public the writer of the article—Miss Harriet Martineau. My readers may inquire how I can so positively make this assertion? I reply that it is owing to my “craft.” A person who has long dealt in pictures will, without hesitation, tell you the name of the painter of any given work: a shepherd with a flock of three or four hundred sheep under his charge, will know every one of them individually, although to people in general, one sheep is but the counterpart of the others. Thus, there are little varieties of style, manner, and handling of the pen, which become evident to practised writers, although they are not always so to readers. But even if these peculiarities were not sufficient, the manner in which the article is managed (the remarks of Miss Martineau upon the merits of Miss Martineau) in my mind establishes to conviction, that the major portion of the article, if not the whole, has proceeded from her pen. This is a matter of no consequence, and I only mention it that my readers may understand why Miss Martineau, who forms so prominent a feature in the Edinburgh article, will also occasionally appear in mine. My reply, however, is not addressed to her, but to the Edinburgh Reviewer.

I have no doubt the Reviewer will most positively deny that Miss Martineau had any thing to do with the Review of my work: that of course. With his permission, I will relate a little anecdote. “When the Royal George went down at Spithead, an old gentleman, who had a son on board, was bewailing his loss. His friends came to console him. ‘I thought,’ observed one of them, ‘that you had received a letter?’—‘Yes,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘but it was from Jack himself.’—‘Well, what more would you have?’—‘Ah,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘had it been from the captain, or from one of his messmates, or, indeed, from anybody else, it would have consoled me; but Jack,—he is such an incorrigible liar, that his very assertion that he is safe, convinces me that he has gone to the bottom.’”

Now my opinion of the veracity of the Edinburgh Review may be estimated by the above anecdote; the very circumstance of its denial would, with me, be sufficient to establish the fact. But to proceed.

The Review has pronounced the first portion of my work to be light and trifling, and full of errors; it asserts that I have been hoaxed by the Americans; that I am incapable of sound reasoning; cannot estimate human nature; and, finally, requests as a favour that I will write no more. Such are the general heads of the Review.

Now here we have a strange inconsistency, for why should the Edinburgh Review, if the work be really what he asserts it to be, “light and trifling,” etcetera, waste so much powder and shot upon a tomtit? Why has he dedicated twenty-seven pages of ponderous verbosity to so light and trifling a work? How seldom is it that the pages of the Quarterly or Edinburgh condescend to notice even the very best of light literature! Do they not, in their majesty, consider it infra dig. to review such works, and have not two or three pages bestowed upon them been considered as an immense favour on their part, and a high compliment to the authors? Notwithstanding which, we have here twenty-seven pages of virulent attack upon my light and trifling work. Does not the Edinburgh reviewer at once shew that the work is not light and trifling? does he not contradict his own assertions, by the labour and space bestowed upon it? nay, more, is it not strange that he should think it necessary to take the unfair advantage of reviewing a work before it is half finished, and pounce upon the first portion, with the hopes of neutralising the effects which he evidently dreads from the second.

I will answer the question for him. He indulges in his precipitate and unmeasured attacks, because he feels that the work is written in a style that will induce every one to read it; because he feels assured that the occasional, and apparently careless hits at democracy, are only preparatory to others more severe, and that these will come out in the second part, which will be read with as much avidity as the first. He perceives the drift of the work; he feels that it has been purposely made amusing, and that it will be more injurious to the cause which the Edinburgh Review upholds than a more laboured treatise; that those who would not look at a more serious work will read this, and that the opinions it contains will be widely disseminated, and impressed without the readers being aware of it; moreover, that it will descend to a class of readers who have hitherto been uninformed upon the subject: in short, he apprehends the greater danger to his cause from the work having, as I have said, been made amusing, and from its being in appearance, although not in reality, “light and trifling.”

I candidly acknowledge that the Reviewer is right in his supposition: my great object has been to do serious injury to the cause of democracy. To effect this, it was necessary that I should write a book which should be universally read—not merely by the highly educated portion of the community, for they are able to judge for themselves; but read by every tradesman and mechanic; pored over even by milliners’ girls, and boys behind the counter, and thumbed to pieces in every petty circulating library. I wrote the work with this object, and I wrote accordingly. Light and trifling as it may appear to be, every page of it (as I have stated) has been the subject of examination and deliberation: it has given me more trouble than any work I ever wrote; and, my labour having been so far crowned with success, I trust that I shall have “done the State some service.”38 The review in the Edinburgh will neither defeat nor obstruct my purpose, as that publication circulates chiefly among those classes who have already formed their opinions; and I have this advantage over it, that, as for one that reads the Edinburgh Review, fifty will read my work, so will fifty read my reply who will never trouble themselves about the article in the Edinburgh Review.

And now let us enter a little into detail. The Reviewer finds great fault with my introduction, as being wholly irrevelant to the Diary which follows it. I admit, that if it were an introduction to the Diary alone, there then would be some justice in his remark. But such is not the case: an introduction is, I believe, generally understood to refer to the whole of the work, not a portion of it; and now that the work is complete, I leave it to the public to decide whether the introduction is suitable or not, as bearing upon the whole. I believe, also, it is the general custom to place an introduction at the commencement of a work; I never heard of one being introduced into the middle or at the end of it. The fault, therefore, of its imputed irrelevancy is not mine: it is the Reviewer’s, who has thought proper to review the work before it was complete. He quotes me, as saying, “Captain Marryat’s object was to examine and ascertain what were the effects of a democratic form of government upon a people which, with all its foreign admixture, may still be considered as English;” and then, without waiting till I have completed my task, he says, that the present work “has nothing, or next to nothing, to do with such an avowal.” Whether such an assertion has any thing to do with the work now that it is completed, I leave the public to decide. The Reviewer has no excuse for this illiberal conduct, for I have said, in my Introduction, “In the arrangement of this work, I have considered it advisable to present to the reader first, those portions of my Diary which may be interesting, and in which are recorded traits and incidents which will bear strongly upon the commentaries I shall subsequently make;” notwithstanding which the reviewer has the mendacity to assert that, “not until the last paragraph of the last volume, does he learn for the first time that the work is not complete.” I will be content with quoting his own words against him—“An habitual story teller prefers invention to description.”

The next instance of the Reviewer’s dishonesty is, his quoting a portion of a paragraph and rejecting the context. He quotes, “I had not been three weeks in the country before I decided upon accepting no more invitations, charily as they were made,” and upon this quotation he founds an argument that, as I did not enter into society, I could of course have no means of gaining any knowledge of American character or the American institutions. Now, if the reviewer had had the common honesty to finish the paragraph, the reason why I refused the invitations would have been apparent; “because I found that, although invited, my presence was a restraint upon the company, and every one was afraid to speak.” Perhaps the sagacity of the Reviewer will explain what information I was likely to gain from people who would not open their mouths. Had he any knowledge of the Americans, he would admit that they never will venture to give their opinions in the presence of each other; it was not that they were afraid of me, but of each other, as Monsieur de Tocqueville has very truly pointed out in his work. Moreover, I have now, for the first time, to learn that the best way of arriving at the truth is to meet people who are on their guard, and whose object is to deceive.