The Haunted Swamp

“You don’t wanna go in that there swamp, boss man,” said the bare footed black man standing by the side of the path. More faces peered out of the ramshackle cabin behind him, his woman and some children.

“Is there a way around?” asked Captain Joseph Mallory of the Second Florida Union Cavalry. I hate these damned pestilent swamps, thought the Ohio born officer. This was not his kind of territory, that was the gentle hills and valleys of his native state. The great majority of his men were residents of Florida, more able to handle the heat and humidity that made fighting and riding a living hell.

“You goes fifteen miles to the south and there’s a clear path,” said the black, who from his garb, little more than rags, was most probably a slave. “To the north you goes twenty miles.”

And the Reb cavalry pursuing us will be on us before we get halfway to either of those paths, thought the young officer, looking back at the eighteen men who followed him. Several of those men were wounded, some seriously, and in desperate need of medical attention. He wasn’t sure the Confederates would give them that much needed care. No, if they survived, they would be heading toward some hell hole of a prison camp, and some of them would not come out. We need to get to Fort Myers. Once we’re under the guns of the fort, and the fleet, we’re home free.

“Does this way pass through the swamp?” he asked the slave, his anxiety growing at the time they were wasting. The Reb cavalry could come up behind them any moment, and then they would be involved in a running fight he wasn’t sure they could win.

“It do. If you goes by day.”

“And it doesn’t by night?”

“It do. But you won’t makes it ifn you goes through there in the dark.”

“What you saying, boy?” asked Sergeant Clark, who was a Florida product from up around Cedar Key. “That there’s ghosts in the swamp? That they’re going to come out of the water and drag us to our graves?”

Some of the men chuckled at what the Sergeant had said, while others muttered in near panic.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” said the Captain with conviction. He was a college educated man, a product of the Point, and did not believe in God or Devil, and certainly not in ghosts. Those were the beliefs of a child, not a full grown man.

“No one has made in through that swamp since the night the men hung the escaped slaves in there,” answered the black. “If I was you, I would find another way through the swamp.”

“We don’t have time for this,” said Mallory, looking back at his men. “We’re going through the swamp. I want us in Fort Myers by tomorrow morning.” He spurred his horse on, looking first ahead, then back at his men, who continued to sit their horses without moving.

“You heard the Captain,” yelled out Clark, moving his horse forward. “Lessen you want to be captured, you come along now.”

There was still some muttering, but everyone moved forward to follow their leader. Mallory looked back to catch one last glimpse of the slave, shaking his head as his eyes followed the progress of the white soldiers. Maybe I should have given you your freedom was his last thought as the slave faded into the darkness. But what would that have done. If you had run away, the damned Rebs just would have caught you, and there would be another hanging around here.

Mallory at least had one good reason to enjoy the night. The day had been hot as hell, and humid as only a torturing demon could make it. A hard afternoon rain had eased some of the heat, but it had come back with a vengeance, and with renewed humidity. The troopers all wore their ponchos against that hard rain, and were still soaked to the bone. But the night was clear.