Ambush!

Ambush!
(Reading level: grade 9.9)

Slowly, the man lying in the shallow tea colored water of the Okefenokee Swamp shifted his gaze from the tall grasses bordering the nearby tree shrouded island to his overturned dugout. The dugout lay a short distance across the open water run against the far side with one end of it lower down in the water. The higher end was the hiding place of his Creek Indian friend, Cross Toed John. The two had, just a few short minutes before, been slowly and lazily paddling their way down the run which would soon end itself in the open waters of Bluff Lake. The lake was one of many running the length of the east side of the Okefenokee and had in the past proven to be a sure location for the catching of a good meal of blue gills with the occasional largemouth bass. Today it had proven to be something else. What that was, they did not yet know.

Lying there, Clifton could see that several of the arrows which had risen like a flight of angry bees from the tall far grasses along the island had imbedded themselves in what had previously been the side of the dugout facing the island. Only Cross Toed John’s swift realization of their danger had saved one or both of them from serious injury. With a warning cry he had tightly gripped the top of the boat’s sides and thrown himself hard over to his left and away from the incoming flight of arrows. His action had served to roll the dugout bottom side up and provided him with immediate protection from the descending arrows. Clifton, caught a bit off guard, had fallen out into the open water of the run where his experiences of many years surviving the South Georgia frontier served him well. He immediately realized that John had spotted some serious and nearby danger. Quickly, he gulped a lungful of air and dove beneath the water heading for the far side of the narrow run. He swam beneath the mass of water lilies, mosses, and floating vegetation. Spotting sunlight coming through a small hole in the mass, he slowly surfaced enough to breath yet kept his head down in the cover of the swamp vegetation.

The water here was shallower, not over three to four feet in depth. The sight of the arrows and the previous ringing cry of John’s alarm had set every nerve on edge. Clifton felt that his body was sensing every vibration in the surrounding area of swampy vegetation. Looking closely at the edge of the upturned dugout, Clifton could see the partially submerged face of his long time friend peering out at him. Though John had seen or at least sensed the flight of arrows and therefore knew that hostile Indians were nearby, his present predicament meant that he was unable to see what attacking force might be moving towards them. Slowly, Clifton shook his head as if saying “No! Don’t move!” Already he could see the tops of the heads of what looked to be six Indians now showing above the not too distant grasses.

Slowly the hostiles began to move; obviously they were standing in their dugouts while using long paddles to propel themselves out of their ambush site and into the open lake waters turning towards the run where their apparently defenseless quarry hid. As they glided smoothly around the point of grasses and entered the mouth of the run, Clifton’s hand was slowly pulling his long knife out of his belt. He glanced briefly at his old hunting rifle, now sticking up out of the swampy mass of vegetation it had fallen barrel first into. He realized that with their rifles and powder now wet, the fighting would have to be with knives and tomahawks… if he and John could survive the arrows which were sure to be loosed as soon as the approaching Indians could spot them.  Glancing towards his hidden friend, Clifton could see the business end of a well sharpened  knife blade showing above the water, just hidden beneath the over turned boat which John kept in place with one arm while he readied himself for the unavoidable fight which seemed surely about to begin.

Often those who travel the trails of wildernesses near and far are doomed or spared by some of the strangest happenings. Sometimes a traveler will come upon a strange sight which leaves him wondering about the fairness of life. Once, a man innocently walking along a narrow river trail while looking for a good place to fish was struck unconscious by a falling tree. He fell into the river where he drowned. Why did that tree have to fall away from its riverside spot at that precise time? No one knew. Yet it did and an innocent man ended his days on earth, stepping into the hereafter to face his Maker, whether he was prepared for such an event or not. Many a discussion had been held around many a camp fire by frontiersmen about such things. Debates had raged and yet questions still remained to be debated again and again by campfire philosophers and semi theologians. Now, one of those unexpected events happened. And John and Clifton would live to often debate the whys of it!

As the hostiles turned their dugouts into the mouth of the run, a bull alligator suddenly launched himself up out of the swamp’s brown waters showering the first two dugouts with a wild spray of tea colored water and bits of flying lily pads! The uninitiated may think that such heavy awkward looking animals cannot leave their watery world with anything like a graceful lunge up into the air… but it would be a serious mistake to think so. This one did. With an explosion of energy, the previously unseen alligator shot up into the air and then came crashing down across the mid section of the first dugout submerging it almost stem to stern! Its two occupants leapt as far off to the side away from their attacker as their fear powered legs would take them. The rocking waves of swamp water caused the closely following second dugout to heave violently, dumping the Indian standing in the bow over the side before he could catch his balance. The third and final dugout swerved quickly away from the chaotic scene as one of the Indians fired a very ineffective arrow at the attacking alligator, knowing as he did so, the attempt would be worthless. 

Even as the alligator now hesitated lying across his newly captured resting place, Clifton and John both bolted up out of the water and quickly righted their dugout. As John gave a mighty shove to begin their escape Clifton made a long stretching dive to get a grip on the dugout’s bow and heave himself up and into the bow. In almost the same motion his sweeping hand grabbed a nearby floating paddle and within another second he had rescued his rifle, still sticking up in the the nearby grasses into which it had landed. As John landed in the stern of the dugout the boat almost swamped with water from the force of his landing, the next instant it shot forward as the two very determined and grateful friends dug deep with their paddles and made a run for their lives!

The shouts and excited talking of the now left-behind hostile Indians could be heard for a long ways across the water lily and grass filled swamp prairie. The excited calls of the now disturbed red winged black birds and numerous water birds clearly communicated to all near and far that the swamp’s peace had been shattered. Clifton and Cross Toed John steadily put distance between themselves and their attackers, both knowing that if the hostiles could regroup and give chase, their lives might be ended there in the watery environs of the Okefenokee. Though they were free, their gun powder was still wet and any fighting would still be hand to hand with the odds definitely not in their favor!

Many hours later, the two veteran frontiersmen settled down into a hastily scouted out defensive position behind a thicket of palmettos, briar bushes, and thickly located pines on a small raised bit of ground which swampers would often call a “house”. Most outsiders would have called it an island. The setting sun left an orange glow with yellowing trails reaching up into the darkening violet of the western sky. The towering Spanish moss shrouded tops of the cypress and pine trees swayed gently in the evening breezes which failed to reach far enough down the towering trunks to be felt on the ground.  Clifton, gently shifting his weight to a more comfortable position while digging a now well squashed pine cone out from underneath his hip, muttered quietly, ”Well, what do you think? Those egrets seemed to settle back down over yonder by that stand of cypress pretty quickly. Maybe it was just a passing bear that disturbed them?” “Possible.” The one word answer was all Cross Toed John was willing to volunteer at the moment.

The two had paddled vigorously for a good while to flee their attackers. Then they had settled in to a steady rhythm which quickly ate up the miles as they had moved steadily away from their possible pursuers. Occasional looks back and short stops for listening had revealed nothing. Neither man was willing to stop too soon. The numbers of possible outcomes of two men fighting against six using only knives and tomahawks were mostly negative in Clifton’s way of thinking and he was sure John felt the same. So they paddled on, crossing the swampy prairies cutting through gator trails and circling warily around familiar islands, now viewed differently as possible locations of hiding hordes of hostile warriors.

Later in the dark of the swamp’s night, listening to the haunting echoing calls of barred owls and the deep vibrating rubble of an occasional bull gator, the two men relaxed a bit. The drop off in their adrenalin had left them feeling at times sleepy and dull minded.  Yet, every sudden commotion caused by some unseen but obviously large alligator thrashing through the grasses in pursuit of some form of prey would cause another rush of adrenalin. Clifton’s hand ached from gripping his knife and his eyes stung from the continual beads of invading sweat which seemed to be on a steady roll from his forehead to the corner of each eye. Each man longed to sleep, but the thought of what might be coming had kept them from succumbing to that temptation. However, now they were feeling that even if they had been followed, they were temporarily safe. No Indian would risk paddling through the dark swamp waters in a low riding dugout at night. The thought of what might happen if the dugout ran afoul of one of the numerous large alligators in a narrow watery trail was enough to keep any sane warrior settled near a smoky fire enjoying the respite the smoke would give from marauding mosquitoes.      

Clifton and Cross Toed John had debated the possibility of starting such a smoky fire to give themselves some relief from the swarm of mosquitoes attacking them, but they realized that if the warriors had followed them, then the fire would only serve to identify their general location. On a dark night in the swamp, a bright fire could be seen for a few miles and would possibly lead the enemy right to them by daybreak. So they lay in their hiding place. Steadily, they attempted to apply dirt and any mud which was handy to any bare patches of skin to thwart the mosquitoes. With minimal talk they napped uncomfortably; often waking to listen and look around… both men knew that it wasn’t just hostile Indians they now had to be aware of. A passing large alligator, any dangerous snake out hunting for a meal, and even an occasional passing panther or bear could pose a problem which both hoped to be able to avoid. Slowly the night passed.

“I saw them first!” stated an almost shouting Clifton as he and John argued under the oaks near the trading post at Kettle Creek community. This latest comment was immediately greeted by several hoots, hollers and snorts of laughter as the locals enjoyed the latest round of the ‘ambush’ story as they were locally calling it. Clifton and Cross Toed John had returned to the community located along the east side of Kettle Creek without further Indian problems. The alarm they raised among the local settlers and passing hunters had led to an armed militia sortie being conducted along the stage coach trail running along the north side of the swamp from Kettle Creek eastwards down towards the communities established near the eastern borders of the swamp. Once the patrol had reached the Carter community, they felt that whatever threat had possibly existed was over and they had returned home.

Now one of the favorite pastimes for the locals who hung out around the trading post playing checkers and swapping fishing stories was to suggest gently that just maybe the whole thing had been a result of someone possibly imbibing a little too much ‘cold remedy’. This being the local term for home made brew. Especially in light of the fact that the militia had not found any proof of hostiles being in the area. The fact that neither John nor Clifton were known to be drinkers of rum or any other strong drink just increased the fun of the teasing.  And in the retelling and arguing over the events, the order of things as well as the facts of who did or said what had become cloudy in the telling. Hence, the current session of arguing. One of the facts which completely astounded everyone every time the story was told was, of course, the attack by the alligator as it had leapt onto the dugout. Speculation was that the Indians had been spearing fish and had been dropping them in that particular dugout while being observed by the gator. It was a well known fact that gators would attempt to steak a man’s fish if such an opportunity presented itself.  Several unwise fishermen had had their strings of fish stolen by a passing alligator while fishing in both the nearby Satilla River and the swamp.

“I saw them first and I saved your life by tipping the boat over,” Cross Toed John steadily replied. “I was just about to do the very same thing and save your life, but I had to first grab ahold of my gun,” retorted Clifton.

John rolling his eyes amid the laughter said, “Well, if that is so then why….”

The End