The _tout ensemble_ of the place brings to recollection
those striking lines of Hood,
"O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted."
During my stay at Fort Andrews, a large detachment of U.S. troops
arrived, continuing a campaign against the recreant Indians and negroes.
The appearance of the men and officers was wretched in the extreme; they
had for weeks been beating through swamps and hammocks, thickly matted
with palmetto bush, which had torn their undress uniforms in tatters,
searching for an invisible enemy, who, thoroughly acquainted with the
everglades, defied every attempt at capture. The whole party looked
harassed, disappointed, and forlorn. General Taylor was with and had
command of this detachment, which was about 400 strong. As I had heard
this man vauntingly spoken of in the north, as the brave cotemporary of
Scott, I felt no little curiosity to see him. His appearance surprised
me. He was a burly, unmilitary-looking man, of most forbidding aspect,
and much more like a yeoman than a soldier.
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