The Battle at Horseshoe Bend

by Michael Aye

  Jackson had hinted at his lack of supplies, but Henry snorted and said, “Supplies?…ain’t been any supplies. We have been living off the land for the most part. Stealing and looting Indian villages and hunting, that’s how we have kept from starving.” Shaking his head, Henry said, “Son, we’ve been plagued, purely plagued, by supply shortages since the start of this mess.”

  Neither Jonah, Moses, nor Lieupo knew who Henry was speaking to with the term son. However, it was Lieupo who responded, “I thought the secretary of war authorized Governor Blunt to furnish supplies.”

  “They was promised shore nuff but I’ll give you a bit of advice, soldier boy. The gov’ment is noted for being long on promise and short on delivering. I tell you something else. An empty belly makes a man quarrelsome. Discipline is lax at best. Don’t reckon anybody other than our Andy could keep the men handy. Of course, he ain’t like most generals, what’s got their own vittles. Andy eats what the men eats. Iffen they don’t eat, he don’t neither. That’s why the men follow him. You hear that, soldier boy? That hooting and hollering means the hunters Andy sent out accomplished two things. They kept their hair and at the same time were able to bring in some camp meat.”

  Following Henry to the center of the camp, it was apparent the hunters had been lucky. Jackson was standing with the hunters admiring their kill. A small wagon was loaded down with several turkey and three deer. One of the deer was small enough that Moses wondered if that was milk on its lips, but starving men took no such notice. Ten or twelve squirrels lay in a heap and, to everyone’s joy, a large gang of wild hogs.

  Jokingly, Jackson questioned his men, “You didn’t raid some settlers’ hog pens, did you, men?”

  “Shucks, Andy,” one of the men responded. “You know there ain’t any settlement here abouts. Kilt them with my bow so’s not to make a racket. The hard part was dragging the critters up the bank and out of the bog they were in.”

  Jonah noted with interest how the men addressed Jackson as Andy and not general. He’d stick with the General, at least for now. By the time it was dark, cook fires were burning bright. Pots of squirrel stew were simmering; a hog and a deer were hung over a hastily made spit, and men were drooling over the promise of full bellies. Jackson ordered General Coffee to send out a good string of scouts to alert them should the Red Sticks decide this was the perfect opportunity to attack. Having been in the position in years past, Jonah volunteered his and Moses’ service to take a watch.

  “You both look well fed,” Coffee commented and readily accepted the offer. Henry volunteered as well.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Jonah turned to see Jackson had walked up and heard the conversation. “Maybe you will be of use to us yet.” Hearing this, Henry winked at Jonah and Moses.

  “Where’s Captain Lieupo?” Jonah asked.

  Taking his pipe in hand, Henry chuckled, “Crockett has done got him treed.” This caused Jackson to laugh.

  Damn, Jonah thought, he is human.

  -

  The men broke camp at first light and headed to Fort Strother. The trail was in good shape and they made good time. Coffee and a man named Russell rode at the general’s side. Soon, another man rode up and joined the group.

  Seeing Jonah’s interest in the group that was obviously Jackson’s inner circle, Henry spoke, “Feller in the buckskin shirt is William Russell. He’s in charge of what some call Jackson’s spies. They are just a good group of scouts actually. Imagine that’s who I’ll be assigned to once we get back to the fort. Wouldn’t hurt none if you and Moses were to tie in with his bunch. You would learn a lot more about the goings on than you would hanging around the fort.” This had Moses’ attention and Jonah could tell if given a choice, this would be his. “The other feller in the homespun shirt,” Henry continued, “is George Mayfield. He is Jackson’s interpreter. He hangs close to Andy most of the time. He’s from Tennessee like Jackson. When he was just a boy, his daddy, Southerland Mayfield, had him a nice homestead at the edge of the frontier and the Creek’s lands. One day a dozen or so braves attacked the farm and kilt all the males ’cepting George and his younger brother. For the next ten years or so, George lived with the Creeks. It got so he couldn’t even speak English. He had to be learnt all over again.”

  “What happened to the women?” Moses asked.

  “They survived and settled in Nashville. Soon as George found out they was alive, he became a white again. He’s one I can’t figure,” Henry admitted. “He doesn’t seem to hate all the Creeks but the ones that he does, he is pure murder on. He returns to his savage ways at times. I kind of keep my distance from him…can’t rightly say why, only I do.”

  Fort Strother was like most of the hastily built forts that Jonah and Moses had been to in the Northwest. It was named after Jackson’s topographical engineer, Captain John Strother. The fort had been built in November the previous year, close to the Coosa River at a spot known locally as Ten Islands. The fort would be Jackson’s primary base of operations and main supply base. Supplies received overland could be loaded on flatboats and floated down the Coosa River.

  “Yep!” It’d be an easy chore to float supplies,” Henry snorted, “were there any supplies to be had.”

  It would be easy to smile at the old scout’s comments if they were not so true. The fort was rather large. A tall and long log palisade, with four blockhouses located at the corners, provided security for the inhabitants. The fort was built to hold several thousand men. Jonah was surprised to see so many people there as they rode in, remembering Henry had said most of the Tennessee militia had gone home. He had figured there would be no more than one-hundred-fifty men at the fort plus another three hundred or so friendlies. By friendlies, he meant Indian allies, mostly Cherokee but some Creeks. The friendlies all wore white feathers or white deer tails to distinguish themselves from the hostiles.

  “Old Andy ought to be tickled,” Henry declared as they swung down from their horses. “Looks like the gov’ment finally got around to filling some of their promise.”

  Jonah estimated one thousand men plus the Indians were inside the fort, along with a line of supply wagons.

  “Damn, this is a big fort,” Lieupo spoke for the first time, appraising the fort with a military eye. “Blockhouses, three large parade grounds, three... no, four, separate camps. Looking around I see infantry, cavalry, and Indians. Jackson has got the makings of a sizable force.”

  “Better look again,” Henry responded. “Half them fellers are raw recruits, some of which ain’t never shaved.”

  Moses clapped Henry on the shoulder saying, “Well, they can’t all be old he-coons like you, Henry.” This caused a chuckle from Jonah and Lieupo.

  “Yer right. And a passel of them boys ain’t never gonna be, either,” Henry replied knowingly.

  Chapter Twelve

  The evening meal was the heartiest Jackson’s men had eaten in days. With their bellies full, the contented men broke out their pipes, cigars, and chewing tobacco as they gathered in little groups, some passing jugs of corn squeezing. One group was much larger than the others.

  “That’s Crockett spitting out one of his tales,” Henry snorted, walking toward the circle of men. Smiling at Henry’s comments, Jonah, Moses, and Lieupo followed him.

  Crockett saw the group walk up and paused in his tale. “Make some room, boys. These men are notables. Mr. Jonah Lee there has the president’s paper. Lem…Lemuel Smith, don’t hog that jug. There are others that have got a thirst besides you.” The smallish man looked a little sheepish but passed the jug.

  Crockett naturally reached out, taking the jug he took a long pull. Shaking his head, he wiped his lips with the back of his grimy hand, and then passed the jug to Moses. “Where was I?” Crockett said. “Oh yeah, we were building Fort Strother when me and a couple other scouts captured some Creek warriors. Their leader was a breed named Bob Catala. We continued to scout around and found a hostile Creek village about eight miles to our east. We took our prisoners
and reported back to Andy as quick as we could. He ordered General Coffee to destroy the village.” Crockett paused just long enough to intercept the jug of corn squeezing. He held it up to his ear and shook it. “About as I figured,” he snorted and drained the last of the liquid from the jug.

  “See if we can round up another one,” Crockett said, tossing the empty jug to a group of men. Smacking his lips, he continued, “It was early in the morning on November third, a chilly morning with frost crunching under foot when we made it to the village without being spied. General Coffee sent Captain Hammond’s rangers to the left and I went with his group. We hadn’t gotten far when a Creek warrior doing his early morning nature call saw us and let out a yell. Hostiles came pouring out of the village to meet us. General Coffee ordered his men to fire and they let ’er rip. Injuns were down and kicking but them that survived returned our fire. Men were down, cussing and hollering, but Coffee kept up the advance and soon we had closed formation around the village so nobody could escape. I guess the Red Devils knew it was hopeless, so most of them surrendered. However, a group of Red Sticks, about fifty I’d say, ran into a house. Once the warriors were inside, a Creek woman picked up a bow and since it was a strong bow, she used her feet to pull it back and let fly an arrow. Poor old Lieutenant Moore didn’t know what hit him. He was the first person I ever seen kilt by an arrow. This made the men see fire. Enraged, a group shot the woman. At least twenty balls blew through her. After that, the massacre was on. There wasn’t no stopping the men. Somebody, one of the soldiers, set fire to the house and burned it down. Forty-six bodies counted. I saw a young boy, about twelve years old, crawling on the ground with a broken arm and leg. He was so near the burning house the grease was spewing out of his skin, making him beg for mercy. Somebody obliged the young boy and shot him.”

  Jonah wondered if Crockett had been the somebody but didn’t ask. “By the end of things,” Crockett was saying, “we killed one hundred and eighty-six warriors. I hate to admit it, but eighty-four women and children got killed as well.” Shaking his head, Crockett sadly whispered, “We didn’t set out to harm no women and children, it just couldn’t be helped. They fought as hard as the braves. We lost five soldiers, and twenty to forty were wounded. When Andy heard about the battle from General Coffee, he wrote to the governor of Tennessee, Mr. Willie Blount, declaring ‘We have retaliated for the destruction of Fort Mims.’”

  Realizing the tale was over, men began to hoot and cheer. More than half-drunk, Crockett stood up slowly and took a bow.

  “Told you he was a windbag,” Henry stated, “ought to be a politician. But his story was as near the truth as could be. I heard it from several men. They all tell the same tale.”

  “No need to lie when the truth is that exciting,” Lieupo added.

  -

  Hearing footsteps, Jonah turned and came face to face with a young army officer. His uniform was clean and near immaculate. Jonah realized this was one of the new officers who had just reported to the fort. The man was younger than Jonah had thought at first glance. He seemed to scowl and that made him appear older.

  “I’m Ensign Houston, sir, Sam Houston. I have been sent to make sure you have found a billet.”

  Jonah looked at the tall, dark, young officer. “We have not been assigned a specific billet, but we unloaded our packs with Henry’s here. I believe this is the camp for Russell’s scouts. Is that all right?”

  “Yes sir,” Houston replied smiling. “We’re not fussy around here. The general just wants to know where you’re at. I’m to tell you there will be an officer’s call first thing in the morning. The general said for the three of you to be there.”

  Jonah didn’t know which of the four had been left out but assumed it was Henry since himself, Moses, and Captain Lieupo had arrived and reported together. “Thank you…”

  “Sam,” the young officer filled in. “Call me Sam, if you like that, or Houston. I’m used to either.”

  Shaking hands, Jonah promised Houston they’d be present in the morning. As Houston took his leave, he paused and talked with an Indian, speaking in the Indian’s native tongue.

  “That’s Sequoia,” Henry offered. “He’s the chief of the Cherokee.”

  “What was that name he called Houston?” Lieupo asked.

  Moses, who had been mostly quiet, listening, and taking everything in answered Lieupo’s question, “Colonneh! Colonneh means the raven.”

  Watching Houston fall into step with Sequoia after an embrace and then follow the chief to the Cherokee camp, Lieupo said, “I’ll be damned. It’s hard to know who’s who in this war. At least, when you’re fighting the British, they have on red coats.” The men couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Just remember red and white,” Henry advised. “Red, you’re dead, white feather or armband they’re friend.”

  “Humph…I’m not sure I’ll take the time to check for feathers or armbands when I’m about to part with my scalp.” The men all laughed again as they made for their camp.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Several officers were piled into Jackson’s quarters waiting on the general. Jonah, Moses, and Lieupo were officially introduced to several men, including General Coffee and Captain William Russell, whom Jonah and Moses had more or less attached themselves with since Henry was part of the captain’s unit.

  “A company of spies is what they really are, not scouts,” Lieupo whispered.

  “I know.” Jonah didn’t doubt his friend.

  George Mayfield was introduced to Jonah, as was John Carroll. The men didn’t have to wait long. Jackson’s aide, Captain John Reid, entered and laid several documents on a rough-hewn table that had only one chair. Jackson entered the room and General Coffee pulled the chair out for his friend. Jackson looked pale this morning and Jonah wondered if he’d had a restless night. Turning sideways, it was obvious Jackson was shielding his shoulder.

  That’s it, Jonah realized. He’d heard the Tennessee men talk about Jackson’s duel and wound. The wound was certainly giving the man trouble. What was it Henry had said? ‘They ain’t no backup in the man.’ Well, he was right, Jonah decided. Those were not empty words and Jonah found himself admiring the man even more.

  Seating himself, Jackson hunched over a crude map. When the officers crowded in, Jackson pointed his forefinger at a spot on the paper. “This, Captain Russell tells me, is the Creek village of Emuckfaw. There is a large band of Red Sticks here. I intend to march to that village on the morrow. We will march from Ten Islands, or as young Houston would say, ‘Oti Palin.’” This caused a grin to spread across Houston’s face and Jonah realized that the two men must be friends and not just comrades in arms.

  Focusing his thoughts back to the general, Jonah heard him say, “We’ll push down south and southeast. Captain Russell will lead an advance party. It is my aim, gentlemen, to burn the Red Sticks’ town. We will kill every hostile Creek we find, with no quarter given.”

  Jonah looked at Moses when the statement was made. But it was Houston, whose face looked drawn with a deep scowl. Friends he might be with Jackson, but it was obvious he didn’t agree with him on everything.

  “We will not saddle ourselves with prisoners,” Jackson was saying. “Is that understood?”

  The officers muttered their understanding, and then some brave soul from the back, Jonah couldn’t see who, asked what was probably on everyone’s mind. “General, do you think with these raw recruits a forced march through difficult terrain and the threat of a numerically superior force of hostiles is advised?”

  “Fool,” Lieupo whispered in Jonah’s ear.

  Jackson’s face became livid. “Who asked that?” he bellowed.

  Like the parting of the Red Sea in biblical days, the men opened a gap. A colonel Jonah hadn’t met was standing there, looking very pale.

  “Our men have sixty day enlistments, Colonel,” Jackson said, gaining control of his rage. “They volunteered to fight. Would you have me wait until their enlistment is n
early up, our new supplies consumed and more settlers put to death before we march, sir?”

  “No, sir,” the colonel managed in a trembling voice.

  “Good,” Jackson snapped, slamming his hand down on the table. “Prepare your men to march at first light.” With that, Jackson stood and made his way out, his step somewhat quicker than when he entered, the pain having been replaced by rage.

  -

  At dawn the following day, Jonah and Moses rode out with Henry and Captain Russell’s scouts. It was January 17, 1814. Jonah had halfway expected Captain Lieupo to accompany them, but he had been summoned to the general’s quarters where he apparently had been assigned to Jackson’s staff, at least for the time being.

  Russell’s group was made up of experienced backwoods men. Unlike the raw recruits, these men were tough, seasoned veterans, not a man of whom couldn’t sneak into a hostile camp and slit a man’s throat before he even knew he was dying.

  Russell had briefly talked with Jonah and Moses after the meeting with Jackson the previous day. “Henry tells me that you were a scout and fought with ‘Mad’ Anthony Wayne.” Jonah nodded while wondering where Henry had picked this up as neither he nor Moses had mentioned it. “I also hear you fought at the Battle of the Thames and helped take down Tecumseh.”

  “We were there,” Jonah admitted.

  “He’s the Indian that started this whole mess, him and his prophets with all their signs and such,” Russell said. “Cost many a good man on both sides his life. I wish that I’d been there. I’d love to have had the red devil in my sights. I’d have blown him clear to the great spirits.” Jonah couldn’t help but smile at the captain’s contempt for a dead man.

  For the next three days the men silently made their way through the heavy forest. Twice they came upon Indians but were so quiet they were never discovered. Once, an Indian astride his horse walked right past the scout, Lemuel, without knowing how close to death he’d been. Each day at dusk Russell would send a scout to report to Jackson. Each morning the scout would return with a bag full of food.