The Battle at Horseshoe Bend

by Michael Aye

  Jonah was starting to get nervous about sitting, as they were, out in the open, an easy target. He’d decided it was time to find better cover when Henry returned.

  Mounting back up, Henry whispered, “We’re close.” With that, he turned his horse and rode more easterly. They hadn’t traveled but a few hundred yards when Jonah picked up the sound of running water.

  Turning in his saddle, Jonah looked at Moses and mouthed the word river. Moses nodded; he had always had excellent hearing. After riding about a mile, Henry turned into the woods. Finding an area that was fairly thick with growth, Henry dismounted and motioned for his companions to do likewise. He led the horses a few more feet and tied the reins to a sapling.

  “Not the best place to hide the horses,” he said matter-of-factly, “but it’s the best we got.”

  With the noise of the flowing river covering most of their sound, the men headed toward a nearby spot where a dead tree lay by the bank. They squatted down by the dead tree. Recent runoff from the snow and rain caused the river to flow faster than usual.

  “She’s usually a gentle lady,” Henry declared. “Flows soft and gentle-like most of the time.”

  So this is it, Jonah thought as he peered over the downed tree. The Tallapoosa River. Directly across from where they hid was Horseshoe Bend. It did look just like a horseshoe, Jonah decided. The river made a large loop in the direction they were hiding. The loop created a peninsula. A rather large peninsula, eight hundred to a thousand feet wide, Jonah guessed.

  There was already a beehive of activity going on across the peninsula. Hundreds of Indians were at work. Some working on lodges, others were working on a great barricade.

  “By Gawd, it is true,” Henry swore. “I’d never have believed it.”

  “What?” Jonah asked.

  “Look at that wall,” Henry said.

  Moses picked up on it right away. Warriors were working alongside women and children in the construction of the wall. Jonah took a piece of paper from a leather pouch and with a small bit of charcoal made a crude but good likeness of the barricade. A trench had been dug in a zigzag manner across the widest part of the peninsula. Then a double log wall was raised with rocks and dirt filling the space between the logs. The ends were fitted together like the building of a log house. Loopholes could be seen cut into the wall. At places, it was already eight feet high. Young trees had been cut so that sharp tips were sticking out, making it difficult just getting to the wall. Getting over it would be a nightmare, a deadly nightmare.

  Giving Jonah time to make his sketch, Henry finally spoke, “You about done? We have been here longer than I’m comfortable with.”

  “Just about,” Jonah answered and then asked, “How high do you think those rises are? There along the banks.”

  “Fifty to seventy-five feet there where the river curves,” Moses guessed.

  “That was what I guessed,” Jonah said, making a few more notations. “That’s about it,” he informed Moses and Henry. Taking the risk, Jonah rose up and took one last look at the stronghold. He saw many things all at once. Large trees grew along the ridge of the tract of land. The winter cold had caused the leaves to fall and the branches of the few hardwood trees looked barren, almost skeletal in appearance. Hunters were riding in with game on pack horses. Smoke from campfires and cook fires rose on a gentle wind. Hundreds, if not thousands, of Indians would be inside those walls when Jackson attacked.

  Was it a stronghold or, as Weatherford proclaimed it, a death trap? Jonah shivered. A lot of people would die here. Red men, white men, women and yes, even children. Weatherford was a man with great insight. Could there be a way out?

  “Let’s go,” Henry hissed. “We have been here too long already.”

  Jonah followed his friends back to the horses. So far, so good. They’d head east toward Georgia, then head north along the Georgia-Alabama border and then turn northwest toward Fort Strother. The time was near. Jackson would march, and soon, Jonah was sure. The great man had other battles to fight. New Orleans and the Redcoats seemed more and more to be in Jackson’s thoughts and conversations. Well, he can have New Orleans, Jonah thought to himself, and the Redcoats as well.

  Chapter Thirty

  Henry, Jonah, and Moses used the safest, if not the shortest, route back to Fort Williams. While the route was away from the hostile Red Sticks, the group did not let down on their vigilance. Just above Talladega, Henry led the trio westward across the Tallapoosa River and then took a northwest route to Fort Williams. Arriving at the fort just before sundown, it was easy to see something was astir. The fort was a beehive of activity. Spotting one of Russell’s scouts, Henry rode over and asked what was transpiring.

  “We march out in the morning,” the man said as he rushed toward a group forming up.

  “You go check in with Andy,” Henry said, speaking to Jonah. “We’ll take care of the mounts.”

  Jonah dismounted and headed toward Jackson’s headquarters. Captain Stephen Lieupo was exiting the building with a smile on his face. He was limping but smiling. Good news, Jonah thought.

  After the two greeted each other, Lieupo volunteered, “I’ve been approved to move out with the group at dawn.”

  Jonah knew Lieupo had had his fill of being cooped up inside the hospital and fort. He just hoped the trip wouldn’t take too much out of his friend. Worried as he was, Jonah didn’t want to dampen Lieupo’s spirit by asking if he was sure he was up to the trip.

  “I’d better check in with the general,” Jonah said. “Are you back at our quarters?”

  After a confirmation from Lieupo that he was, Jonah said, “Let’s sup together tonight.”

  “It’s a deal,” Lieupo responded. “Be good to see Moses again.”

  -

  Jackson’s office was full of officers: General Coffee, Jackson’s interpreter, George Mayfield, William Russell, the head of Jackson’s scouts. Colonel Thomas Benton, the commanding officer of the U.S. 39th Infantry was also there, with Sam Houston at his side; across from the two stood another officer in the 39th, Major Lemuel Montgomery. Colonel John Williams was the official commanding officer of the 39th, but rumor had it he did not agree with having Jackson as his superior, as he was not regular army. It didn’t matter one bit that Jackson was a major general, he was still militia. Therefore, temporary command had been given to Colonel Benton while Colonel Williams went on recruiting service in Tennessee. Jonah couldn’t help but think that with the intricacies of military life he was glad he was not on active duty.

  Entering the room, Jonah moved over to stand next to Houston. In doing so, the movement caused Jackson to look up. Seeing Jonah, Jackson said, “Well, another piece of the puzzle has shown up.”

  For the next five minutes, Jonah gave a brief summary of their scouting trip. This was followed by another fifteen minutes of questions and answers, not only by Jackson, but by many of the officers there. Russell’s questions were the most specific.

  After the questions were finished, General Coffee surprised Jonah, “A very good report, Mr. Lee. Your sketches should prove to be a big help.”

  Damn, thought Jonah, had Coffee forgotten about their previous friction or was this his way of being forgiving, his olive branch. Had Jackson said something to his friend privately after their verbal confrontation? Had the man realized in a few days that they’d be in battle and each man’s life may depend on the other? Whatever the reason, Jonah was glad for a civil tone. He would hold no grudges.

  Jackson, after making sure there were no more questions, began to speak again, “Your numbers, Mr. Lee, are very much in line with those given by other scouts. The Red Stick towns of Hillabees, New Yorka, Fish Ponds, Oakfuska, and Oakachoy are all deserted. Warriors, women and children are all gone. Menawa has put all of his forces in one fortified camp at Horseshoe Bend. It is impossible to conceive a situation more eligible for defense than the one they have chosen.” Jackson continued, speaking to the group, “The skill which they manifested in their
breastwork is really astonishing. The breastwork extends across the point in such a direction so that a force approaching would be exposed to a double fire, while they, the Red Sticks, lay entirely safe behind it.” Pausing a moment to collect his thoughts, Jackson took a deep breath and ran his hands through his wiry gray hair. With a sigh, the general spoke again, “It will not be an easy task, gentlemen. I fear we may suffer losses, but...if we can defeat the Red Sticks here, gentlemen…” Jackson paused again to let the thought sink in as he pointed to a map laid out across his table. “If we beat them here, the Indian problem will be over in Georgia and Alabama.”

  “Amen to that,” someone said. Jonah did not see who spoke but, Major Montgomery added, “Then it’s on to fight the Redcoats.”

  “Hear, hear,” several of the officers joined in. Jonah smiled. It was not hard to get caught up in the moment, but no one was thinking of those who would fall, or were they? Glancing about, Jonah realized Major Montgomery was suddenly very pale. Had he had a premonition? Regardless, he, like all the brave men gathered at this meeting, would answer the call of duty. They always had.

  -

  It was cold when Jackson’s army mustered at dawn’s early light. The men were fed a hearty breakfast of smoked ham, eggs, hominy grits, hot biscuits, and scalding black coffee that was so thick and strong that Jonah was sure a spoon could stand up straight and not fall to either side.

  “Someone must have a flavor for chicory,” Lieupo grumbled. “You can’t get just plain coffee it seems.”

  Henry, on the other hand, liked the brew and had a second cup. “It’s better with honey,” he offered, “but since we ain’t got any, sugar will have to do.”

  Moses had watched the old scout dump at least four spoons into his cup. “Chicory syrup is what he’s drinking,” Moses chided.

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Henry quipped.

  “Well, remember this day,” Lieupo said, “March twenty-fourth in the year of our Lord, 1814.”

  “What’s so big and important about this date?” Henry asked.

  Lieupo smiled, “Well, it’s the date we march from Fort Williams to our destiny at Horseshoe Bend. But, most importantly is that, with the exception of the coffee, this was the best breakfast we’ve been served since we’ve joined up with Andy’s army.”

  This brought a chuckle from the group until Crockett, who had just joined the group, volunteered, “They always feed a condemned man well before they lead him off to his fate.”

  “Damn, Davy,” Henry snarled, “why did you have to bring up such a morbid point?” Dumping the remainder of his cup on the ground, Henry growled, “You done ruined my coffee.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The engineers who had departed before Jackson’s main army did an outstanding job of widening the narrow Indian trail from Fort Williams to Horseshoe Bend. It was a distance of fifty-three miles if Major Russell was to be believed.

  “Damned if this ain’t just about a joy ride,” Lieupo quipped.

  The work the engineers had performed definitely was of benefit to Captain Lieupo but had been absolutely necessary to move Jackson’s army. The army now numbered a force of approximately four thousand. This included five hundred Cherokees and one hundred White Stick allies. The U.S. Army 39th Infantry Brigade marched at the head of the army directly behind Russell’s scouts. Much to his chagrin, Houston was stuck riding with his unit and not up front with his friends. Bringing up the rear were the two artillery pieces, a six pounder and a three pounder, plus the score or so of supply wagons. The route the army used to reach Horseshoe Bend was known as Weogulfga-Cussetta Trail. Reining in on a small ridge, Jonah, Moses, Henry, Lieupo, and Crockett watched as the mass passed by.

  “Lotta good them buggers will be,” Henry snarled as the two cannons passed. “They make a lot of noise and smoke and not much more.”

  Jonah smiled as he winked at Moses. They had already discussed Jackson’s lack of big guns as they had studied the Red Sticks barricade during their scouting trip.

  “Be nice to have some of General Harrison’s field pieces,” Moses said, speaking of the heavy cannons used in the northwest campaign.

  The army came to a halt and camped that first night in the general area of Sylacauga. That night, Crockett had a crowd gathered around as he told a tale of a Creek woman’s divorce. The more the jug was passed, the juicier the tale got. It was a devilish tale of a Creek squaw who had an itch that her husband couldn’t keep scratched. Therefore, when the itch became overpowering, the squaw sought relief through some brave who was quite adept at providing the squaw the needed relief. The problem was, the itch got to be more frequent, and so the brave’s services were required more and more. These activities, which in the beginning were taken with the utmost care to make sure they were kept a secret soon became common knowledge as the episodes became more frequent. Knowing what was going on didn’t bother the squaw’s husband in the beginning, he being an older and more realistic man. However, as the meetings became poorly kept secrets, the husband became embarrassed and went to the chief and demanded his wife face a trial for adultery.

  “Ever see a trial for adultery?” Crockett threw out to the crowd as he paused long enough to intercept the jug and take a hearty pull. Smacking his lips, Crockett took another lengthy pull, belched and passing the jug continued. “Well, boys, I seed a trial first hand. Young man I was, but I remember it well. The squaw’s name was Mary Running Doe.” This brought a big chuckle from the group. “The brave’s name was Horse.” This brought another round of laughter.

  “Lying heathen,” Henry whispered. “Last time I heard this tale the brave’s name was Stag.”

  “What was the husband’s name?” somebody called out.

  Crockett laughed in spite of himself as he tried to appear in deep thought. “As I remember,” he began, pausing long enough to clear his throat and then continued, “I believe it was Limping Duck.” The group roared with laughter.

  “Well, he kept that one the same,” Henry swore.

  As the laughter died down, Crockett continued, “Well, old Chief Running Bear, who was to hold the trial, allowed me to sit in on it, but I was to keep my mouth shut.”

  “That was a chore, wasn’t it?” someone in the crowd threw out, causing another round of laughter.

  Crockett took advantage of the pause and grabbed the jug again. Passing the jug on after a big pull, he continued, “Now let me finish.”

  Henry fished out his pipe and after packing it and lighting up, he whispered, “Here’s where it gets good.”

  “The lodge where the trial was held was packed. Chief Running Bear sat toward the front of the lodge all solemn like. Limping Duck, the husband, stood on one side looking like a burly old bear. The wife, Mary Running Doe, stood to the other side looking all meek and innocent with big brown eyes.”

  “Where was Horse?” someone asked.

  “I don’t recall,” Crockett answered. “It doesn’t matter anyway, as he wasn’t on trial. He didn’t rape her, she asked for his attention.”

  “Wish she’d asked for mine,” a soldier volunteered.

  “Why?” his sergeant asked. “You couldn’t scratch her itch any more than her husband did.” Laughter erupted again.

  “Well, what happened, Davy?” a voice called out.

  “If I wasn’t interrupted at every turn, you’d know by now,” Crockett threw back.

  “Hush everybody,” the sergeant bellowed. “Let Davy finish his li…tale.”

  “Well,“ Crockett said speeding up his tale. “Limping Duck made his complaint to Running Bear. This was done with much shouting and gestures. When the tirade was finished, Running Bear asked the wife if she had strayed. Mary Running Doe nodded yes. Running Bear then asked why she would do such a thing to an old warrior who had provided so well for her. Sheepishly, Mary Running Doe mumbled, “Cause he is old. He can’t pee without wetting his moccasins.” The crowd howled at this. “The angry old warrior reached over
and gave her a slap that made her stumble,” Crockett said, trying to rush through his story.

  “The chief had no choice but to declare the woman guilty of adultery,” Crockett said. Sensing the story was near the end, the crowd became quiet again.

  “Outside the lodge, the young warriors packed into a group. The chief drove a stake into the ground and then had an older warrior march off fifty or so yards and drive another stake in the ground. All the while the younger warriors were jumping up and down and joking with each other, bragging about their manliness. The chief then turned to the squaw as the old warrior returned from driving his stake in the ground. Firmly, but with a smile on his face, he ordered Mary Running Doe to strip naked. The squaw defiantly ripped off all her clothes, then went and stood by the second stake. A sight it was too, boys. Now, these stakes were in a meadow and at the other end of the meadow stood a lone, tall pine tree.”

  “Did they race?” someone called out.

  “Hush, idiot,” the sergeant said sharply.

  “Yeah, it was a race,” Crockett said. “Mary Running Doe was given a fifty yard head start as she was at the second stake and the young warriors lined up at the first stake. They would take off at the same time. If she beat the young warriors to the tall pine her husband would have to take her back. If she was caught, he didn’t. There then would be a ritual where all the braves would enjoy her favors. After that she would be divorced. Well, Running Bear gave the word and the race was on.” Crockett stopped here and during the silence, Henry nudged his companions and winked.

  Finally, the silence got to be too much and somebody called out. “Was she caught, Davy?”

  Crockett had grabbed the jug again and seemed to be enjoying the silence. Sitting the now empty jug down he replied, “Course she was, you knucklehead. She had an itch that needed to be scratched.” The crowd roared again with Crockett’s reply. The man who’d asked if she was caught looked sheepish for a bit and then he started laughing.