by Michael Aye
“Lee,” Jonah said. “Moses Lee.”
Most of the men had heard of Lee and a few had had the opportunity to meet him. They heartily welcomed Jonah and Moses. A man Jonah had heard called McIntosh joined the group. He was in charge of the Creek allies, the White Sticks.
“Would Creeks fight Creeks?” Jonah had asked Moses when he’d heard they would be joining Jackson.
“Think of the Bible,” Moses replied. “Think of Cain and Abel.” Moses knew his scripture.
-
The beat of a drum filled the air and the bellow of a sergeant as he called, “ahh…ten…shun.” The thirty-ninth were forming up to march. Hearing the drums, General Coffee pulled out his watch, opened the guard and spoke to no one in particular as he peered at the timepiece. “Six o’clock.”
The cavalry mounted up and rode to the clearing. Jackson sat his horse to one side with his aide, John Reid, and Captain Stephen Lieupo just behind him. Jackson saluted Colonel Benton as he rode past. Houston nodded to Lieupo, who nodded back. Sitting on his white horse, Jackson looked more like a tired farmer than a major general. He was becoming a thin, stooped, and worn out looking man. He’d swept his hat off as the group marched by, and his wry, unruly white hair was sticking almost straight up.
Waiting patiently for the infantry to pass, the cavalry held their horses in check. With a windy morning chill, the horses wanted to be on their way. There was much stamping about, with a couple of the horses so agitated they tried to take bites out of their neighbors. One even nipped at Henry’s leg, receiving a hearty slap across the nose with the end of Henry’s reins for his bad judgment. Finally the infantry had marched on, so with the briefest of salutes, Coffee started his cavalry off at a gallop. Their orders placed them three miles downriver from their present camp. It was a place just below the small peninsula that was situated along the end of the Horseshoe Bend.
Jackson was sure that when the barricade was stormed, the Red Sticks would flee. He had ordered Coffee to spread out his men in a semi circle along the bank of the Tallapoosa River to cut off escape by the Indians. Coffee had a group of seven hundred men with him that was made up of Hammond’s rangers, Morgan’s Cherokees, McIntosh’s Creeks, and Coffee’s own men. A formidable force it was. Coffee would have liked to lead the charge over the barricade. However, he’d been friends with Jackson long enough to know once the general had made up his mind, there was no changing it.
The Red Stick squaws and children were down by the river bank collecting water to cook with. Seeing the cavalry on the river’s opposite bank sent them into a panic. Dropping their water jugs and skins, they scampered back to the village, spreading the alarm. Hearing the commotion, Menawa emerged from his dwelling, determined yet full of misgivings and doubt.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The sun had come up, chasing away the early morning chill. However, it brought with it the buzz of insects. A gentle slap was followed by a soldier’s curse, “Damn skeeters. Everything around here either bites you, stings you, or does it damnedest to scalp you.” This brought a chuckle from those within hearing. The officers let it go. It was a way for the men to keep their nerves in check. Besides, the Indians knew where they were. To hear laughter from the enemy might increase their anxiety and play on their nerves.
BOOM…BOOM…the cannons fired. The six pounder followed by the smaller cannon. Jonah looked at his watch. It was ten thirty in the morning.
“At the distance they are shooting from,” Henry volunteered, “I doubt that little gun could put a scratch on a cat’s arse.” A bellow of laughter followed the scout’s comments.
Speaking to Moses, Jonah said, “That doesn’t do the infantry much good, does it?”
The cannon kept up a continuous fire. Even Coffee had snorted, “Damn waste of powder and shot if you ask me.” Moses poked Jonah and motioned for him to follow. Moving closer to the Tallapoosa River and easing through the cattails until they were right at the river’s edge, Moses said, “Look over there.” Not one hundred yards across the Tallapoosa lay canoes, lots of canoes. “If we had those, we could create an assault from both directions.”
“You’re right,” Jonah replied, excitement in his voice. “Let’s go talk to the general.”
However, the man they ran into, literally collided with, was Colonel Gideon Morgan. Jonah quickly explained about the canoes on the opposite bank. “A few good swimmers could get them and be back in no time. The river is calm and not very wide at this point.” Seeing the logic, Morgan nodded. “We were going to tell General Coffee,” Jonah said.
Morgan grabbed Jonah’s arm and said, “No! He’ll never approve of it if it doesn’t come from Jackson. Follow me.”
Arriving to where a group of Cherokee warriors were waiting, Morgan spoke to them in their language. “Quickly, go get those canoes and bring them to me. Several of you setup a covering fire in case it’s needed.”
Without hesitation, several of the braves quickly stripped off their powder horns, shot bags, and shirts. They also removed their moccasins and then without hesitation they dove into the river.
“When they get back you can go tell Coffee,” Morgan said with a smile. “I’ll say the Indians did it on their own if it comes up.” If they were successful, Jonah seriously doubted the question would ever arise.
From the bank, Jonah and Moses watched as the swimmers made their way to the opposite bank. Quickly tying several canoes together, they made their way back with a train of canoes pulled behind them.
“Let’s get ready,” Jonah said. He wanted to be in the first wave to get across the river. Once on the opposite bank, they could set up a perimeter of sorts to cover as more men were landed.
-
The Red Sticks were grouped by the barricade. The initial fear that had overwhelmed the warriors with the onset of cannon fire was gone. When the balls hit the walls of the barricade, they did little more than chip away at the bark. Flying splinters caused a few minor cuts but nothing more. The younger prophets, all naked and painted red and black, were dancing, shouting, and throwing insults to the white men. Some were even crawling up on top of the barricade making obscene gestures at their enemy.
General Jackson had not sent his army forth yet, but he had deployed a number of sharpshooters, as many as could find good cover. One backwoodsman had had enough of the red devils disrespect. He propped his long rifle on the rock he was hiding behind, checked the wind, and waited. When the next howling, painted devil turned toward him, the sharpshooter took careful aim and slowly squeezed the trigger. There was a delay as the powder ignited, and then the gun bucked with a boom. The sharpshooter quickly slid back behind the rock. His aim had been sure; there was no doubt in his mind. The Red Stick had one dead prophet. Menawa had wondered why Monahee allowed the young men to climb the barricade. The old prophet was dancing and chanting. Seeing the young prophet fall, Menawa grabbed Monahee by the arm and snatched him around, leading him to where the young prophet had landed. Several wild-eyed braves stared down at the body lying at their feet. Disbelief and shock were written all over their faces. The dead prophet lay on the ground, his head turned so the huge hole with his brains oozing out was clearly visible.
“Where’s your medicine now, prophet?” Menawa asked, anger in his voice.
The one incident, which could easily have been prevented, did much to damage the Red Sticks morale; it was enough to prove the prophet’s words to be false. Menawa flung the old prophet to the wall.
“Quickly, take your follower away from the wall. I don’t want our braves to have to see him. It will be bad enough when the attack comes without having to step over that and constantly be reminded the Great Spirit may not be on our side as you promised.”
Weatherford stood over to the side. It had started: the demise of his people. He looked around. How quickly the attitudes of the young braves had changed. He could see the fear…the forlorn look. They would fight, fight to the death; they were Red Sticks. They were warriors, but it was
over. The battle hadn’t even started, but Weatherford knew in his heart it was over. Maybe it was better to die here at Cholocco-Litabixee than to suffer the humiliation that would follow. From the river, the sound of scattered musket fire could be heard. Weatherford closed his eyes. The trap was being shut.
-
Coffee watched as men were quickly ferried over to the rear of the Red Stick stronghold. Coffee saw a young officer and ordered, “Take forty men and take that small island.” The small island was at the southernmost part of the Horseshoe. Taking and holding it would help cut off the Indians escape.
Lieutenant Jessie Bean saluted and hurriedly ran to where Hammond’s rangers were getting into the canoes. Saluting Hammond, Lieutenant Bean quickly explained his orders. Hammond spoke to the Cherokees, again in their own language. Five canoes were provided, and the men crowded aboard, eight men per canoe. Bean turned to thank Colonel Hammond, but he’d already shoved off. The canoe had barely scraped the muddy bank of the island when two men were shot, falling into the muddy water at the river’s edge. A brief skirmish ensued, but in twenty minutes, the group had taken the fifteen acre island they’d been ordered to seize. Sending a Cherokee messenger back to inform General Coffee that the small island was now in their hands, the general grunted. He’d sent another force further south, so now he had cut off all means of escape.
-
Hearing the increased firing from the rear of the village, Jackson gave the order for the thirty-ninth to advance. A rider galloped up to the command tent.
“General Coffee’s respect, sir, we’ve taken the small island. Colonel Gideon is attacking the rear of the village and setting fire to it. He requests another hundred men.”
“Very well.” Seeing Captain Lieupo at hand, the general said, “Go send the Tennessee militia with this officer and then return.” He then turned to Reid, “Tell Colonel Benton to begin the general assault. We have them boxed in.”
-
Behind the barricade, Menawa was in a quandary. The village was being attacked at both sides. He’d thought the river would protect his back, but he was wrong. What to do? There was Weatherford, he called to him, “Lumhe-Chati, we are being attacked front and rear.”
“I told you it was a death trap,” Weatherford replied hotly. “The greater force is still from the front. That’s where most of our braves must stay. Send a hundred braves to protect our rear. Our women must fight as well.”
Menawa barked orders to braves to comply with Weatherford’s recommendations. Walking toward the barricade, Weatherford couldn’t help but think Jackson’s men must have found a way to steal the canoes in order to cross over. Therefore, it was a fight to the death. He would die as he lived, as a warrior. It would be an honorable death.
Lieutenant Sam Houston was kneeling down on one knee. He was ready. He was beyond ready. He, with the others in the infantry, had waited as they were told while the cannons roared and spat forth one ball after another. Yet from his vantage point, there seemed to be very little damage to the barricade.
Major Montgomery kneeled just in front of Houston. Turning, he said, “Ain’t no Indian built that wall, Sam.”
“Jonah said as much the same,” Houston replied.
Looking toward the village, they could see a small plume of smoke. As they watched, the smoke grew in size. They’d been hearing sporadic gunfire. Now it was almost continuous.
“It’s time to move,” Colonel Benton ordered. Being a stickler for pomp and ceremony, he had the drummers at their drums.
“Twelve-thirty,” Major Montgomery volunteered. They’d waited for two hours while the cannons had roared continuously. It was a wonder he could still hear.
“They must have fired a hundred balls,” a soldier said.
“Naw…more like seventy or seventy-five,” another replied.
“You kept count.”
“I tried.”
“Up,” Colonel Benton gave the order. “Prepare to march. Hold your fire until we are in range. Once we’ve fired, its cold steel. Alright men, remember the general’s eyes are upon us. Now march.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
With a great roar, the United States Thirty-Ninth Infantry Regiment rose and charged. One thousand men charged with the United States flag and the regimental colors at the front. It had to be a grand sight, Major Montgomery thought. It would make a beautiful painting, one he’d have an artist paint if he survived.
Hearing the roar, the Red Sticks shouted back, some of them firing too soon. Houston could hear the bangs and saw the puffs of smoke from the barricade’s loopholes. As they closed with the enemy, Houston watched as lead balls punched into the earth around them, kicking up dirt. Then it was men the lead balls were hitting, a different sound. A soft thud as the balls impacted with flesh, followed by a cry of pain, sometimes a simple curse.
The thirty-ninth charged on. Men fell, but they continued. One of the flag bearers fell with an ‘oomph’ to his knees but still holding on to the flag. Another infantry man grabbed the colors and on they went, right into the face of the enemy fire, not withering, not retreating. Houston felt a ball tug at his uniform and a sting in his shoulder. A graze, he thought. One of the officers was waving his saber, shouting encouragement.
They were now very close to the barricade, and the Red Sticks’ balls were becoming more accurate, as evidenced by the increase in thuds, cries of pain, and men falling. One officer on a horse was down, the horse shrieking out in pain as it was riddled with balls. The officer was dead before the horse hit the ground. Colonel Benton was still up and mounted. On they charged and then suddenly they were at the breastwork. They…he had made it to the wall.
Muskets protruded through the loopholes, firing and then being pulled back to be reloaded. Sam took a chance and lunged forward, impaling an Indian with his bayonet. The musket was ripped from his hand as his foe fell back. Pulling his saber he lunged forward again, piercing the chest of another Indian.
Major Montgomery was beside him. He was gasping for breath and had smoke stains on his face. “To me,” he bellowed. “Come on, men, come on thirty-ninth. Over the top. Come on men.”
Looking at the carnage all about him, Houston realized the major was right. They had to breach the wall. Striking down on a musket that poked out of a loophole, Sam then slashed at the arm trying to retrieve the weapon. With a cry of pain, the bleeding arm was jerked back. Sharpshooters had moved in close and were now keeping up a steady fire aimed at the loopholes. The smoke was now dense and not only burning the eyes but causing men to cough and choke.
Major Montgomery climbed, clawed, and pulled his way to the top of the breastwork. Elated, he waved his sword back and forth, urging his men onward. “Up and over,” he called. The men gathered and started to climb when a musket fired, followed by the sickening sound of a thud. Major Montgomery’s hand went to his head and he fell backwards, dead, his body thudding into the ground.
“You murdering heathens,” a sergeant bawled. “You done killed my major.”
With that, men flooded the wall. Men at the base pushing others up and over. Sam Houston was one of the first over, followed closely by a score of others. Revenge and murder burned in the hearts of the men from the thirty-ninth. Musket balls and arrows struck the men as soon as they were over the wall. Houston felt a sharp, stinging sensation and knew he was hit but not bad. Menawa and Weatherford were both at the front of the mass.
Two soldiers fired at Menawa at the same time. Both balls hit the emperor in the chest, and he went down. He was helped to his feet by other braves. Weatherford swung his war ax, crushing the skull of one of the soldiers who had shot Menawa. A sergeant lunged at Weatherford with a bloody bayonet. Weatherford retreated. Some brave threw a tomahawk at the sergeant, but it was a weak swing, as Houston cut down with his sword, nearly severing the brave’s arm. More and more of Jackson’s men scaled the wall. Bodies, some dead, some wounded, bodies of both the Red Sticks and the soldiers began to mass up, causing enemy and
friend alike to fall over each other.
War whoops, shouts, cries of pain and curses filled the air. Shoulder to shoulder, men fought with muskets, tomahawks, war axes, fists and blades. The Creeks held for a time, but as more white men came over the wall, they retreated. A group of soldiers on top of the wall all fired at once. A dense smoke now gathered at the bottom of the wall. Weatherford tried to counterattack, but it was no use. A warrior, who was braver than most, rose and shot at Houston. Sam felt the ball hit him, but he was in a fighting rage. He swung his sword with all his might at the Indian. Blood spouted from a severed neck artery, and the hot blood hit Houston’s face.
“Down, down,” came the order again. White men dropped at the order and another thunderous volley was fired into the Red Sticks who had tried to withstand the attack. Most of these were now down, writhing in pain or kicking as spasms racked their body just before they breathed their last. Beneath this mass lay Menawa, wounded nine times but still alive. Alive even after the rush of soldiers coming over the wall trampled his riddled body. Where is Lumhe-Chati, he wondered. He had seen the war chief make the counterattack. Was he down, was he dead? Hopefully, he would escape from this…this death trap.
Looking about, Menawa could see the blood-soaked ground was strewn with bodies, some in heaps, mangled bodies heaped upon others. The battle still raged on. It was behind him now, more toward the village and the river. If he could move, this would be a good time. “Oh, Great Spirit,” he prayed, “help me escape.”