Tallapoosa

  Soosquana would tell the story many times of how Tecumseh spoke for hours, ranting about the invasion of the white man into sacred tribal lands, whipping his converts into angry mania. How, at the conclusion of his speech, his Shawnee warrior companions leaped to their feet with terrifying screams and threw themselves into a maddening, prolonged war dance that frightened every warrior and elder present. Then, when the chiefs decided against his Confederacy despite such rhetoric and antics, how irate he became.

  “Because of the treachery and cowardice of these tribal chiefs,” he threatened, “I must return to the land of the Shawnee unfulfilled. When I arrive, I will stamp my foot with such force I will cause the entire earth to shake!”

  Tecumseh and his associates had toured the Muskogi towns all along the river for weeks afterward, convincing many. When he left, some of his Shawnee brethren, led by a mystical prophet named Seekabo, remained to solidify his influence. The Upper Creeks had been feuding since, village against village, and often among warriors of the same village.

  It had been too dangerous to travel downriver the entire next year. But by the spring of 1812 relative calm had returned to the region and, one bright day, Pokkataw appeared at the Murph compound.

  “Soosquana. Yours,” he said proudly.

  “What?”

  “Soosquana. You marry.”

  “I’m to marry her? I don’t understand. Who says?”

  “Father. Naupti. Uncle chief. Good medicine.”

  “Good medicine, huh? And what if I don’t want to get married?”

  Cal, laughing, sat down against a tree. “Looks like you have no choice, big brother. You wouldn’t want to make the chiefs mad, would you? Besides, admit it, that’s the best news you’ve had since we were down there. You haven’t thought of much since.”

  So the Murphs’ second visit to Talisi town began. They had walked the first time, a distance of twenty miles or more. This trip they and Pokkataw floated down the river in two canoes. Three long islands, parallel with each other and with the flow of the current, guarded the falls. Just short of the islands, the travelers pulled into a cove fed by a branch about a quarter-mile above the falls, on the east side. From there they hiked the remaining four miles—down the steep slopes, across a small creek to the flat plain and on to Talisi.

  Saul and his willing bride were married the next morning in an elegant ceremony, very little of which was understood by Saul and Cal. Pokkataw attempted to explain most of it later. What Pokkataw didn’t explain but was all too evident by scowls on the faces of many of the warriors, was that everyone did not approve. Clear to all, however, was that Naupti was pleased to give his eldest daughter what she most desired.

  The men and Saul’s happy new wife started north early that afternoon so they would arrive at the compound before dark. For a time, Cal would sleep outside near the animals’ shelter while Saul became acquainted with his wonderful Soosquana. A week later, after they partitioned off a small section of the cabin for his sleeping accommodations, Cal moved back in.

  Soosquana adjusted magnificently. She practiced the English she already knew and added to it, speaking it well in a brief time. She attempted to improve the brothers’ command of Muskogean, but with little success.

  Saul loved her every bit as much as he had thought he would. Cal liked having a woman around the compound. He and his new sister-in-law quickly developed a great fondness for each other.

  “Best thing I’ve ever done,” Saul mused aloud, talking to himself. He looked up from his work. Soosquana stood smiling at him from an open shutter of their new cabin.

  5

  The Holman farm, early October, 1813

  Cal, Daniel Holman, and Zack worked in the Holman barn at first light. They decided the faulty wheel couldn’t be trusted to carry the loaded cart over another fifty miles of rugged trail. They replaced it with a spare wheel the Holmans kept in the barn for emergencies. Daniel thought he could rebuild Cal’s wheel later and use it as his spare.

  By midmorning, they were ready for the wedding. Mrs. Holman and Daniel made another weak attempt to dissuade Adelin, but she had decided. Guilt gnawed at Cal since he knew he should be more forceful, if not outright adamant. But he admired Adelin more than ever for her resolution. He could resist her no better than could her parents.

  Mr. Holman would perform the ceremony. He produced a document hand-lettered on coarse thick paper that gave him proper authority. Zack would stand up for Cal, Bess Marie for Adelin.

  Both girls entered the parlor in bright, starched frocks. Adelin’s straight auburn hair flowed down her back. Cal skipped a couple of breaths. He had never seen either sister wear anything but britches of coarse spun cotton, wool, or buckskin. Adelin glided to Cal’s side and lightly attached both hands to his forearm. Cal squirmed. Sweat oozed from his forehead.

  Mr. Holman began. “My friend Judge Ozment Phipps back in Virginia made me a marrying judge before we left home. He figured I might need it someday, having daughters and all, and so here we are.” He cleared his throat, making a big show of it. “Judge Phipps told me what words to say, too, in a marrying situation.”

  “Get on with it, Father,” coached Adelin.

  “Uh, yes. So I will.” Another quick cough. “Callister Murph, do you want to marry this girl?”

  “Woman, Father,” Bess Marie corrected.

  “Callister, do you want this woman?”

  “Ye . . . , yes, sir. I sure do.” Cal tried to smile.

  “So. Very well. And Adelin Anna Holman, do you want this fellow, Cal Murph, for a husband?”

  Adelin looked up into Cal’s eyes. “Yes, Father.”

  “Well, I reckon you’re married then,” Daniel concluded. He angled his chin upward, pleased and proud of himself and of his daughter. Bess Marie clapped with delight.

  Cal had again contracted paralysis; he had turned into a statue, unable to move. Adelin laughed, grabbed him by the shoulders, and tiptoed to kiss her bashful new husband gingerly on the lips.

  Shortly before noon, after a big dinner of beef stew and blackeyed peas, the party made ready to travel. Somehow, room had been found on the cart and on the flanks of the two horses for the added baggage. The twelve chickens making the trip fretted in three cages strapped atop Tom’s rump. The goat would walk behind the cart, looped to the backboard by her halter rope.

  Adelin, back in her thick cotton trousers, cotton shirt, and vest and riding leggings of buckskin, sat astride her pale buff mare with its black mane and tail. Her own musket hung from the saddle. Cal had no doubt she knew how to use it.

  Adelin leaned down to kiss each member of her family one last time. Mrs. Holman wiped away tears. Cal reached from his perch aboard Tom to again shake Daniel Holman’s hand.

  “We’ll see you in about a year,” Cal tried to say cheerily. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

  “I know, son,” said Daniel. “Take care of my girl. God bless.”

  Less than a mile into the bush, the track disappeared; only faint traces of it would occasionally reemerge for short distances. Cal knew the way, but the miles passed slowly and carefully. It would take a full two days to reach the Tallapoosa, possibly three with such a pack.

  Over rougher stretches, and at other times to unburden the horses, Cal and Adelin dismounted, tied them to the cart alongside the goat, and walked together, leading George the mule and the wagon behind them. Those intervals provided opportunities for delicious conversation.

  “Why do you call your horse Okra?” inquired Cal.

  Adelin giggled. “That’s a good story. When I was a little girl, I hated okra. The vegetable, that is. Still do. Well, my mother promised me that when I grew up I would love okra. When I got this horse, she reminded me of it. She said that since I still wouldn’t eat the stuff and I did love my horse, I should name her Okra. That way her promise would be fulfilled. Isn’t t
hat crazy?”

  “It is a strange way to name a horse.”

  “You should hear the names of some of our other animals. Now you tell me why Tom and George are who they are.”

  “That’s easy. George is President George Washington and Tom is President Thomas Jefferson.”

  “I see. Makes sense.”

  “And Saul’s horse is named James, after . . . ”

  “After Mr. Madison! Very good.”

  “All those fellows are from Virginia, too.”

  Across two more ridges, Cal’s curiosity resurfaced. “How good are you with that thing back there?”

  “What thing?”

  “Your musket. Are you a good shot?”

  “I’ll just have to show you sometime.” She pointed to her vest and leggings. “I brought down the big buck that these skins came from. I don’t lie,” she laughed. “A big buck!”

  “Well, now, I am impressed.”

  Adelin asked about the compound, and about the river, and about Soosquana. She wanted to know everything. That she was excited about reaching her new home and asked so many questions made Cal happy.

  An hour before sundown, they halted at a small rushing creek and made camp under a big willow tree. Adelin walked to the edge of the stream and scooped a few handfuls of clear, cool water to drink. She stood and rotated slowly, turning completely around twice.

  “This is beautiful, Mr. Murph!” she exclaimed. “This whole country is beautiful.”

  “You have to stop calling me Mr. Murph, Adelin. I’m Cal.”

  “Yes, I know. Cal. I think I can get used to that.” She looked at him with wide eyes and a light smile. “But you can call me Mrs. Murph any time you please.”

  The two busied themselves caring for the animals. They unsaddled, unhitched, and unloaded. They fed and watered each beast, including the chickens, then swabbed and rubbed clean George, the two horses, and the goat. Cal kindled a small campfire with a flint and a pinch of gunpowder. They prepared a supper of dried beef, beans, and hard bread, and ate while watching the sun sink from a cloudless sky.

  As dusk faded to dark and the fire withered, night creatures tuned up the music of the forest. An owl hooted through the chatter of a thousand crickets. A small animal, perhaps a raccoon, scurried through the brush near the burbling stream. Far away, the screams of angry contenders, species unknown, split the air. Probably frisky males fighting over a lady fair.

  Cal and Adelin talked a while longer, until a three-quarter moon and millions of stars reached full luminescence.

  Adelin arose, retrieved a bundle from the cart, and carried it to a grassy clearing away from the overhang of the willow. She spread a heavy blanket over a thick layer of pine straw she had gathered earlier, and sat down on its edge. Cal watched closely as she removed her buckskin vest.

  “Come sit beside me, Cal,” she invited as she unlaced her leggings.

  That night, under that gorgeous, mild October sky, Adelin Holman Murph taught Callister Murph things she did not know she knew, and learned beautiful lessons herself. She and Cal would forever remember that clearing, that willow tree, that wonderful brook, and the nocturnal serenade of an Alabama forest.

  6

  The Muskogi warrior town of Talisi, early October, 1813

  “Now you must fight! The whites will overrun your lands!” Seekabo, the prophet Tecumseh left behind when the Shawnee chief returned to the Great Lakes country, screamed his angry impatience. “The Muskogi cannot trust the invaders further.”

  Hopoithle Miko, the wise aged chief of Talisi town, spoke with a firm, even voice. “Muskogis do not wish to fight. But we will not give more land to the white government.”

  “Then you will have to fight!” insisted Seekabo. “They will take your land if you do not. The news from the Tensaw River, and before that from the creek the whites call Burnt Corn, proves it. Many of your brothers have been killed already. And now with the death of Tecumseh, the intruders will march without fear over the Muskogi and over the Shawnee if we are not bold!”

  Seekabo and his small band of Shawnee brethren, accompanied by Red Stick converts, had toured the Muskogi Nation since Tecumseh’s visit late in 1811. They had arrived in Talisi that afternoon in mourning paint and with grieving hearts.

  “Words have flown swiftly to us from our land of the Shawnee,” announced Seekabo to Hopoithle Miko immediately upon arrival, “telling of the death of our great leader Tecumseh. He fell in glory on the Thames River near Fort Detroit fighting the Americans. We come to you first with this news, wise chief of Talisi, as you are the leader of the Muskogi’s strongest warrior town. We implore you now to join the fight against all invaders of lands to the west and south. We will perish, all of us, Shawnee, Muskogi, Oneida, Choctaw, Seminole, Cherokee, Sauk, Chickasaw, all of us, if we do not become one against those who would have our land and slaughter our deer and destroy our forests!”

  Hopoithle Miko was the head chief of Talisi, on the east bank of the Tallapoosa opposite Tukabatchi, the capital of all the Muskogis, Upper and Lower tribes. He had once welcomed Benjamin Hawkins and his assistants and his Civilization Program, as had most of the villages on the lower Tallapoosa. He had participated with enthusiasm, interested in this alternate culture and economy, not as a lifestyle for himself and his people but as a matter of understanding his new neighbors. He had traveled to Washington and played an important role in negotiating with the American President, Thomas Jefferson, a treaty of peace and understanding.

  As recently as 1805, Hopoithle Miko favored the concession of all Muskogi land between the Oconee and Ocmulgee Rivers to the State of Georgia, assured that white settlers would come no farther and that remaining Muskogi hunting grounds would be respected. But when settlers immediately flooded westward across the Ocmulgee and continued to hunt in Indian forests, Hopoithle Miko had finally lost all trust for American promises. He had been transformed from Agent Hawkins’s best conduit for the Civilization Program to one of the most influential enemies of the white man’s culture.

  Hopoithle Miko now hated Benjamin Hawkins. He constantly groused his resentment of the arrogant designs of the Indian agent to any ally who would listen. Ever encouraging any dissent, especially from so prominent a leader as Hopoithle Miko, were the shamans and the prophets, interpreters of the Spirits and guided by the supreme Muskogi Spirit, Essaugetuh Emissee, the Maker of Breath. These mystics were major catalysts of tension between the Upper Muskogi Red Sticks on one side of the current conflict, and the Lower Muskogi and pacifist Upper tribesmen on the other.

  “No!” he reluctantly answered Seekabo’s demand. “I am truly saddened by news of Tecumseh’s death and mourn with you. He was a noble champion of the Shawnee and a conscience for all our peoples. But we cannot fight the white man. We will have to, I concede, if they come to us with larceny and malice. We will not run, but we dare not provoke them. Muskogi warriors have little chance against the whites’ superior numbers and superior weapons.”

  “That is why we must unite as one! That is what Tecumseh taught us! That is what the Spirits implore. We are protected by the Maker of Breath, so as joined Nations we cannot be defeated.”

  The debate raged all afternoon, the same debate that had stormed up and down the Tallapoosa and divided the Upper Muskogis since Tecumseh’s visit nearly two years earlier. The argument continued in the fading twilight as Hopoithle Miko and his elder advisers and warrior leaders strolled along the river’s edge with Seekabo and his Shawnee and Red Stick confederates. Across the river the cookfires of Tukabatchi winked at them.

  “You know that I do not trust Hawkins,” Hopoithle Miko patiently insisted again. “His government and his people have betrayed the Muskogis too often. I have dealt with them for many years, hoping that we could live in peace and that our land and our ways would be respected.”

  “You trusted them to keep their promises, over an
d over. You have seen what they do each time.”

  “Yes. We have been true, but I know now that they do not keep their word.”

  “We will not make those mistakes again,” spoke Naupti, Hopoithle Miko’s half brother.

  “But the white settlers still come and you do not stop them.”

  “You speak truthfully,” conceded Naupti. “Whites now crowd the river they call Flint and have outposts on the Chattahoochee.”

  “And a military fort on the near bank of the Chattahoochee,” interjected Suanji, an angry young Red Stick from Kailaidshi, the village from which Seekabo operated. “It is but a day’s easy walk distance. And yet you do not challenge the white man?”

  “We challenge him when he comes to take our villages!”

  “He has already come!” stormed Suanji. “Those lands are ours! We give nothing else!”

  “We leave affairs of the Chattahoochee to the Cowetas and the Cussetas. The towns of the Lower Muskogis do not welcome our counsel,” said Hopoithle Miko.

  “But yet you fight against the Lower tribes,” argued Seekabo. “Why do you not attack the whites? The Lower villages belong on the Chattahoochee. White settlements do not!”

  “You do not understand. I have resisted the white government’s intrusions for many years. Agent Hawkins demands the right to build two roads through the heart of Muskogi lands, and free passage of the American military. I said no. I said no to Mr. Jefferson eight years ago when he requested the same. From the north, Tennessee prizes trade roads and free navigation of the Coosa and the Alabama to reach the great ships at Mobile with their trade goods. My friends, the chiefs of the Coosa tribes, say no. We will forever say no.”

  “Those things cannot be permitted,” agreed Suanji. “They would destroy our hunting grounds and corrupt our people.”