Tallapoosa

  Soosquana was overwhelmed at Mrs. Holman’s gift of the goat. She had already made a personal pet of her and milked her daily.

  Adelin enjoyed trying her cooking and housekeeping skills. Her mother had taught her well, she thought, but she had never had the chance to test herself without supervision. She certainly wasn’t unacquainted with preparing and eating venison and a wide variety of other wild game, staples at the Murph compound. There was a small supply of dried beef, but not the ample cuttings of fresh beef and pork she had left at the farm. The river teemed with fish, easily taken with net or spear, large turtles for meat and soup, and eels.

  Soosquana thrived in the company of another female. Adelin quickly became a special friend, and not just because of shared gender. They admired each other. Soosquana’s inner strength and goodness was evident to Adelin, and Adelin’s independence and courage to Soosquana. For the upcoming birth of her first child, Soosquana surely liked the idea of another woman around.

  On November first, maybe it was the second — the Murphs tried hard to keep an accurate calendar but often weren’t sure of the days — the rain had cleared, leaving a sunny but cool day. Cal and Adelin commandeered one of the canoes and paddled downstream. Cal wanted to show her his beautiful river.

  They marveled at the majestic water fowl that flew ahead of them to the large tree at the tip of the next point. Another, a white crane, fluttered from his roost and crossed the river over their heads to a new lair.

  Later, Cal and Adelin stopped paddling and drifted aimlessly as they watched another large bird high overhead glide from the glare of the sun. It lazily circled lower and lower, not flapping its wings at all and only infrequently wiggling a wing tip to steady its flight. The distinctive rust-colored tail and speckled brown and off-white of its underbelly showed clearly.

  “It’s a red-tailed hawk,” pronounced Cal as he and Adelin stared in wonder.

  “He’s beautiful, Cal,” said Adelin. “What a magnificent creature.”

  The hawk caught a thermal and began to climb again, content to soar on invisible currents in widening circles. Cal and Adelin followed his flight until he became a tiny dot near the sun’s corona. The red-tailed hawk had not flapped his wings once during the time his admirers watched.

  A doe and her fawn frolicked on a sandbar, oblivious for long minutes to the intrusion of humans. They finally noticed the canoe and the mother chased the fawn into the woods, though the thick forest on either side of the river appeared impenetrable.

  Adelin laughed nervously as the canoe barely missed a boulder submerged inches below the surface, then slid smoothly between two large ones protruding above water. A half dozen big turtles sunning themselves on a dead log ahead rolled off to the safety of a mud bank. The rocky bottom of the shallow river could be seen for long stretches, but then it would fall away into deep holes. The canoe crossed several wide shallows which would evolve into minor shoals or sandbars in times of drought.

  They drifted slowly, perhaps a mile below their bluff, watching the elegant flight of yet another heron.

  “Cal.” Adelin saw the dark object first, on the water far ahead. “Look. Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sure they mean us no harm.” Cal nevertheless checked that his musket lay handy in the bottom of the canoe, though he didn’t dare pick it up. That might be interpreted as ill intent.

  As the other canoe approached, Cal saw it contained three Red Sticks, one he recognized as a friend of Pokkataw. The man had once accompanied Pokkataw to the compound and had eaten supper with them. Cal remembered him as a pleasant enough fellow. He didn’t know the man’s companions.

  Cal held his hand above his head, palm forward, in peace. All three Indians did the same. They exchanged greetings with Cal in Muskogean as they drifted alongside. Cal understood little beyond the salutations. He attempted to introduce Adelin, but the warriors understood nothing verbal. They stared, couldn’t stop staring, at undoubtedly the first redhaired woman they had ever seen, probably the first white woman of any plumage.

  The Red Sticks paddled on upriver. Cal watched them closely until they were safely away. He and Saul had discussed the need to be extra careful and suspicious around the Creeks, no matter how cordial they seemed, at least until the current troubles blew over.

  “Those were my very first Tallapoosa River Red Sticks,” Adelin said, a little excited. “Are they dangerous, Cal?”

  “I hope not. Up to now they’ve been friends. We just hope we can keep them being friends.”

  “They seemed nice enough. Was it their kind that attacked those poor people in the south?”

  “Those were Red Sticks down there for certain, according to the stories in Turkeytown, but not these Red Sticks.”

  “There’s a difference?” asked Adelin.

  “What binds them in common is that they don’t favor opening Creek territory to white settlement. That’s what all the fussing is about with other Creeks, those that want to cooperate with Mr. Hawkins and the government.”

  “Other Creeks?”

  “Those farther south and east, especially along the Chattahoochee River. But the Creeks on this part of the Tallapoosa, as mighty suspicious and fearful as they are, haven’t had any run-ins yet with any settlers, as far as I know. Since we are the only whites anywhere around, I don’t see why that can’t continue.”

  “Will they fight if the army does come?”

  “Probably. I think they would. They’re fierce people, and proud, mighty proud. But they don’t want to fight.” Cal paused, dug deep on the next two paddle strokes. “They aren’t savages like they were calling them back at Turkeytown. They are as civilized as we are. They respect their laws and their chiefs and their shamans.”

  “Shamans?”

  “That’s their prophets, their mystics. Most Creeks believe in unnatural beings, unseen demons. They seem to fear only one thing, and that’s the unknown. They can be spooky sometimes. Anyway, each village has its own council and governs its own warriors. They punish lawbreakers harshly just like we do. Then each village — a village never has more than a couple hundred people, mostly less than fifty or a hundred — each village answers to the Great Council of Chiefs down at Tukabatchi.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “’Bout twenty, twenty-five miles south, at the big bend of the river. That’s like their Washington, I guess. The Red Sticks don’t shine to Mr. Hawkins and his boys messing around down there, but they ain’t apt to start something with him.”

  An hour later, as the enraptured couple returned, Saul stood at the water’s edge to catch and lift the bow of the onrushing canoe. “How was your voyage? What do think of our river, Adelin?”

  “It’s beautiful, Saul. I keep seeing new reasons why y’all like it here.”

  Cal handed his paddle to Adelin and helped Saul hide the canoe in the brush. The three walked up the path.

  “Time we went after some venison for our winter stores,” said Saul. “Should be some fat bucks out there with the summer we had. Now’s the time to get ’em before cold weather leans them down.”

  “Adelin and I can go.” Cal knew Saul would rather not leave Soosquana, not even for a few hours. “Give her a chance to show me some of that shooting she’s been bragging about with that big blunderbuss of hers.”

  “Get a bunch of big furry rabbits, too. We need to make us all some new winter garb. Them bunnies also make mighty tasty stew.”

  At daybreak the next morning, Cal and Adelin hiked up the road and veered into the deep virgin forest, leading George behind them to haul back their bounty. They returned to the compound with the sun only at mid-sky. George labored beneath the carcasses of two giant bucks, nine big rabbits, and a fat wild turkey.

  “I gave Adelin first shot on both of them,” Cal recounted, not able to disguise his pride. “I didn’t get my second shot either time. She
got ’em both right between the eyes.”

  “Didn’t want to spoil the hides with ugly bullet holes,” she beamed.

  “I shot most of the rabbits, though . . . .”

  “No, you didn’t. I got just as many as you did.”

  “ . . . and I dropped the gobbler at sixty yards.”

  “I gave him first shot on that one,” Adelin conceded.

  The banter and boasting continued as the brothers spent the afternoon dressing the quarry, quartering meat, and stretching hides over frames for scraping and curing. Adelin led George to the shelter for feeding and care; she welcomed the chance to spend a few private minutes with Okra while there. She felt guilty for neglecting the mare and not finding more opportunities to ride her since they had arrived. Okra had always been her favorite pet as well as an excellent saddle horse.

  Adelin returned to find Soosquana already roasting the turkey on the spit over the outdoor fire for their supper. She decided to help and fetched a wooden bowl full of potatoes to prepare for boiling. The two talked and laughed together as they worked.

  Well after dark, an hour or so after Saul and Soosquana had retired, they were awakened by shrieks and laughter from the yard.

  “What the hell?” Saul blurted, snapping upright in bed. He went to the shutter facing the river and cracked it. “Soos, I’m looking at two daffy people. They are in the wash pond frolicking and snorting. Don’t they know this is November? They’ll be blocks of ice by morning.”

  “Come back to bed, Saul,” smiled Soosquana, “and leave them alone.”

  In the pond, Cal reached for the top of Adelin’s head to try to push her under. Adelin squealed.

  “No, Cal, no! Don’t get my hair wet. I’m freezing as is!”

  “Ah, it’s not so bad, is it, once you’re in?” He gave up trying to dunk her.

  “You, sir, are a lunatic, and you’re making one of me.” She giggled and swept water into his face with both hands. He grabbed her and squeezed her naked body to his. She squealed again, laughed aloud, and returned Cal’s kiss.

  They splashed each other for another ten minutes, laughing, shrieking, caressing, kissing, loving. Then they jumped from the reservoir and ran to their cabin, hand in hand, bare butts glistening in the moonlight, to warm themselves before a roaring fireplace. They hugged and caressed each other dry, climbed into bed, and cuddled together. No matter a cool November night, Cal and Adelin felt very warm one with the other.

  10

  Ten Islands on the west bank of the Coosa River, November 3, 1813

  “Looka them guys, Thaddie. Looka them smug looks on their faces. Sonsabitches been fighting damn Indians and here we are digging a damn latrine ditch. Hell!”

  “Lookit ol’ Coffee. That bastard just sitting there on that damn nag watching his guys parade by. Makes me sick. I come down here to get me some savages, teach ’em a lesson, and he goes an’ hogs all the glory for his damn cavalry.”

  The two privates watched General Jack Coffee’s cavalry regiment ride into the two-acre clearing. General Andrew Jackson’s two infantry regiments of Tennessee state militia, plus several hundred other enlistees he had picked up on the march into the Alabama wilderness, busied themselves with the construction of a fort. Fresh-cut logs lay in stacks all around the grounds, punctuated by random piles of brush to be used for firewood. Stumps dotted the clearing, evidence of the forest that had been there only days before. General Coffee sat on his horse at the head of the road and congratulated each trooper as he trotted past. The last of the column now moved by.

  “We oughta joined up with the cavalry, Oscar, instead of Jackson’s damn infantry, when he come through Big Spring.”

  “Not me. I’m akeepin’ my feet on the ground, thank you. Horses and me don’t get along. Ever’ time I useta try to get on one of the mean ugly sonabitches I got bucked some’ing awful and throwed off. Ever’ time! I give up and decided if I needed to go somewhere I could walk myself there.”

  “Well, it woulda been lots easier and we’d be fighting Indians by now.”

  A group of cavalrymen dismounted and walked toward them. “This thing ready to use?” asked one.

  “It ain’t finished but who the hell cares,” replied Oscar. “Do your business.”

  “Hey, we saw you fellows ride in.” Thad couldn’t hide his curiosity. “How was it? We heard y’all killed ’bout five hunnerd savages. Where’d you go? Tellsatch, was it?”

  “Tallashatchi. Least that’s what the Indians call it. Company captain said General told him we got maybe two hunnerd. War’n’t no five hunnerd, I know that. Did get some prisoners, though, and far as I could tell none others got away.”

  “How many did you get?” asked Oscar. “I mean, you yourself. How many did you shoot?”

  “I don’t know. Some, I guess.” The cavalryman’s buddies, scattered along the ditch in various stages of undress, smiled at the two young militiamen’s interest. The horsemen’s pride and their perceived superiority showed clearly. “I musta shot my musket twenty times or more. That’s all we all did, just shoot. They were like fat ducks sitting on a cold lake.”

  “Did they shoot back? Any of our fellows get hit?”

  “Yeah, hell, they shot back. But they couldn’t seem to hit nothin’ with them British pieces of theirs. Most couldn’t hit the roof of a church if they were sitting on the steeple.”

  Another soldier sought to answer the question about casualties. “I think we lost four or five, or so somebody said. A couple of those by getting stuck with arrows. I didn’t see anybody fall myself, did you, Matt?”

  “Naw,” replied the first man. “A coupla dozen got nicked. I saw some of them, but I didn’t see nobody get killed.”

  Several dozen cavalrymen had made their way over to use the sanitation ditch Oscar and Thad had spent several hours digging. The two leaned on their tools and listened to excited tales of military glory while the men tended to business. To hear the stories and receive firsthand information made worthwhile the extra time it would take the two novice militiamen to finish the latrine. This was the first major battle of General Jackson’s campaign against the rotten bloody Creeks that massacred those poor souls at Fort Mims and they had to know what to expect when it was their turn to go after Red Sticks.

  “Where you young fellows come from?” asked a cavalryman.

  “We from Big Spring. We joined onto General Jackson’s outfit when he come through last month. And we ain’t no young fellows, neither. We’re plenty old enough and we’re good Indian fighters.”

  The soldier exchanged amused looks with his compatriots and decided not to pursue the conversation. The ditch had nearly cleared of cavalrymen. Oscar and Thad reluctantly resumed work.

  “Damn, Thaddie, when you gon’ learn. It ain’t Big Spring no more. It’s Huntsville.”

  “I know, but ever’body still calls it that ’cause ever’body still did all the time they said its name was Twickenham. Ain’t nobody liked that. And you quit calling me Thaddie. I keep telling you not to.”

  “Hell, that’s what your Ma calls you.”

  “You ain’t my Ma. And I ain’t no kid no more. I’m grown and I don’t like no baby name. I told you over and over to call me Thad or Thadeus. That’s my name.”

  “I always called you Thaddie. Been doing it since we were four years old and I ain’t about to change now. Thaddie!”

  “You piss pot!”

  Four days later General Jackson’s fort was almost finished. The rugged, energetic general stalked around like a mad bull, impatient, grouching. He grimaced each time the pain in his arm stabbed again. He tried hard to disguise the discomfort, inflicted by a pistol ball he had received above the elbow in a dispute back in Nashville. He occasionally carried the arm in a sling but mostly just held it tight against his ribs, grinding his teeth and cursing to himself that coward Jesse Benton for each throb
and ache.

  Jesse was the brother of Thomas Hart Benton, formerly Jackson’s emissary to Washington. Thomas Benton accused the general of encouraging a duel between incompetent Jesse and Colonel Billy Carroll. When Carroll received a shot to his thumb and sent in return a pistol ball that seared both of Jesse’s buttocks, Thomas took offense for the humiliation. He and Jesse confronted Jackson at a hotel in Nashville. When Jackson angrily chased Thomas Benton through the hotel, Jesse stepped up at close range and sent a shot into Jackson’s arm. The wound had barely begun to heal when the alarm from Fort Mims swept Nashville.

  Three wagonloads of provisions arrived at the new fort and were cached inside the stockade along with stores of weapons, ammunition, and surgical supplies. For over two thousand men, the food would have to be thinly rationed. Wild game that could be harvested from the forest could not feed that many soldiers and would soon be depleted.

  General Coffee’s cavalry camped by the river, the infantry in tents around the edges of the clearing. A six-pound cannon, one of only two artillery pieces possessed by Jackson’s forces, guarded the front gate. The three-pound piece was positioned at the rear portal.

  On the cool, clear morning of November eighth, assembly sounded. Within minutes two regiments of infantry and one of cavalry and mounted sharpshooters stood at attention on the grounds before the fort. General Jackson faced them, tightly reining a horse as impatient as its rider. Moderately tall at five feet, eleven inches, the general sat much taller in the saddle.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, “we have learned of hostile Creeks about thirty miles south. They are besieging a town of friendly Creeks that wish to ally with us and who beg our help against the godless barbarians.”

  “Could that be close to Fort Mims, reckon?” Oscar whispered to Thad standing next to him deep in the ranks.

  “What’s a barbarian?” countered Thad.

  Jackson continued. “You have one hour to prepare for the march. We will camp near the site of engagement and at first light move against the enemy. We intend to send those murdering savages on a short trip to hell. Captains, issue full lots of shot and powder and campaign rations. Column up your companies on the hour. Good shooting, men! Sergeant, dismiss the battalion.”