Tallapoosa

  “Hot damn, we’re finally gonna get us some Indians,” whooped Oscar, running with Thad to their tent.

  “Yahoo! Hell, yes, this is gonna be fun!” Thad leaped as he ran and waved his hat in the air. “Look out, you damn savages! I’m coming after yore hides!”

  Jackson’s army bivouacked that night a few miles from the Creek town of Talatigi, located on a stream of the same name flowing into the Coosa River from the east. The next morning they surrounded and attacked a thousand Red Sticks harassing the passive villagers. Oscar and Thad kneeled in a rank of militiamen providing cover fire for a cavalry probe.

  “I got one!” yelped Thad.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “Did so. I saw him jump.”

  “Hell, Thaddie,” scoffed Oscar, awkwardly reloading his musket, “you can’t see nothing for all the smoke. You ain’t shot no Indian.”

  Thad’s musket ball rolled out of the barrel before he could push it snug with his ramrod. He picked it up, blew dust from it, and stuffed it back in the muzzle. “Shot more’n you, I bet.”

  A voice boomed behind them. “Fix bayonets! Prepare to march forward in skirmish ranks! Be ready to charge on the order!”

  “Oh, boy!” squealed Oscar, fumbling at his side scabbard for his bayonet. “Here we go!”

  “Watch ’em run from us now!” yelled Thad.

  After the battle, decisively won, militia officers counted over three hundred enemy dead. Another seven hundred had escaped.

  “What the hell you mean they escaped?” raged General Jackson. “Exactly how did they do that, Captain?”

  “Seems that Lieutenant Jarvis’s platoon failed to close off the gap left by E Company’s flanking move, sir.”

  “Get that son of a bitch — what’s his name, Jarvis? — get that son of a bitch Jarvis over here! His company commander, too. I won’t have the enemy escaping through my ranks. Not one, you hear?”

  Jackson continued to yell, unhappy with imperfection. Nevertheless, he convinced himself he had struck a fatal blow to the warring Creeks and had avenged the massacre at Fort Mims. He immediately dispatched a message boasting such to Governor Willie Blount in Nashville.

  The Battle of Talatigi was a glorious victory for General Andrew Jackson and his Tennessee militiamen. He lost just fifteen of his soldiers killed and eighty-five wounded.

  Thaddie from Big Spring lay among the dead with a musket ball through his forehead. Oscar, Thad’s lifelong pal, screamed with the pain of his splintered right knee until he passed out just as the surgeon began to amputate the leg.

  Both boys were seventeen years old.

  11

  The Murph settlement, November, 1813

  The Murphs learned of the incidents at Tallashatchi and Talatigi during the second week of November. Travelers along the river displayed increased excitement and anger, raising concerns at the compound. When a group of trusted warriors happened by, Saul hailed them and Soosquana questioned them, interpreting to the others.

  “What the hell are troops doing in this part of the Territory?” fumed Saul after the Creek neighbors had continued on their way. “Nothing has happened here yet.”

  Neither Saul nor Cal knew anything at all about the two villages the army had attacked, or even where they were, and Soosquana knew little more, but there was small doubt that trouble had come to the region.

  “I thought it was Fort Mims they were upset about,” said Cal, “and Fort Mims must be two hundred miles away ’cording to what they said at Turkeytown. Seems to me the Creeks fighting each other is none of the government’s business. And that’s all that’s going on around here.”

  “That part of the Coosa, if I know about where they are saying,” offered Adelin, “isn’t far from our farm. It must still be sixty or seventy miles from here.”

  “So maybe we ain’t got nothing to worry about.” Saul looked relieved. “Not yet anyway. Just hope those fool soldiers don’t come on down here.”

  “Hope everything is okay with my folks,” fretted Adelin.

  “Think we should take a run up there and see?” asked Cal. “We can if you’d like.”

  Adelin thought it over slowly. “No,” she finally said, “They wouldn’t bother the farm, neither the Indians nor the soldiers. Not if they are over on the Coosa fighting each other. They’d have no call to be that far east. Besides, we couldn’t do any good, and we’re needed here with Saul and Soos.”

  It seemed a good idea for someone to keep vigilance over the river from the edge of the bluff whenever possible. The task fell mostly to Soosquana, not only for her sharper perceptions concerning her native people, but also because she was slowing considerably and needed more rest for her bulky body, now in its seventh month of pregnancy. But over the next several days nothing else appreciable happened and there was no further news of the American military.

  On November fifteenth, Pokkataw and a small band of Hillabi Red Sticks stopped by on their way south to Tukabatchi. He had not been to the compound in several weeks, not since Adelin arrived. The presence of such a respected warrior impressed Adelin and she instantly liked him.

  “Good wife!” Pokkataw congratulated Cal. “Smart. Pretty. Strong.”

  Pokkataw had been delegated by the Hillabi villages and the large town of Oakfuski to report to the Council at Tukabatchi about peace negotiations that had occurred over the last several days with militia officers. The commander of the government force, a general by the name of Jackson, was apparently convinced that he either had broken the power of the Creeks at Talatigi or that he had penetrated far enough into the Creek Nation to secure the safety of American settlements. An accord, Pokkataw said, had been reached with Jackson’s emissaries that promised no further hostilities.

  The Hillabi leaders thought such an agreement struck by the important Red Stick villages scattered the length of Hillabi Creek might reunite the Upper Creek warring factions. Peace with the whites was exactly what the villages that advocated coexistence with settlers wanted. Pokkataw was excited about his mission and the Murphs were relieved.

  Two days later, on the seventeenth, Pokkataw stopped by again on his return trip from Tukabatchi. The chiefs had welcomed the news and urged the Hillabis to keep bargaining in good faith with General Jackson’s representatives. Each town along the river was likewise encouraged, although some Red Stick zealots expressed suspicions and distrust.

  Perhaps the threat of war had ended.

  The next morning Cal and Adelin went after more rabbits, happy in the hope that the woods were once again free of conflict. George stayed at the compound; they figured they could lug the day’s takings themselves. They explored and played and enjoyed the outing, and they shot eight more rabbits for fur and stew. They took their time, stretched the day, loving the woods and each other’s company. The sun slid deep on its downward arc when they returned home.

  Saul and Cal skinned and dressed the rabbit meat before dark but decided to wait until morning to stretch and scrape the hides. With this task they were engaged two hours after sunup on the nineteenth. Soosquana and Adelin busied themselves stitching together some of the skins from the previous hunt with fishbone needles and thin deerskin thongs. They talked excitedly and happily about the baby.

  A clatter arose from the woods in the direction of the road. Horses. All four Murphs looked first for their muskets, then toward the source of the disturbance. Riders appeared.

  Eight cavalrymen in tattered, mismatched military uniforms and two Indians, apparently Cherokees, approached cautiously, muskets cocked, bayonets fixed.

  “What the damn hell are you people doing in these damn awful woods?” bellowed the leader, a sergeant.

  “We live here,” replied Saul evenly. “We’re Saul and Cal Murph and these are our wives. Who are you and what is your mission?”

  “Goddamn! We heard rumors that a white family li
ved somewhere on this part of the Tallapoosa, but nobody believed it.” He relaxed his musket and signaled his men at ease. Tobacco juice leaked from the left corner of his mouth to run in rivulets through the thick stubble of his chin to join brown splotches already dried. “How long you folks been squatting here?”

  “Over three years now. We don’t see ourselves as squatters. We are mostly welcomed. Why are you here? Are you from that General Jackson’s army?”

  “Hell no! We got no truck with that yellow belly Jackson. No sir. I’m Platoon Sergeant Mordecai Barnes. We’re attached to General James White’s East Tennessee Militia, answering to Major General John Cocke. Real Indian fighters.”

  “I ask you again, sir, what business do you have?”

  “We been chasing Indians all night and we run across your track a few miles back and followed it to here.”

  A chill of terror ran through the Murphs. They swapped concerned looks.

  “What the hell you mean you been chasing Indians?” Saul demanded. “Chasing them from where? And for what?”

  “From up on Hillabi Creek, that’s where. We wiped out four towns full of the murdering savages yesterday,” boasted the sergeant with a proud smirk. “Burned ’em to the ground, too.”

  “You what? Sir, what have you done? Those people are not your enemy.”

  “Hell they ain’t! Our boys are out after more of them pagan Indian villages this morning, and we’re chasing stragglers. Lost ’em in the night, but we got the dirty bastards on the run all right.”

  “You son of a bitch!” Saul was furious. He tightened his grip on the musket. “The Hillabis don’t want to fight nobody. Just two days ago we got word that they had struck peace with Jackson’s army.”

  “Told you we don’t cotton to General Jackson. He’s been hogging all the glory and General Cocke says he’s having none of that.” Barnes spat a stream of tobacco juice off to one side. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Our boys are just as good — better! — as them weasels from over Nashville way.”

  “You son of a bitch!” repeated Saul.

  Sergeant Barnes laughed. “We done got us a couple more towns, too, General White did. On the way over here, up close to where the Little Tallapoosa runs in.”

  “Hell, Sergeant! You probably done gone and started an all-out war with the Creeks. That, sir, is stupid!”

  “Careful who you calling stupid, boy. You some kind of Indian lover or some’ing?”

  “As a truth, we are, I suppose. They are our neighbors and our friends and they wouldn’t burn a village of yours without cause.”

  No one had spoken but Saul and the sergeant. The latter looked intently around the compound from where he sat on his mount, then stared at the other Murphs, studying each in turn.

  “You got any Indians hid out ’round here? Besides that pregnant squaw there, I mean? You buy her as a slave?”

  “That’s my wife, sir.” Saul struggled to keep his voice even. “I’ll ask you to leave now. I regret that you are no longer welcome on these premises.”

  “That little redhead filly there. You buy her, too?”

  “Sir, you . . . !” Cal exploded, but was interrupted.

  “Listen, you slimy murdering bastard!” Adelin, angrier even than Cal, took a step toward Sergeant Barnes. “You are a disgrace to our country. Ride your asses out of these woods and leave these good men to try to repair your treasonous deeds.” Cal, Saul, and Soosquana had not seen Adelin so angry, nor heard such language from her. They feared she might have shot the sergeant had not Saul put his hand on her musket barrel. She wasn’t finished. “You will best serve by turning your horses back toward Tennessee. And tell your Generals White and Cocke and Jackson to go as well.”

  “Ain’t you the fiery one!” mocked the sergeant. “You boys let this pretty little wildcat fight your fights for you?”

  Adelin tried to raise her musket again. Saul tightened his hold.

  “Sir,” Cal’s voice had calmed a little, “you had best heed her calling. We might just turn her loose and let her whip your sorry, cowardly ass. Now get off our place and honor us by not ever coming back.”

  Barnes glared at each of them one final turn, then slowly reined his horse around. He motioned his men to follow. “We just might be seeing you folks again. Look out for us.”

  The militiamen rode off at a brisk trot. The four Murphs went limp with relief, but still fumed. Cal sat against a tree. Adelin turned and stalked away toward the edge of the bluff. Saul stood fixed, unable to move or gauge his thoughts. Soosquana walked to her husband and put an arm around him.

  “Holy hell!” spat Cal. “What now? So much for peace with the Hillabis, eh?”

  “Yeah,” agreed Saul sadly. “The Creeks, Red Stick or not, ain’t gonna trust Americans anymore. Dammit, and we’re Americans. We could be in for a helluva lot of trouble ourselves ’cause of this. Them damn stupid generals! They can’t find a real enemy, like down to Fort Mims or somewhere, so they just make up one. Anything to pick a fight. Damn, damn!”

  An hour after Sergeant Barnes’s squad departed, Pokkataw and several fellow Red Sticks stepped from the forest.

  “Good to see you,” the Murphs all said at once. “Is it true? Are your towns destroyed? You and your family okay? Was it you the cavalrymen were chasing?”

  Soosquana took control. She got the story from Pokkataw and his friends in Muskogean and relayed in English. Cal, Adelin, and Saul listened anxiously. The soldiers had attacked at dawn the previous morning. At least four and probably seven or eight Hillabi villages had been burned. Many Hillabi warriors and some women and children had been killed, no way to tell exactly how many. The aggressors had been different soldiers from those they had been talking with the past week or so. Hillabi warriors had scattered all over as the battles were lost, but would soon regroup, this time for war with the whites. And no, the horsemen had not chased Pokkataw’s band. Quite the opposite. Pokkataw had stalked the soldiers all night, never losing sight of them, making certain they didn’t move to attack another village.

  “We’re grievously sorry, Pokkataw,” offered Saul. “This should not have happened. We are still your friends. We hope you remain ours.”

  “You friends. Peace. Not soldiers. No treaty. No peace. Kill soldiers. Or die. Never surrender. Never! Never!”

  Pokkataw and his party disappeared into the woods, merging with the trees and shadows as stealthily as they had come. The Murphs would not see him again for three months.

  12

  The Executive Mansion, Washington, D.C., late November, 1813

  President Madison again riffled the stack of papers with his thumb. He continued to scowl, more at the papers than at the visitors to his Blue Room office.

  “Congressman, what is going on in Tennessee? Has your governor lost his senses?”

  “Sir?” Congressman John Sevier furrowed his eyebrows, puzzled.

  “These dispatches, Mr. Sevier.” Madison pounded two fingers onto the papers on his desk. He glanced at Secretary of War John Armstrong seated to the side. “They are reports from Governor Blount and from General Jackson, directed to myself and to Mr. Armstrong, regarding their military campaign into the Alabama country against the Creeks.”

  “Sir, they are there to guard our border against unfriendly Indians.”

  “Poppy seeds! The Creeks may be unfriendly, but I can’t see that they are threatening your border. Why, Jackson is half way to Florida fighting Indians. Or,” the President held up the papers, “according to his own report, slaughtering Indians.” He angrily threw the document back on the desk.

  A soft knock at the door interrupted the men. A maid stepped inside. “Beg pardon, Mr. President,” she said in a quiet tone, “would you and your guests like some tea?”

  “I would, Ora. Congressman?”

  “I’ll take a cup of strong coffee, if
I may.”

  “May I suggest a dollop of rum stirred in?” said Madison with a twinkle. “Does something for it.”

  “Sounds interesting,” smiled Sevier.

  “You, John?”

  “Tea, Mr. President,” replied Armstrong. “And a dollop for me, too, Ora, if you would.”

  “You know how I like mine, Ora. Thank you.” The President dismissed the maid with a wave. She curtsied and backed out the door, closing it behind her.

  “If you please, sir,” asked Sevier, “may I see those dispatches?”

  “Certainly.” Madison slid the reports across the table. He didn’t wait for Sevier to read them. “Jackson says he has attacked and defeated two Creek villages. He boasts that he has broken the backs of the Creeks and, his words, avenged the attack on Fort Mims.”

  “Yes.” Sevier looked up. “Sir, General Jackson is a capable military leader. I’ve had my differences with him and we don’t get along at all. But I’m sure he has done what he set out to do.”

  “I’m sure he has!” The President aimed the contemptuous retort directly at the congressman. “I . . . .”

  Another knock stopped Madison short. Ora entered with a tray of steaming cups as another maid held the door for her. The two women distributed the refreshments, set out a plate of buttered crumpets, and hastened to retire.

  “Thank you, Ora,” acknowledged Madison. “You, too, Carrie.” The two maids curtsied again, backed out, and closed the door.

  Sevier finished reading the reports and took up his cup. The first sip caused an involuntary grimace. “Bracing.”

  “Congressman,” Madison resumed, “I’ve some knowledge of your history with General Jackson. And I’m well aware and very appreciative of your own military adventures. Yours is a heroic record.”