Tallapoosa

  “Thank you, Mr. President. You’re very kind.”

  “That is why I’m seeking your counsel. You, without a doubt, know more about General Jackson, and Governor Blount, too, than anyone in Washington.”

  General John Sevier, a Revolutionary War hero, had led a company of two hundred forty Tennessee militiamen across the Smoky Mountains to fight the British at Kings Mountain, and another two hundred the next year to the service of Francis Marion. In 1780, between those two incursions, he began a campaign against the Cherokees, the first in a long, continual series of Indian harassments.

  He had been the first governor of the State of Tennessee, serving six two-year terms. After the first three terms, not permitted a fourth consecutive by the state constitution, he ran for the major-generalship of the Tennessee militia, a commission he coveted and for which he was easily the best qualified and most experienced candidate. When the vote of the legislature resulted in a tie, the new governor, Archibald Roane, cast his deciding vote for his political ally, Andrew Jackson. Sevier, the head of the east Tennessee faction, and Jackson, the principal supporter of the Willie Blount clique in the west, had already feuded as bitter political opponents. The animosity stemmed from an argument in 1796 and quickly blew to more than a rivalry; they became enemies. The generalship controversy and subsequent charges of corruption and fraud by Roane and Jackson against Sevier intensified their dislike for each other.

  Roane’s single term ended in defeat when Sevier ran against him and won. Sevier served his second set of three consecutive terms as governor, followed by a stint in the state Senate. He was then elected to the United States House of Representatives in 1811.

  “I believe you have served in Washington before, have you not, Mr. Sevier? Even before General Jackson was here?” Madison had taken his tea to one of the tall windows fronting the Blue Room. He sipped the last swallow as he watched a carriage in a swirl of dust clatter along the far boulevard. Two dueling crows flitted across the expansive field that was the rear grounds of the magnificent new presidential mansion. He pondered the complexities and contradictions of John Sevier, and of Andrew Jackson by extension, trying to understand.

  “Yes, sir, but that was long ago.”

  Sevier had previously been elected to the House in 1789 as the representative of the Wautauga-Holston region of Tennessee, a North Carolina district before its cession of the territory to Congress in 1791. He saw his return to Washington in 1811 as a fulfillment of duty to his constituents. However, his associates and friends knew that he would much prefer to be back home in east Tennessee.

  Madison returned to his desk and put down the cup.

  “General Sevier,” asked Armstrong, “am I to understand that you stand in support of General Jackson’s current campaign?”

  “I don’t think General Jackson is necessarily the man to lead our forces, but, yes, I wholeheartedly believe that Tennessee has the right and the duty to defend ourselves and neutralize the Creeks.”

  “Neutralize them, Mr. Sevier?” reacted Armstrong.

  President Madison wiggled a hand at Armstrong. “But if Jackson has already defeated the Creeks, as he claims in his report, why does he continue to ask for regulars?”

  “Oh, Mr. President, there are a lot of Indians in the Mississippi Territory. I’m sure that General Jackson isn’t through yet and can use all the forces we can muster for him.”

  “I see. Now, Congressman, tell me about your General Cocke.”

  “General John Cocke, sir?”

  “The same. He has joined up with Jackson in the Alabama wilderness.”

  “I was not aware of that. Cocke is actually a Virginian, young for a general, only thirty-three, I believe. He has risen rapidly in rank on a sterling record and has agreed to command a brigade of east Tennessee militia, but I did not know that he had been deployed to Alabama country. I know little about him personally beyond what I’ve stated, but I’m sure he is a big asset to Jackson.”

  “Not according to Jackson himself.” President Madison fanned the pages of the reports, back on his desk. “He claims Cocke sabotaged an agreement he had from a major faction of the Creeks for their surrender.”

  “Sir?”

  Madison looked at Armstrong. “Relate the details, John.”

  “Yes, sir. According to the report, Cocke, unknown to Jackson, ordered one of his regiments to attack a group of Creek villages. A regiment commanded by General James White. I believe you know him, Mr. Sevier.”

  “Yes, I do. Very well. A fine man.”

  “The Indians he annihilated were on the verge of accepting Jackson’s terms. Wiped ’em out, killed hundreds. Burned several villages. Now none of the Creeks will talk with Jackson’s negotiators. Can’t blame the devils, can we? Jackson claims to be furious and is complaining about Cocke acting independently and against his orders.”

  President Madison was certain that he detected a subtle, satisfied smile from Sevier, a smile that betrayed a hatred for Indians possibly more acute than his contempt for Andrew Jackson. “So, Congressman, what is your advice? How should we regard these developments?”

  “Mr. President, you honor me by asking. I must offer my full support for our brave Tennessee lads. If you would respect my recommendation, I urge you and Mr. Armstrong to send General Jackson the supplies and ordnance he needs. Also, Mr. President, I believe regulars should be attached to Jackson; two, perhaps three regiments.”

  “I wish we could spare two or three regiments. But I thank you, Mr. Sevier. Be assured, your counsel is valued.”

  Armstrong lingered after Congressman Sevier left. “Mr. President, perhaps we can search the Quartermaster Corps for additional supplies, and even some ordnance, but we can spare not one soldier for Jackson.”

  “I know, John. We have much greater needs on more pressing fronts. But what concerns me in the Alabama country is whether Jackson’s antics are serving to hold the British in place along the Gulf, or if the Creeks are being pushed closer than ever to joining the British cause.”

  13

  The Murph settlement, late November, 1813

  Saul and Cal speculated that General White or General Cocke, whichever was responsible, had sanctioned the massacre because of several factors. Their line of march carried them over the upper reaches of Hillabi Creek. The Hillabi towns, clustered close along the shallow, accessible stream, presented convenient targets. These generals must not have known of Jackson’s peace negotiations. Maybe more importantly, they were anxious to fight, jealous that Jackson had already skirmished with the Red Sticks and was probably being saluted as a hero back in Tennessee.

  The incident surely would end the threat of civil war among the Upper Creeks and unite them against the white man. The militant Red Sticks would have their way, and would now be joined by most warriors who had until now condoned white settlements. There certainly would be no more peace talks. Pokkataw had vowed as much himself, and surely that sentiment would prevail among the Creeks. Muskogis were proud people and they were not afraid to defend their land and their honor. Pushed, betrayed, invaded, even if overwhelmed in men and arms, they would fight to their deaths.

  The Murphs had to again discuss the possibility of leaving, of fleeing north out of danger, at least for a while. None of the four wanted to, though all agreed it might be the wise thing. The compound was vulnerable to any serious attack, but a party on the open trail would be even easier prey. The Creeks knew the Murphs and knew they meant the Indians no harm; on the road they would have no identity and no protection. The clincher was that Soosquana couldn’t very well travel. They would stay.

  Monitoring movement along the river began anew. There was little. The Red Sticks had apparently gone into hiding and their women and children dared not stray from the safety of the villages. The river ran in solitude, silent except for the continuous rush of the shoals and the night sounds of forest creatures.r />
  No further word came of American soldiers. Three days of steady rain and cold wind depicted the first serious signs of oncoming winter. The Murphs welcomed the bad weather, hoping that it would dampen the passions of American militiamen.

  “Maybe they’ll rot cowering in their tents,” mused Cal.

  The weather cleared. A week had passed since the Hillabi attack. Still no river traffic except for an occasional small hunting party.

  Soosquana watched from the bluff one morning. “Saul!” she called in a low voice, alarmed.

  Saul ran to her and peered over the bluff. Six Red Sticks, all apparently in their teens, stood on the rocks at the head of the shoals, glaring up toward the compound.

  Saul pushed Soosquana back. “Get to the cabin,” he ordered, taking her musket as he had not bothered to fetch his. Cal slid beside him, his musket ready.

  “What do they want?” Cal asked.

  “Don’t know.” Saul recognized the leader as the angry showoff who had mocked him from that very spot a month and a half earlier. Some of his present companions had also been along for that incident, Saul was certain. “I hope they are just beating their chests again.”

  “They got more to beat ’em about now, I reckon,” offered Cal.

  One of the young Creeks yelled a threat. The others joined with taunts and curses. The leader raised his arm to quiet them. He looked to his musket held at his waist and pulled back the lock to full cock. He slowly raised the weapon to aim at the compound as he had done before with an uncharged musket.

  This time it wasn’t empty. The pan flashed and smoke spurted from the muzzle. A musket ball whistled inches above the heads of Saul and Cal and slammed into the trunk of the big oak behind them.

  Cal raised his musket.

  “Hold it!” cautioned Saul. “Don’t show nothing unless they start up the bluff.”

  Long moments passed. Nothing moved. The other Red Sticks made no threat with their weapons. They stared, chests ballooned and squared toward the Murphs, unseen but surely present, daring retaliation. Finally, the shooter laughed, shrieked defiantly, taunted the bluff with wild swings of his red war club. His companions pumped their clubs, yelling curses anew and screaming challenges. But none of the warriors moved closer.

  After long minutes that seemed hours, the young troublemakers gave up. They retreated from the rocks to the opposite bank and headed downriver, triumphant, boisterous, obviously pleased with themselves.

  Saul and Cal relaxed.

  “Let ’em have their fun,” counseled Saul. “Let’s make sure we don’t react no more than is called for.”

  They turned to see to the women. Two muskets pointed toward them from narrow openings in the shutters of Cal’s cabin. One shutter opened wide as its musket was withdrawn.

  “Did we win the skirmish?” joked Adelin to her returning heroes. “Or do we need to hail General Jackson to protect us?”

  14

  Calabi Creek, south of the Tallapoosa River, November 29, 1813

  Lieutenant Titus Alderman trotted his mount across the gravel bed of shallow Calibi Creek to where his commanding officer waited. He served as aide to General John Floyd, commander of the Georgia militia out of Fort Mitchell on the Chattahoochee River.

  Smoke billowed from the Upper Creek village of Atasi behind him, black smoke, white smoke, pillars of it from dozens of Indian houses. The stench of spent gunpowder almost overpowered that of the burning town.

  “Casualty report, Lieutenant?” inquired General Floyd. He sat astride his mount, impatient for Alderman’s information.

  “Some, sir. Few killed, exact number not yet known. Several dozen wounded. Overall, it looks like acceptable attrition, sir.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant. And the enemy?”

  “Heavy casualties, sir. We certainly have won a handsome victory.”

  “Good. Now we must press on. There are more villages upriver that must not survive. Get a message to Infantry Companies Two and Five to hold here, complete a final canvass, and establish a secure rear line. Sound assembly and have all other forces gather on this side of the creek.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Alderman pulled his horse sharply around and galloped back through the water. Sporadic gunfire still sounded in parts of the village, scattered for hundreds of yards along both sides of the creek and on the banks of the Tallapoosa, wide and swift and deep at this point. Calibi Creek merged with the river about ten miles below the great falls and four miles west of the right angle bend that changed the flow of the river from south to straight west.

  General Floyd turned in the saddle to face his staff officers mounted behind him. “Major!”

  “Yes, General,” answered the youthful major. He spurred his mount to a position adjacent to the general.

  “Major, prepare the cavalry and the Cherokees to march at quick time along the river to our other objectives.”

  The other objectives were the small village of Nafoli, spread near the river bend, and the large and powerful warrior town of Talisi above the mouth of Yufabi Creek. Before Floyd’s army left Fort Mitchell, their base on the Chattahoochee River, Indian Agent Benjamin Hawkins had speculated that little resistance could be expected at Nafoli. However, Talisi would be much more difficult, though Floyd’s nine hundred fifty Georgia state militiamen, half of them cavalry, and four hundred Cherokee and Lower Creek mercenaries should be an overwhelming force versus Talisi’s projected maximum of two hundred warriors.

  Floyd continued to bark orders. “Have the other infantry companies follow at double time. We may need them in reserve.”

  The major trotted his mount to the point of assembly to await the arrival of company and regimental officers. Shooting had all but ceased. Soldiers streamed from doomed Atasi town toward the creek, hungry for more action. Opposition from Atasi had been sharp but brief. The attack had caught its defenders unaware and unprepared, with no chance to gather reinforcements from nearby villages. There was no hope to surprise the Creeks at Talisi, though. Most of the warriors that escaped from Atasi would no doubt go there to help with its defense. They would be ready and they would be angry. And they would fight to their deaths.

  Fifteen minutes after General Floyd’s order, fresh shot and powder had been drawn by each soldier and the troops began their trek toward Talisi. They would not follow the sandy river bank, but instead find more solid ground a few hundred yards parallel to it. Still, riding was difficult through marsh grass, thickets, and mud bogs. The horses could not make the distance at full gallop, so Floyd’s cavalry set off at an easy canter with the general at the fore.

  After approximately four miles, the column veered hard by the sharp bend of the river that turned its route north. The adjacent land was flat, as the fall line at the great falls marked the transformation of the last of the Appalachian foothills into coastal plain. The river banks were steep and deep so as to contain the river in times of flood, and they were alternately muddy and sandy. Access to the water was limited and traverses down from the bank were difficult to locate.

  Around the bend, occasional Indian houses began to appear, then clusters. No warriors guarded them, not even women and children. Nafoli had been abandoned.

  “Torch them,” ordered General Floyd. “Major, leave a detachment to see to it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Move on!” The general spurred his horse forward at a faster pace than before.

  Canoes dotted the surface of the river, their occupants paddling for the opposite bank. Probably most of the women and children of Nafoli were aboard to seek refuge at Tukabatchi.

  The cavalrymen again left the river bank, angling northeast where two miles away Yufabi Creek spilled into the Tallapoosa at the toe of a sharp horseshoe peninsula jutting from the west bank. Fortunately for the attackers, this natural fortress lay under the control of the Tukabatchi council chief
s and not the Red Stick warriors of the east bank. To dislodge a defending force from the interior of such a bend, or even to reach them from the opposite bank of the river, would have been virtually impossible.

  Agent Hawkins had forecast no difficulty in traversing Yufabi Creek, but as Floyd approached and ordered his companies to fan out for an assault across the stream, an obstacle appeared. The wide creek — thirty yards in places — was extremely shallow, never deeper than a few feet and mostly less than a foot, often not enough draft to float a canoe. But its banks were high and steep, almost matching those of the river. Horses could not safely slide down one bank, and certainly would not be able to climb the opposite slope.

  “Major, pass the order,” decided the general. “Dismount and prepare to assault across the creek on foot.”

  The first volley of musket fire exploded from the trees north of the creek. Horses were led out of danger away from the bank as soldiers scampered for cover and primed their weapons.

  “Prepare to return fire, Major,” ordered General Floyd. “When ready, fire at will. We will continue the barrage until we gain a reasonable run at the creek.”

  Staccato explosions from hundreds of muskets shattered the woods. Billows of smoke veiled both sides of the divide. Burning gunpowder strangled the air with a stifling odor. A few soldiers fell, but under the superior weaponry and marksmanship of the Georgians, the Red Sticks suffered considerably more casualties. Finally, Floyd saw an opening.

  “Send half the Cherokee contingent east along the creek,” he ordered. “Have them cross it and outflank the enemy. Have two companies set up along this side to provide covering fire. All other units prepare for a frontal charge as soon as the Cherokees have drawn attention away from us.”

  Twenty minutes later, gunfire from across the stream dwindled sharply. Simultaneously, a clamor arose in the forest to the east. The nearly two hundred Cherokees had apparently found a way through and were attacking.