Tallapoosa

  “Major, pass the order.” General Floyd panted with excitement. “With bayonets affixed and weapons primed, on my signal, charge.”

  “Yes, General.”

  The commands reverberated down the line. Allowing only a minute to make ready, General Floyd decided he could wait no longer.

  “Charge! Overrun the scurvied bastards, men! Charge! Charge!”

  All but his first command was drowned by the renewed barrage of protective musket fire of the covering marksmen, and the yells of hundreds of men sliding down the bank and dashing through the sand and gravel and shallows of the creek bottom. A soldier pitched forward and splashed face first into the muddied water, mortally wounded. Another screamed and twisted as he fell into the creek, his musket flying away as he clutched for the arrow in his thigh.

  Dozens of soldiers with bayonets pointed skyward tried to sprint up the creek bank, only to slip backward and struggle for footing. Thirty or more Red Sticks ran to the lip to repel them with muskets and knives and red war clubs. Many of the warriors immediately fell to musket fire from across the way. Others were jerked down the bank and bayoneted, but not before inflicting bloody mayhem on the attackers.

  The first soldiers to gain the bank sought shelter behind the nearest line of trees. They hastily reloaded and fired into the woods as others joined them behind a choking curtain of gun smoke. Soon the north bank was won and troopers began to penetrate cautiously into the forest, still meeting strong resistance from Creeks fighting from behind almost every other tree.

  Lieutenant Alderman pounded up and reined his horse hard next to General Floyd at the command post a hundred yards south of the creek.

  “General, sir, the cavalry company we dropped at Nafoli has arrived. They were relieved by a company of infantry. Captain Noble sends his compliments and congratulations and reports that the infantry column is now less than a mile away. He begs your orders, sir.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant. Have the cavalry follow the creek west to the junction of the river. If they meet little enough resistance, cross the creek and secure the river bank as far north as they can push. If they are unable to cross, direct Captain Noble to secure positions and have his sharpshooters fire on anything trying to cross the river. In either direction, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, General. Immediately. And the infantry?”

  “Have Colonel Coxwell report to me the moment he arrives.”

  “Yes, sir!” Lieutenant Alderman spurred his horse to a gallop.

  Black smoke rose from beyond the trees. The Cherokees on the flanking maneuver had apparently reached Indian houses and torched them. Fighting still raged through the hundred yards of woods, but resistance had weakened. Soldiers broke into the clearing where stood at least a hundred widely spaced sturdy log houses and an equal number of dome-shaped huts, constructed of pole frames with pine bough roofs and walls, several afire. Militiamen scattered toward the houses, where they met renewed resolve from the defenders.

  The infantry arrived and stormed across Yufabi Creek. The contingent of cavalry that had so effectively provided the cover that assured a foothold on the north bank, that job now done, began gathering dead and wounded.

  In Talisi town, the battle had dissolved into house-to-house fighting as soldiers steadily gained ground. Casualties mounted for both antagonists, but much heavier on the side of the Creeks. The attackers’ superior numbers had gained nearly three-quarters of the town’s perimeter.

  Warriors held their ground at each village structure until overrun. A woman stood defiantly in a blazing doorway, refusing to move. Her toddler children ran away screaming to the next house. She tightly gripped both sides of the portal but didn’t make a sound or move an inch as fire engulfed her body. She died standing; her charred, still flaming corpse finally collapsed to mix with the ashes of her home.

  A squad of soldiers turned a corner around a large, prominent house to find themselves facing a fierce, middle-aged warrior and three stout youthful ones. Both groups stood for a long moment, glaring at the other. No man on either side held a charged musket. Three soldiers to the rear frantically attempted to reload while their companions squared off with the Red Sticks before them.

  “I am Naupti, brother of our chief,” spoke the older warrior defiantly, struggling to mix as much English as possible with his native Muskogean. “I and my sons fight with the protection of the Spirits. May you and your evil die in dishonor and damnation!”

  Naupti raised his war club and charged. He ducked a thrust of a bayonet and smashed the unlucky fellow behind it into eternity. Another soldier swung a musket stock into Naupti’s face, smashing him to the side. Naupti turned back, prepared to swing the blood-dripped club again. A bayonet went through his throat with the club still on the backswing.

  One of the young warriors dispatched two militiamen with the butt of his musket before it was wrenched from his grasp. He pulled a bone-handled knife from his waistband and leaped onto the nearest soldier and cut his throat. A bayonet pierced him through the rib cage. After slashing at another of the enemy without knowing whether he connected, the warrior passed into unconsciousness. His two brothers, fighting valiantly with gory war clubs, continued to take a deadly toll.

  A soldier at the rear finally primed his weapon, cocked the flint and positioned the strike in one motion, leveled and fired without aiming. The point blank charge ripped through the heart of one of the warriors. The remaining one, enraged anew, attacked again, only to be felled by a musket stock across his forehead. He crashed to the side, motionless and bleeding heavily, as the soldiers stepped past, their new goal the tribal council lodge in the town’s central square.

  Skirmishes continued for another hour, until surviving warriors had been pushed into the forest or the river. Soldiers rounded up some wounded warriors as captives and killed others. They gathered women and children that did not flee, huddled them near the river bank, and awaited orders for their disposition.

  Finally, recall sounded. Companies assembled slowly in the wide square. Details of soldiers gathered the dead and treated the American wounded. Trails for horses had been cut into the creek banks so casualties could be conveyed out on litters. Most of the houses of Talisi smoldered as ashes, but some still crackled with live flames.

  General Floyd rode slowly into the clearing and continued in a wide circle to survey the spectacle. He walked his horse in silence, hardly believing. Not even two decades of military life on unforgiving frontiers had prepared him for such a grim scene.

  “Lieutenant,” Floyd turned quietly to Alderman. “Assemble my staff officers. Five minutes.”

  “Gentlemen,” the general began when the officers had gathered, “we have won a significant, glorious victory. My thanks and my congratulations. Now it is vital that we make the correct next step. We have no means to cross the river in force to take Tukabatchi. Agreed?”

  With little discussion, the staff affirmed unanimously Floyd’s negative assessment of a potential attack on Tukabatchi. Several officers then urged the general to push on to towns farther up the river while they had the Red Sticks running and disorganized. The town of Saugahatchi would be an attractive objective, Ipisoga another. Others thought it better to backtrack to Atasi and campaign westward along the river to the confluence of the Tallapoosa and the Coosa; and perhaps then on to an assault on Holy Ground where Chief Red Eagle was rumored to be hiding since the Fort Mims massacre. Still others suggested that the army return to Fort Mitchell to resupply, not willing to trust unreliable supply lines to replenish provisions and ammunition.

  “I believe that may be the wisest course,” General Floyd said of the latter argument. “Our directive from Milledgeville only included Atasi and Talisi, and Tukabatchi if possible. We have no authority to campaign farther. I certainly have little desire to push northward above the falls. Marching a battalion of cavalry over unfamiliar hilly terrain in the face of hostiles
is not a sound military tactic. As for Holy Ground, we have no reliable intelligence as to what would await us. And I, too, do not wish to stake my command’s lifeblood on supply trains.”

  The general gazed wearily at each of his staff officers. “Gentlemen, I thank you again for your valor and your valuable counsel. But, no, I fear that our campaign must end for now. We shall go home to Fort Mitchell and I will make my report to Milledgeville.”

  Before dusk, General John Floyd’s Georgia militia had begun its slow trek away from Talisi town on the first leg back to its Chattahoochee River base. They left behind hundreds of incinerated Creek houses, scores of dead and wounded Creek warriors, and deeply buried aspirations for Agent Benjamin Hawkins’s Civilization Program for the Muskogi Nation.

  15

  The Murph settlement, December 1, 1813

  Soosquana stood on the porch of her cabin in the early morning and watched November blend into December at the Murph compound. It was to be another gorgeous day. The weather remained moderate, comfortable, no sign of real winter yet.

  Movement of Creeks along the river had not increased and no further threats from militant Red Sticks had been made. Everybody agreed, however, that they must remain watchful.

  Soosquana saw across the compound that Adelin already worked at sorting a large pile of deerskins and rabbit pelts at one of the outdoor tables. She and Adelin were to work on them this morning, sewing some into winter clothing and dressing the remainder into prime condition for trading next summer. Saul and Cal appeared on the trail from the animal shelter leading all the livestock.

  The animals needed exercise. They hadn’t been out in weeks, not since the trouble began and their masters had become cautious about venturing afield. Occasionally, they were staked out to graze, but that seriously limited their range of movement.

  Soosquana’s milk goat and the horses and mules were each fitted with a halter and a rope to which Saul or Cal now tied a hefty rock. Dragging a weight would allow freedom to wander around the compound but would discourage roaming too far or too fast.

  Soosquana loved her goat but had not as yet named her. Too, she appreciated the nourishment the milk provided her and her unborn child. Hopefully, by spring or summer the goat would still be producing enough milk to help keep the little one happy and healthy, the little one due only a month from now.

  Later, Soosquana and Adelin busied themselves with the animal skins in front of Cal’s and Adelin’s cabin. Saul and Cal worked at shoring up the foundation of both cabins and repairing the mud plastering between logs. Extra insulation would be important for the coming winter.

  “Uh oh,” said Cal. “Look at old George.” The mule had strayed nearly a hundred yards down the trail toward the river ford, almost out of sight among the trees.

  “I’ll get him,” volunteered Adelin. She put down her skins, got up, and walked after the errant mule.

  “George, you naughty boy,” scolded Adelin affectionately as she reached the patch of late autumn grass where the mule feasted. She gripped his halter, reached under his neck, and stroked his opposite cheek while caressing her face against his. “You know better than to trail away. Come on, let’s go bac . . . .”

  George leaped sideways, startled, as a powerful arm wrapped across Adelin’s chest from behind, clamping her arms tight, while another hand flashed the sharp edge of a knife to her throat.

  Adelin shrieked in horror, then recovered and froze, afraid to move against the pressing blade. The man spewed orders in what she recognized as Muskogean, but she understood none of what he said. He tightened his hold as she glimpsed other men stepping forward on either side.

  She decided she had little to lose. “Cal!” she screamed. “Cal! Saul! Help!”

  The man made no attempt to squelch her. Instead, he pushed her toward the cabins, keeping his choking grip, while his companions fanned out to his flanks.

  “Let her go!” yelled Saul, blocking the trail thirty yards away and aiming his musket at the Indian’s head.

  “You do her harm and I’ll shoot you dead!” threatened Cal beside him, in a kneeling stance with his musket also aimed dead on. “Put away the knife!”

  The band of warriors edged closer with their captive.

  “Soos,” urged Saul to his horrified wife as she hurried to him from behind, “get to the cabin. Quick!”

  Soosquana reluctantly took a step away. She scanned the scene as she started for the cabin, then stopped. She yelped.

  Screaming at the Indians in Muskogean, Soosquana ran toward them, excited and angry. Saul held out an arm to stop her. She fought to get through.

  “It is Tolokika and Ettepti-lopa! Saul, those are my brothers! From Talisi!” She reverted to Muskogean and resumed screaming at the Indians. She pulled away from Saul and continued to within inches of where her brother held on tight to Adelin.

  Soosquana angrily argued with Tolokika, obviously ordering the release of Adelin. Her brother did not relent. His friends spread across the trail and behind adjacent trees, with ready muskets and bows and menacingly red war clubs. Soosquana turned to the other sibling with her argument. He, too, rebuked her, eyes flashing and hands gesturing, unyielding as his brother.

  Saul and Cal maintained their positions, unsure what to do.

  “They don’t look like Soos’s brothers we met at Talisi,” blurted Cal. “Don’t act like ’em, either.”

  “It’s them, all right,” said Saul. “I recognize them now.”

  Soosquana’s brothers had welcomed them with friendship on their second trip to Talisi. They had approved the marriage of their sister to Saul and had enthusiastically celebrated the wedding.

  Finally, both of Soosquana’s brothers became less animated. Their tone softened as they began to listen to some of what Soosquana said. Soosquana quietened, was less insistent, and the debate calmed. She reached up and touched Tolokika’s forehead which featured a deep, ugly slash from its center through the right eye socket. She turned to Ettepti-lopa and pulled back his shirt to examine his torso. She cringed at the bloody, festered wound to his rib cage. Her hands went to her face in fright as Tolokika continued to talk angrily to her. She now was not arguing back; just listening intently.

  “Saul,” said Soosquana, turning around to face her husband with tears streaming down both cheeks, “my father, Naupti, and my brother, Hakkali, are dead.”

  Saul and Cal looked at her increduously, not speaking but not relaxing their vigil with their muskets.

  Soosquana continued. “Soldiers attacked our village, and attacked other villages. Killed many. Burned houses. My father and brother died fighting them. These two brothers wounded.”

  “Soos, I’m sorry,” said Saul. “That’s terrible. But what do they want here? Tell them to let go of Adelin.”

  Soosquana resumed negotiations with her brothers for Adelin. They remained belligerent and adamant.

  “They say no. They are very angry. They say the white man must suffer.”

  “Suffer hell!” blurted Cal. “I’m gonna suffer a musket ball between his eyes if he doesn’t let her go.”

  “Hold on, Cal,” cautioned Saul. “Let’s not cause any wrong move here. They’re mad enough now. Let Soos handle them.”

  Soosquana didn’t let up. She debated insistently, gesturing to Adelin, then to herself, then to Saul and Cal. She stroked her belly, obviously invoking the coming baby. Negotiations continued for long minutes more. No one on either side dared move except Soosquana and her angry brothers.

  Finally, Soosquana turned to Saul and Cal. “They say they’ll let Adelin go if you uncock your muskets. They don’t trust you.”

  “It’s hard to trust them, too,” observed Saul. “That’s all? What else do they want?”

  “They want me to go with them.”

  “Hell, no . . . !”

  “I told them no. I told them I would
not leave here.”

  “Damn right you won’t leave here!”

  “Lower your muskets,” insisted Soosquana.

  “They’ll do the same?” Saul had taken all negotiations on himself. “And let Adelin loose?”

  “Yes.” She turned to speak again to her brothers, then back to Saul and Cal. “Yes,” she said again.

  “All right. Let’s try it.”

  Saul first, then Cal, slowly lifted their aim, raised the strikes and carefully lowered the flintlocks. They ported the muskets but maintained firm grips on them. Long, tense moments later, but only after Soosquana admonished them again, the Indians eased their own weapons.

  Soosquana gingerly reached with one hand to pry loose Tolokika’s arm that encircled Adelin, and pulled the knife blade from her neck with the other hand. Adelin carefully stepped away. Soosquana jerked her clear and embraced her. Adelin hugged back, emotional and still frightened, then bolted past Soosquana into Cal’s arms.

  At the further urging of Soosquana, the warriors, nine in all, moved to the oak tree at the edge of the bluff and sat in a wide semicircle, but still held their weapons close. With Soosquana as interpreter, the Murph men, yet as leery of the warriors as they were of the Murphs, sought details on the Talisi attack.

  “Was it Jackson’s men?” asked Saul. “Or Cocke’s? The American general at Talatigi or the troops that attacked the Hillabis?” The Murphs had not forgotten the visit by the boisterous sergeant and his posse.

  Soosquana relayed the questions. “No, they were none of those. They were soldiers from the east. Many horsemen. Many Cherokees also. Burned Talisi, Atasi, Nafoli.”

  “Must’ve been Georgia militia. Damn! Is everybody getting in on this? Those troops answer to Mister Hawkins, I think. He’s supposed to be friends with the chiefs at Tukabatchi.”

  “When was the attack?” Cal wanted to know.

  “Two days ago.”

  “Ask them where the soldiers went from there. Not upriver, I hope. We certainly don’t want them coming up here.”