Tallapoosa

  While the first canoe turned straight to race away downriver, the third one slid through the shoals out of control. Its sternman saw the overturned shell but was powerless to avoid it. It hit broadside and rode up over the upside down hull. The two startled warriors tried to balance their boat with its suddenly dry bow now pointing skyward and its stern deep in the water. As they struggled, water poured in until finally they had no choice but to jump overboard lest their canoe should fill completely and sink or overturn.

  The four swimming Red Sticks fought to untangle their crafts and pull them to shallow water near the eastern bank, opposite the Murphs. They stood in waist deep water and looked downriver just in time to see their quarry escape around the far bend. They angrily shook their fists and cursed loudly at the fleeing family.

  Saul, Cal, and Adelin fought to repress their amusement. They didn’t dare reveal themselves. The embarrassed warriors would surely welcome a spat with a substitute foe and the Murphs did not wish to volunteer. But, oh, how hard it was to muffle their mirth! For now they managed somehow, though they would laugh about the incident for days.

  It took the four vanquished warriors more than half an hour to wrestle their two canoes to the bank, empty them, and portage them upriver around the shoals. Considerable time and effort had to be spent retrieving the two paddles that had floated a good way downriver before lodging one against a rock and the other on a sandbar.

  As the images of the two canoes grew small near the upriver bend, the secluded Murphs could finally stand up and laugh aloud.

  “Have you ever seen a band of more flustered fellows?” mused Cal.

  “If that was an example of the Creeks’ fights with each other, then I dare say both sides are safe,” ventured Saul.

  “It’s sad that they all don’t turn out as well, isn’t it?” said Adelin.

  The three enjoyed another chuckle at the comedy they had witnessed, then turned to their own business.

  “Come,” suggested Saul, a little concerned. “Let’s check on Soos and the baby. We have enough fish for a king’s banquet. We should leave some for another day.”

  The three gathered their weapons and gear and impressive catch and climbed the trail.

  Adelin held her string of fish against the larger one of Saul. “We’ll get you next time, Saul. You can’t always win.”

  “I would’ve beat him today if our clumsy friends hadn’t scared off all my fish by crashing their canoes together,” claimed Cal.

  They laughed again as they happily reached the top of their bluff above the river.

  25

  Fort Strother, February 6, 1814

  “No, Colonel, he isn’t here. General White left with General Cocke’s militia a month ago.” Andrew Jackson scowled. “Good riddance to the lot of ’em, too, except that their departure left us woefully short of men. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, sir,” explained Colonel John Williams, “I promised his family that I would inquire of him as soon as I arrived here and try to expedite his return home. He is a little aged, I believe you’ll agree, for this duty. The family is worried about him, especially Judge White and my wife. I must confess, General, that General White is my father-in-law.”

  “I see. I mean no disrespect, but you are right. His age should have disqualified him for this campaign. And, too, why he would ever want to serve with that pompous fool, Cocke, is a mystery.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Judge White, you say? I take it that Judge Hugh White is your brother-in-law? General White’s son?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I hadn’t made the connection before. According to the letter you brought with you, Judge White is responsible for your regiment being here.”

  “I believe he is, sir.”

  “Then I shall forever be in his debt. And in yours, Colonel. Quality fighting soldiers have been at a premium around here and our junior officers have been mostly untrained volunteers on short terms of service themselves. Your regular army fellows will do us proud, I’m certain.”

  “We hope to justify your confidence, General.”

  “Now let’s have a look at your regiment.”

  General Jackson and Colonel Williams strode across the stockade yard and out the front gate. The Thirty-Ninth had begun to establish camp at the far end of the clearing. Soldiers busied themselves around campfires and newly pitched tents as they attempted to purge the mud and dust and fatigue of a week-long accelerated march.

  Colonel Williams and his regiment of more than six hundred army regulars had arrived shortly after noon. While Colonel Billy Carroll had guided the company commanders to appropriate campsites, General Jackson had conducted Colonel Williams on a tour of the fort and briefed him on the status of the Fort Strother garrison.

  Now, hours after the Thirty-Ninth’s arrival, Jackson and Williams walked slowly across the clearing, surveying the newly arrived regulars before them and the militia infantry and cavalry quartered to either side.

  “Regrettably, Colonel, our force had fallen to less than eight hundred total men, and before the last contingent of militia arrived, to less than fifty at one point. Very few are real soldiers and, like most others we have had with us, many will soon leave for home when their enlistments expire. Yours is a most welcome arrival, to be sure, but I’m afraid we still need additional reinforcements to defeat the Creeks. Did you receive any word from Governor Blount, or perhaps from Judge White, regarding fresh militia?”

  “Not directly, sir. But Judge White insists that the Governor is continuing to recruit new units as a high priority. I would think, sir, with confidence, that you should soon have adequate troops.”

  “And adequate supplies, I should hope. We aren’t far from starvation here. It hasn’t been a kind winter and we were ill prepared for its privations. I would appreciate an inventory of the stores you brought, Colonel.”

  “I’m afraid they are sufficient for only a short time. They didn’t spare us a surplus, but did promise to ship down additional stores as they could muster them.”

  “Ordnance? I notice that you towed no cannon.”

  “No, sir. We have two full wagons of shot, powder, and new muskets. Also, having been told that you have a six- and a three-pounder, we loaded on cartridges, round shot, and grape shot. I hope we were not misled.”

  They had reached the end of the clearing and stood watching the soldiers. Many were as young as the average militia recruit, barely out of their teens if that. Most had doffed the tall shakos with the loose fitting chin straps, and other items of uniform. The few that were still fully dressed wore coarse cotton pants of a light color, calf-length boots, and blue waist jackets. Over each jacket were draped crossed belts suspended at the shoulders and fastened together in the middle of the chest with a large brass buckle. Suspended from one of the belts, hanging at the soldier’s right side, was his kit containing shot, paper powder cartridges, loose powder, spare flints, and tools for repair and cleaning. On the soldier’s left hip, fastened to the other belt, was a leather scabbard containing a foot-long bayonet with a triangular blade tapered to a point, a formidable weapon in close combat.

  Muskets were stacked in front of the tents, three and four clipped together at the middle band of the upraised barrels, stock butts to the ground. Tents were aligned as the lay of the land permitted, and those of squads and companies grouped together. Jackson’s ill-trained militiamen stood watching from a respectful distance, grudgingly admiring the efficiency and discipline of the regulars.

  “Begging the Colonel’s pardon, sir.” A tall, sturdy officer, fully dressed, snapped to attention at Colonel Williams’ side. He saluted smartly. “General.”

  “At ease, Major.” Williams returned the salute.

  “Sir, I’m pleased to report the regiment has established camp. Our state of readiness remains immediate. Your orders, sir?”

 
Instead of answering, Williams turned to Jackson. “General, permit me the pleasure of introducing a fine soldier. This is Major Lemuel Montgomery. Major, General Andrew Jackson.”

  Montgomery clicked his heels and saluted. “My pleasure and honor, General Jackson. At your service, sir.”

  “Major,” Jackson acknowledged.

  “Major,” instructed Williams, “I trust your discretion to see to the organization of the encampment, set sentries as you deem appropriate, and issue orders as necessary. Subject to the General’s approval, of course.” He glanced at Jackson, who nodded favorably.

  “Yes, sir.” Montgomery snapped another salute, about faced, and strode away.

  “General,” said Colonel Williams with an obvious tone of pride, “you have just met my best soldier. I would dare say further that Major Montgomery is probably the finest infantry soldier I have encountered in my years of service.”

  “He is indeed impressive, Colonel. He seems well-spoken and to have much poise about him.”

  “I should like for him to serve only as my adjutant, but he is such an extraordinary combat commander that I am compelled to also place him at the head of my most able company. The men look up to him and, I dare say, would storm through the portals of hell should Major Montgomery lead them.”

  The two continued their tour. General Jackson showed the colonel his militia forces and their equipment and weapons, many of which were aged and in various stages of disrepair.

  “General Coffee’s cavalry regiment, as depleted as it is, is my best unit. Has been from the outset. However, in the wilderness, where fighting is most often tree to tree, cavalry is limited. One must have expert infantry units to succeed in this country. Cavalry can only support the foot soldier until we can catch the enemy on an open theater. Also, artillery is not as effective as one might suppose. I’m afraid we have knocked down more trees than Creeks with our two meager weapons.”

  Colonel Williams smiled at that observation. “Is it the enemy’s tactics to stand and fight, General, line versus line?”

  “Unfortunately, no. The Creek warrior is a moving target, often confused with the bushes. They are a savage lot, though. They will face you down and come at you head-on when cornered. Your bayonet may prove to be your best weapon, Colonel.”

  “Yes, sir. We are well drilled in close-order tactics. If I may say so, sir, it seems that my regiment may be precisely the kind of soldiers you have needed.”

  “My point exactly, Colonel, that I have tried to make with our leaders. Damnit, if they could only be here and see the challenge for themselves.” They had reached the front gate of the stockade. “Colonel, you had best see to your men and to your own comfort. A hut is available to you within the stockade as your personal quarters and your office.”

  “Thank you, General, you’re very kind.”

  “Colonel, we shall meet in two hours. I and my staff will brief you fully on our progress to date and our shortcomings. You will receive a full status report and your frank opinions and suggestions will most certainly be solicited. It is urgent that we lay out correct strategies as spring approaches so that we may successfully conclude this abominable campaign in due time.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And, Colonel, make certain that your Major Montgomery attends with you. And other officers of your choosing, of course.”

  That evening, General Jackson, General Coffee, and Colonel Carroll related to the officers of the Thirty-Ninth Infantry the stories of Tallashatchi, Talatigi, Hillabi Creek, Emuckfau, and Enitachopco. They detailed the tactics of the Indians and delineated what had worked against them and what had not. Jackson chose to focus on the Emuckfau Creek incident.

  “We made tactical mistakes, that’s obvious. We moved without adequate forces. We thought we could surprise them. We should have known better; this is their native environment. Our route of march was too long and our withdrawal too exposed. We are determined, gentlemen, not to repeat those errors.”

  “Your plan, General?” inquired Colonel Williams.

  “That fortress of theirs on the upper Tallapoosa seems of paramount importance. We cannot permit the Creeks to concentrate their forces; we have to keep them splintered. Therefore, as soon as further reinforcements and supplies reach us, and weather is favorable, we must make another attempt on that facility. But not as before. I think we must have an outpost, much closer than Fort Strother, from which to operate. General Coffee and I have been discussing the feasibility of moving down the Coosa and setting up such a post. From there we can cut a trail east to the Tallapoosa. It is still a long way to string an army, but I see no better choice as yet. Also, with an outpost on the Coosa, perhaps we can float supplies down by barge more easily than over land. We anticipate that spring rains will swell the river and make that possible.”

  “Will such maneuvers not tip our hand, General?”

  “Certainly. But we have learned that it matters little. Since we possess superior weaponry and, perhaps soon, imposing numbers, it is only important that we arrive on the field with the greater force and the greater resolve. Gentlemen, let us prepare.”

  26

  Tukabatchi, February, 1814

  The council fire shone as a beacon in the clear winter twilight. Scalding rhetoric turned angry men angrier.

  Tukabatchi, the capital of all the Muskogis, Upper and Lower, lay on a wide, flat plain in the crook of the Tallapoosa where the river turned west to meet the Coosa. Four miles to the north thundered the great falls of the Tallapoosa, marking the fall line that began the coastal plain running to the Gulf of Mexico.

  Annually, and more often when necessary, the chiefs met in council. The Great Council Tree, sacred to the Muskogis, provided the aura by which the chiefs could call upon the Maker of Breath and other Spirits. Somewhere beneath the Great Tree were safely buried the seven sacred brass plates, handed down from the ancients.

  Across the river to the east lay Talisi, and on the southern bank Atasi, both important warrior towns dominated by Red Sticks. Until the attack on them by the Georgia militia, however, their leaders had not been willing to oppose the American invaders. Since, militant Red Sticks held the power and virtually all villages on the Tallapoosa were ready to fight the whites. Even the Upper Muskogis of Tukabatchi, who had formerly advocated trust and compromise, were now resigned to bloodshed.

  The Lower tribes, mostly from the environs of the Chattahoochee River, and particularly the important towns of Cusseta and Coweta, favored acceptance of the American culture rather than open opposition to the settlers. They still held out, as they had suffered few violent incidents themselves. Their position only opened the rift wider with the Upper villages, with whom they were already in a state of civil war.

  “You will fight on the side of the whites?” angrily accused a Red Stick chief.

  “No. But we do not fight against them, either. You know we cannot defeat the whites.”

  “Then we die!”

  “You will die,” agreed the Cusseta chief. “If you fight, you die. Why will you not bend to their wishes? We survive, and we keep most of our land.

  “The white man cannot be trusted! Look what they did at Atasi! Look what they did at Talisi!”

  The large fire crackled. Sap from green pine logs boiled and popped, sending live embers high into the darkness astride heated updrafts. Chiefs from all the Muskogi towns and villages sat on the ground in a wide circle ringing the fire. Hundreds of other Muskogis sat in near concentric circles extending many yards in radius.

  Another chief arose. “I am from the Hillabi villages. We had hoped to make truce with the American army, but they betrayed our trust and slaughtered our people. We can do nothing now but fight. Dying before the muzzles of their muskets will be more honorable than dying in the face of their lies.”

  “Your talk is foolish,” said a Coweta chief. “All the Americans want are road
s across our hunting grounds and safe passage to float our streams for their trade.”

  “You, chief of Coweta, are the one who speaks foolish!” yelled a chief from Ipisoga. “Do the Lower tribes forget that the Georgia whites took your land between the Oconee and the Ocmulgee, promising to come no farther? But they kept coming till they crossed the river they call the Flint, and now they threaten the Chattahoochee. Are you too blind to see that words will not stop them?”

  “Your war clubs and arrows will not turn aside their cannon and muskets.”

  “We have muskets!”

  “How many muskets? One for every two warriors? One for every three? How good are they? Do you have enough powder and shot?”

  “They cannot harm us when we stand on sacred grounds. The shamans tell us so. With the help of the sacred prophets, we shall triumph!”

  “Your shamans and your prophets cannot protect you. Wise counsel will. Allow the Americans their road!”

  “No! You permitted a road through your lands into our southern reaches. It extended to the white man’s ships on the great ocean gulf. What has that brought? Our people were massacred at the Burnt Corn.”

  “Our road did not cause that attack.”

  “We must not tempt the white man’s greed. I say, no road, no passage!”

  Another Red Stick chief stood. “I took up arms against the American army at Emuckfau Creek when they marched on Cholocco Litabixi. Chief Menawa and the prophet Monahi led us then in victory and vengeance and are there now preparing to defend again our sacred heritage. Men of Cusseta and Coweta, I ask you why warriors of your tribes fought alongside the Americans against us? Have you no loyalty to your ancestors?”

  “You are my brother,” retorted the Coweta chief. “I do not question your loyalties, you do not question mine. I will not fight against the whites, but I will never dishonor my ancestors or betray my people by fighting on the side of the American soldiers. Some of our young men, I am sad to say, have enlisted with the Americans. They are condemned. They are no longer welcome in their own villages.”