Tallapoosa

by Larry Williamson

  The newly arrived troops, even the disciplined regulars, were anxious to fight. The few that had been on the scene since autumn had sickened of winter and its sparse activity, and they remained bitter about Emuckfau and Enitachopco. They craved revenge and in no small way blamed the newcomer soldiers for not being with them earlier. That’s why they were undermanned, they reasoned. The mixture of men and attitudes stirred a volatile brew. Daily fights, in the evening and even in the midst of training drills, became common.

  “You fancy sonofabitch!” snarled a militia ranger sergeant after decking a Thirty-Ninth Infantry enlistee with one punch. The ranger chewed a wad of tobacco, a few strands of which dribbled out the corner of his mouth, floating on a rivulet of juice. “You bring your stuffy uniforms and your high-handed marching drills down here and think that’s gonna scare them Indians. Hell! I’ve killed more of them stinking savages than you’ve ever seen.”

  The soldier slowly picked himself up. The sergeant made a run at him to continue the assault, but the other man parried his punch and shoved him off balance. The smaller soldier kicked the big militiaman on the shin, then stepped aside and punched him hard in the head as he stumbled past. The sergeant went down with a thump and skidded across the bare, packed dirt, all foliage having long ago worn away.

  The sergeant jumped up, cursing and spitting out mud mixed from a mouthful of dirt and thick brown tobacco saliva. “You bastard, god damn you! I’ll kill you, you mule turd!”

  Another man stepped between them, catching the full force of the sergeant’s brawny body. The interloper almost went down himself, but he had stopped the charge. All regained their balance and their composure.

  The regular snapped to attention. “Beg your forgiveness, Colonel Carroll. My apologies.”

  “What the hell are you idiots doing? Wai . . . Stand at ease, damn it! Wait and kill some Indians, not each other!”

  “That sonabitch started it, Colonel. These pretty boys think they can . . . .”

  “God dammit, Sergeant Barnes! Always something with you. Can’t you just be a good soldier?”

  “I am a good soldier. Damn good!”

  “Away from the post, maybe. With someone to shoot at. Hell, you’ve been here all winter, haven’t you?”

  Pride flickered across Sergeant Barnes’ face. He pulled himself to full height. “Yessir! I’ve fought some Indians, too.”

  “But you didn’t come down from Nashville with General Jackson, as I recall.” Carroll sneered. “You arrived with Cocke’s militia.”

  “Yes, sir. General White’s ranger company. We kicked them Indians’ asses before the others left!”

  “You raided Creek villages that didn’t want to fight,” Carroll corrected. Barnes gritted his teeth at the insult but didn’t dare argue. “Why didn’t you return to Knoxville with your unit, sergeant?”

  “Hell, I come here to fight Indians. I warn’t gonna go back while any of the mangy skunks was still murdering decent Americans. So I stayed and enlisted with General Jackson. Good thing some of us did, too, Colonel, ‘cause these damn pretty soldiers don’t know a Creek Indian from a billy goat.”

  Colonel Carroll quickly assessed that the sergeant’s opponent and his regular army buddies had drifted away. Another potential brawl that could have been born from Sergeant Barnes’s insults was thus averted.

  “Well, how about saving your fighting for the Creeks, sergeant? Or for the billy goats? Goddammit! We’re having to break up twenty scraps every evening.” Colonel Carroll turned and walked off. “Don’t kill each other,” he called back over his shoulder. “In due time, I assure you, you’ll have your chance again with the Creeks.”

  Fifty miles down the Coosa, there was scant time or energy for fist fights or other diversions. The construction detachment worked night and day to build Fort Williams. The outpost’s mission was to serve primarily as a supply depot. Three thousand soldiers would use it as a stopping off point. Upon their return from the Horseshoe, weary and wounded men would rest and recover under the post’s protection.

  The site had been selected near a stretch of the river that was wide and shallow and swift. A reasonable ford for horses crossed a half mile downriver. Adjacent to the rising stockade, workers set up a blacksmith shop and a forge.

  On the river, craftsmen built a large, flat barge to ferry troops and wagons. The design of the ferry followed closely that of the one spanning the river at Fort Strother. Two thick, strong ropes looped through metal grommets atop the rails running the full length of either side of the barge. With the parallel ropes stretched taut and anchored to either bank of the river, the vessel would maintain a nearly straight course as its grommets slid along the ropes.

  Another massive rope was attached to the midpoint of one end of the ferry and ran through a pulley anchored to the trunk of a large tree on one bank. From there it doubled back to pass through two pulleys on the centerline of the barge, one at each end, on to a pulley at the base of a tree on the opposite shore, and finally back to be secured at the midpoint of the other end of the barge. A dozen men on deck would pull on the middle rope to convey the ferry from one side of the Coosa to the other, slowly but effectively. A hundred men or four wagons, less their mules, could ride on each crossing.

  As with other phases of the project, the river crossing sparked dozens of mishaps. The cold water claimed several dunking victims each day.

  “Aiieee!” The scream signaled another involuntary plunge as one of the ropes unexpectedly snapped tight and propelled a surprised soldier working at one of the barge rails high into the air and over the side. He landed with a dramatic splash and was immediately caught by the current. The canoe that shuttled tools and materials between the river banks pulled alongside.

  “You all right there, mate?”

  “Hell no, I’m not all right! I’m freezing in this damnable river.” The man shivered and his teeth chattered as he struggled to stay afloat. “Get me in your boat.”

  “Nay. You’ll tip us over. Swim for the bank and dry yourself by the fire.”

  “Damn you! I’m trying to swim, you fool.”

  “Then swim harder.”

  He did and finally attained the eastern bank, exhausted, cold, angry, and a quarter mile downstream. He struggled back to the landing and the blazing fire, feeling more dead than alive. He stripped naked and proceeded to dry his clothes and revive his blood circulation. A half hour later he was back on the barge finishing his work on the rail.

  On the east bank workers cleared a large staging area, and also the first mile of road leading eastward into the wilderness. Cavalry patrolled both sides. Woodsmen cut and hauled logs for the fort and the ferry. Carpenters and craftsmen fashioned the logs into walls, gates, ramps, huts, and the thick deck of the barge.

  Campsites settled in on the west side of the river around the stockade. Generally, two or more tents shared a fire, around which the men cooked their sparse meals and dried their clothes. The uncomfortable tents fostered little sleep, but those few hours were nevertheless precious.

  In a little more than a week, the commander of the exhausted construction detachment sent a message to Fort Strother:

  “General Jackson, I beg you to accept my compliments and my deepest admiration. It is my satisfying duty to inform you that Fort Williams is fully constructed and ready for the occupancy of your army. We await your good pleasure, sir, and your instructions. With loyalty and devotion, . . . .”

  Every piece of General Jackson’s plan had now been assembled. All that remained was for him to fit them together into a devastating, undeniable fighting force.

  29

  The Murph settlement, March, 1814

  Saul reached the end of the row. He straightened and wiped sweat from his brow, despite the chill of this cold day in early March. He set down his pail of seed corn and watched Cal struggle behind the makeshift plow pulled by Georg
e as they finished another furrow a few rows over. He leaned on the hickory staff he used to punch holes in the turned soil to receive the kernels of corn.

  “You watch,” pronounced Saul. “Shoots will poke through in a week if we get a little rain and it doesn’t turn colder. We’ll be eating corn from this field in two months.”

  “If we don’t get another hard freeze, you mean.” Cal wiped his own sweat as George maneuvered around to head in the opposite direction. “What then?”

  “We just replant. We got plenty of seed.”

  “I still say we’re planting too early.”

  “I ain’t been wrong yet, have I, since we’ve been here?”

  “Dumb luck, big brother. But still, that early summer corn sure tastes good. And the onions, and the beans, and all the other stuff.”

  “Pa always tried to plant early back in Virginia. You were too young to care then. The weather wasn’t always agreeable and the soil was more suited for orchards than vegetables. But he made it work somehow.” Saul retrieved his pail and stepped over to the next fresh furrow. “Not like here, though. This dirt can grow anything.”

  “You think we need to break extra ground? We do have two more people now than we had this time last year.”

  “Naw. We already been growing more than we need or can give to the Creeks.” He snickered. “Don’t think Anna’s gonna eat much anyway. This patch of corn will be more than enough for us and the animals and plenty of seed for next year. Double if we get good growing weather.”

  “Yeah, I guess. How many more rows then, you think?”

  “You just keep up with George. He’ll know when to quit.”

  At the end of the next row Adelin met them with a wooden bucket half full of water, and a gourd dipper.

  “What are you ladies doing this morning?” asked Saul as he drank. He handed the gourd to Cal.

  “The three of us are having a fine time. I refuse to tell you what we’re doing, though,” Adelin teased.

  “Another one of your secrets, is it?” asked Cal.

  “No. It just might not be any of your business. Tell you what is your business; you promised to patch that leak in the roof today. Next time it rains we might get floated out if you don’t get to it.”

  “All right, Miss Nag. I’ll do it this afternoon when we get through here.”

  “Look!” Adelin whispered, pointing to the edge of the woods. A fawn, scant weeks old and still on wobbly legs, had wandered a few yards onto the field. He stopped when he saw the strangers, stared a minute, then yielded to curiosity and took a few more steps toward them.

  “His mama has to be close around,” said Cal.

  “He’s beautiful!” Adelin marveled, then added sadly, “Too bad he has to grow up.”

  The fawn turned and ran back into the forest. Adelin held the bucket for George to drink the remainder of the water. She caressed the mule’s cheek and gave him a playful nuzzle with her forehead, then returned to the cabins. The men and George resumed their work.

  Saul and Cal would plant onions and peppers in the next few days, then butterbeans and field peas in a couple of weeks. Potatoes and several kinds of greens and a few other crops would follow later. Each year so far they had harvested a bounty and had plenty extra to store away for the winter and to trade with the Creeks, or to just give away. Saul prided himself on his farming skill. Someday, he often confided to the others, he might like to oversee a large plantation. That is, he would always add, if he ever left his river paradise, and he reckoned that might never happen.

  Later, Cal straddled the peak of the cabin roof replacing three shingles that had cracked. The shingles were wide slabs of green pine, split from thick logs. They were fitted tightly together on the roof and the seams sealed with thick mud made from red clay of a consistency that, when cured, would allow no seepage.

  A distant movement caught Cal’s eye. He could not see the river from his perch but he could see the eastern bank over the lip of the bluff. Someone moved along the foot path, going north. He caught glimpses through the brush that hid the trail, but could not see the travelers clearly until they passed adjacent to the head rocks of the shoals.

  Several painted, fully armed Red Sticks hurried along the path. Cal watched them carefully for any sign of hostile intent. However, the warriors never glanced his way, as if unaware that the Murphs were there. He continued to watch long after they had disappeared on the north trail.

  There go more of them, he thought. The river traffic since Pokkataw was here has been all north, none going south. I guess they are heading for wherever it was that Pokkataw said he was going, Cal pondered further, someplace named for a horse, or a horse hoof, or something.

  Cal asked the others about it at supper, telling what he had seen. Soosquana, who often sat or strolled with Anna near the edge of the bluff, confirmed his observation.

  “Cholocco Litabixi,” she corrected, giggling at Cal’s mispronunciation. “It means the horse’s hoofprint. Yes, I have seen many. They never stop, they never look up like some used to do when they passed. They seem very troubled and are in much of a hurry.”

  “Pokkataw and his friends were in a nasty mood when they stopped by,” said Saul. “Something surely is happening or is about to happen, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ve not seen any warriors going south. Have you, Soos?” asked Adelin, who also walked with the baby at the bluff at least once a day.

  “Only mothers with children sometime. No warriors go south. Cholocco Litabixi is where my brothers are, I am certain.”

  “All the men we see are from the south river towns, don’t you think, Soos?” asked Cal. She grunted and nodded yes. “If they are going to the Horseshoe place, there must be even more on the move from Oakfuski and the Hillabi villages and from other places. What are they up to, reckon?”

  “Can’t be good.” Saul turned somber. “They must know something about Mr. Jackson’s army. Something bad. Can’t understand, though, what could be going on that far up the river.”

  30

  Cholocco Litabixi, the Horseshoe, March, 1814

  Pokkataw, the Saugahatchis, and a half dozen warriors from the Hillabi villages had been at Cholocco Litabixi almost a week. Nearly a thousand Red Sticks had gathered with more arriving each day. Three hundred women and children were also present, which indicated confidence in the shamans’ declaration that this peculiar stretch of the Tallapoosa River constituted holy ground and could not be defiled by the ungodly.

  The river flowed in from the northeast, made a slight turn south and gently curved right for nearly a half mile. The curvature increased as the river looped around a semicircular bend for more than a quarter mile. It then coursed north for another half mile until it encountered a large island. At that point the bend had traversed a total of more than one hundred eighty degrees. Only a narrow neck of three hundred yards separated the river from itself where the bend began. At the island in the curve of the river where it turns away from the peninsula, the current spun around its right side in treacherous eddies while the channel past its back side was narrow and rocky and shallow. The two forks rejoined and worked westward before gradually bending to the southwest.

  The peninsula-like spit of land thus surrounded by the river provided a natural fortress, protected by the fifty to one hundred yards wide river on all but the narrow land end. The interior of the peninsula was a tableland, which dropped off modest slopes to flats leading to the river banks. The flats around most of the bend were from ten to forty yards wide, but at the vertex they broadened to two hundred yards, forming a spacious, open plain hosting many mature pines and hardwoods and overlooked by a wooded knoll. On this plain had been established the new village of Tohopeka, in which most of the warriors and all the women and children lived. A few small, long established villages thrived along a stretch of a few miles on the other side of the river.

 
Chief Menawa, a warrior of Oakfuski and a mighty leader of past battles against enemy Cherokee tribes and renegade raiders in Georgia, had constructed a massive log barricade across the neck of the peninsula. It zigzagged over the flat of an open field, with an unobstructed view for several hundred yards out front, and along its length until it dropped down either slope to the river. The structure consisted of double layers of large logs built to more than the height of a man. Two levels of ports for sharpshooters’ muskets dotted its face. Risers climbed the backside of the barricade to platforms so that defenders could fire muskets or arrows over the top. By way of the risers, warriors could also mount the breastwork to rebut a direct assault with clubs and spears and knives and bare hands. Mud was packed into every unneeded crevice and dried hard. Work continued; builders would keep improving the fortress indefinitely, or until the soldiers came, if they ever did.

  An imposing wooded hill lay only fifty yards in front of the barricade. It was this eminence that Pokkataw and others most noticed, but also the total lack of defenses other than the wall. Pokkataw sought council with Menawa.

  “Chief Menawa, the hill concerns us. Why do we concede it to the side of the field to be occupied by the enemy?”

  “Pokkataw, I know you. We both were nourished from our youth by the waters of Hillabi Creek. I know of your feats of bravery and of your deeds of diplomacy and good will. Why do you question the wisdom of the prophets?”

  “Is it the prophets that have advised you to ignore such a strategic position?”

  “The prophets tell me that it is of little value to our cause, and that should the enemy occupy it they will suffer certain death by the anger of the Spirits. The Maker of Breath will permit us no harm from the hill. And since our fortress cannot be breached we will be kept safe from harm by the Spirits.”