Tallapoosa

by Larry Williamson

  “We lost one already, sir,” replied an orderly, “shortly after we left the field. Several others can’t possibly survive the march. Wish we could do more for them.”

  Carroll pulled back the flap at the stern of one of the wagons. Several gravely wounded men, some unconscious, the others suffering, lay on pallets. Amidst moans of compatriots, one soldier near the front screamed in pain. Carroll clenched his teeth as he turned his attention to the casualty nearest him. He tenderly lifted one side of the front of the man’s open jacket. The semiconscious soldier writhed in silent misery, but he tightly clutched one hand to the other side of his jacket.

  The ugly wound to the soldier’s abdomen repulsed Carroll. He turned his head away and spoke quietly to the orderly.

  “This one looks bad.”

  “He is, sir. Some damn Indian chopped up his belly with an ax. Nothing we can do. I don’t know how he has lived this long.”

  “He can’t be more than nineteen or twenty. Who is he?”

  “Name’s Ottis, sir. Virgil Tom Ottis from near Nashville.”

  Carroll looked again at the fated man. “What is he holding?”

  “Seems to be a bundle of papers, sir. We tried to retrieve them, but he won’t let go.”

  Colonel Carroll started to the next wagon. “Make the poor soul as comfortable as you can. All these poor souls.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The column pushed on but paused again at midday for a meal of field rations, and to rest and water the horses and mules. Jackson summoned Coffee and the militia infantry commanders. He had not forgotten the escaped Red Sticks.

  “Form squads of mounted rangers and fan them out up and down the river, and to any other possible route of escape,” he ordered. “We need to account for as many of the rotten savages as we can now, or we shall surely meet them again. They must not join other Creeks to the south on the lower Tallapoosa and Coosa.”

  The march continued until evening. The army made camp more than halfway back to Fort Williams. Even having to be careful with the hospital wagons, the going was much easier than the trek east had been because of already having a clear trail.

  General Jackson sat writing a second report to Governor Blount in Nashville. He had written the first installment late last night after he was satisfied that the battlefield had been secured. He had included a map of the field of combat, which he titled “Battle of Tehopiska,” speculating as best he could on the spelling of the Red Sticks’ garrison village, since neither he nor anyone else had anything but the spoken sound as guidance.

  He had described in detail the river, the landscape, the Creek opposition, and the battle itself. He now amended parts of that report and related additional observations. He made it a point to be particularly eloquent in praising the courage of his troops.

  “John,” Jackson addressed General Coffee at a staff briefing, “you enjoyed fine perspective on the events of the day from your position. I would like for you to submit a detailed account for Governor Blount. Your statements, I perceive, will be most valuable. And gentlemen,” he added, turning to the other officers, “you, too, are invited to offer written accounts. A complete record of this event is most desirable. But, please gentlemen, I should like to read each report before it is forwarded to Nashville or to authorities in Knoxville.”

  Late on the afternoon of the twenty-ninth, the first of the army arrived in Fort Williams. The ferry once again sprang into fulltime operation, but now not so urgent or so hectic.

  The hospital caravan had fallen woefully behind, but when they did arrive they were ushered ahead onto the ferry without delay. Four gravely wounded soldiers had died on the journey and had been buried along the trail in simple but honorable ceremonies. Others would succumb to their injuries, surgeons were certain, some to the severity of their wounds but too many to infection and inadequate medical supplies. Screams and groans of agony constantly tormented those attending the wagons.

  That evening, General Jackson shared a cup of rum with his staff and command officers. He toasted the victory but voiced apprehension and shared his next strategem.

  “Gentlemen, this war, I fear, is not over, though we have won the greatest victory I can imagine. We must remain diligent and take full advantage of our new position of strength.”

  “Our congratulations and admiration, General,” hailed one of the militia generals. “What is our next adventure?”

  “I think that we must march south along the Coosa without unwarranted delay. We must establish absolute control of the Tallapoosa and the Coosa in preparation to attacking the Red Stick strongholds along the Alabama River.”

  “Forgive me, General,” interjected one of the militia brigadiers, “but I must confess that I am somewhat puzzled. Upon our overwhelming success at the Horseshoe, I fully expected you to order the march to continue down the course of the Tallapoosa. Would that not have been the logical tactic?”

  “Perhaps, General.” Jackson pondered carefully. “We would have enjoyed the advantage of the enemy’s disarray. They could not have possibly regrouped had we pursued in force. However, our supply lines would have been gravely stretched and our soldiers weary, and had we met another force comparable to the one at Tohopeka, we may not have had the means to prevail. A most valuable military tactic to remember, my good man, is not to forfeit a well-earned advantage in numbers. And we know there are large and formidable Creek villages along the southern runs of the Tallapoosa.

  “Instead of conquering those villages by force,” Jackson continued, “I propose to isolate them. The best way to do that is to win a strong position at the confluence of the rivers. Gain that and we will have little worry from the tribes of the lower Tallapoosa. In traveling down the Coosa we should meet far less resistance than we would have on the Tallapoosa. Once at the junction, we should have most of the remaining Creek hostiles trapped between us and General Claiborne’s Mississippi militia. He campaigns in the south of the Alabama country.

  “I trust my logic is agreeable to your own very fine instincts, gentlemen. What say you?”

  “When do we leave, General?”

  Jackson surveyed his officers’ expressions. Each one nodded approval. He returned the gesture before answering the last question. “We’ll take a few days to regroup and repair. We will send scout teams down the Coosa tomorrow. Prepare to march in less than a week. Our ranger squads in pursuit of the stragglers from the Horseshoe should have returned by then.”

  General Jackson lifted his rum mug in another toast. “Continued good health. And continued good hunting for us all.”

  As Billy Carroll stood at the doorway observing and listening to his superiors, he was interrupted.

  “Colonel Carroll, sir?”

  He turned to face a militia soldier. “Yes?”

  “I beg your pardon, Colonel Carroll. Sir, I’m Corporal Poole, the hospital orderly you talked with on the trail. You were reviewing the wounded?”

  “Yes, corporal, I remember. What can I do for you?”

  Poole held out a blood soaked leather oilskin. “I think you should have this, sir.”

  “What is it?” asked Carroll as he fingered the soggy packet. He turned back the cover to expose a sheaf of neatly folded pages.

  “It’s the bundle Private Ottis was protecting under his jacket. The young soldier with the belly wound?”

  “Oh, yes. A bloody mess he was. Poor man.”

  “He died, sir. He lived much longer than he should have with that wound. I’ve never seen a man fight so hard to live.”

  “I’m dreadfully sorry, corporal. I’m sure he was a fine young man.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And these papers?”

  “They appear to be letters, sir. A number of them. Ottis woke up moments before he died and pushed the bundle to me. He said, ‘For Elsa,’ then he closed his eyes and he was gone.”r />
  “Elsa?”

  “Must be his wife, sir. Or sweetheart. He hailed from near Nashville. I thought you might see that the letters are delivered to her.”

  “That’s the least we can do for a brave soldier. Thank you, corporal. You are a kind man.”

  37

  The Murph settlement, March 30, 1814

  Because Anna had awakened restless, Soosquana walked with her in the fresh air as the sun rose. A light breeze blew under a cloudless sky, promising a gorgeous spring day. No one else had yet stirred.

  “Now, now, little one,” she cooed in Muskogean as she walked along the bluff and nestled Anna closely in her arms, “you usually are not so crotchety. What bothers my pretty little . . . ?”

  Something amiss caught her eye and stopped her short as she scanned the river. She looked closer at the shoals and, yes, an overturned dugout log canoe straddled a large rock near the bottom of the trace. That wasn’t all. A man lay wedged between two other rocks five yards above the canoe.

  Soosquana ran to the cabin. “Saul!” Saul opened the door, startled, as she reached the porch. He was already dressed. “Saul, come quick! A man, a warrior, I think. He is hurt. Or maybe dead.”

  “Where?”

  “At the river. On the rocks. Quickly!”

  Saul reached back inside the door for his musket and ran for Cal’s cabin. Cal and Adelin had heard Soosquana’s alarm and awaited him on their porch, muskets in hand. They ran to the edge of the bluff together. Soosquana, holding Anna, hung back near the cabins.

  Saul and Cal appraised the scene with one look.

  “Adelin, cover us from up here!” ordered Saul. “Cal and I need to go down there. Come on, Cal!”

  They ran for the path and scrambled down it, cautious that no one else lurked about. Adelin scanned in all directions from the bluff with the same concern. Saul and Cal leaped across the rocks, stepping in the water and fighting against its rapid rush where there was no foothold. They reached the man and braced themselves in the waist deep current, one on either side.

  The man was indeed a Red Stick, still sporting remnants of bright red body designs that signaled war or celebrated the hunt. Blood caked in every crevice of his body that had not been cleansed by the agitation of the river. He was unconscious.

  “Is he alive?” Adelin shouted from atop the bluff.

  “Yeah. Barely,” Saul answered. Adelin turned and relayed something to Soosquana, unintelligible to the men working frantically to examine the Indian.

  “He’s in bad shape,” said Cal.

  “Yeah. We gotta get him up the hill, but let’s be careful moving him.”

  It took a full twenty minutes to work the man from the river and gently carry him up the trail. Adelin met them halfway to help. Gaining the top, they laid him down carefully to get a better reading on his wounds and condition.

  “Good god!” exclaimed Saul. “He’s been shot all over his body! He’s got no call being alive.”

  “Knife wounds, too,” observed Cal. “Or, more likely, bayonets.”

  “Move him to our cabin,” ordered Soosquana, walking up and observing the situation. “We can best fix him up there.”

  The man appeared to be well into his forties, much older than the typical Red Stick warrior. The total count of his wounds was seven from gunshot, a few cuts, and dozens of gashes and scrapes from river rocks. Miraculously, none of the musket balls had apparently touched a vital organ, but he had lost much blood. He was terribly weak and his lips were swollen and parched.

  “He looks as if he hasn’t eaten,” observed Adelin.

  “Maybe not for days,” Soosquana agreed. “The river and the sun have not been kind to him. We will try to get some soup in him.”

  While Saul and Adelin rubbed poultice into the man’s wounds, Soosquana prepared a pot of thin soup and some herb tea.

  “Cal,” suggested Saul, “get back out there and keep a sharp eye. We need to know if there are any more of these fellows, or if there is someone chasing him.”

  “He doesn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere now,” said Adelin, “but we’re going to need more bandages than we have. I’ll see if I can find something to make them from.”

  In a short while, reacting to the salve, the warm blankets, and the cool soaks Adelin applied to his forehead, the man groaned and began moving his arms and legs.

  “You better come around here, Soos,” summoned Saul, as the man squirmed more vigorously and began to shake his head and blink his eyes. He groaned loudly as he felt pain. “You need to be the first one he sees.”

  The man became still and squeezed his eyes tightly. He grimaced and moaned again. He opened his eyes slowly and struggled to focus on the person above him. He blinked hard. He made an effort to sit up, but the pain and the person he could vaguely see forced him again to his back.

  Soosquana spoke soothingly to him in Muskogean. He looked confused as he stared at her incredulously, still trying to blink the fog from his vision. She continued to talk to him and he seemed to calm slightly.

  Soosquana turned to the others. “Let’s try a little water first.”

  Startled, as the man saw the two white people for the first time, he tried to sit up, fear and surprise on his face. Soosquana wheeled, grabbed him, and coaxed him to lie back on the bed. She began to explain to him rapidly; he kept his eyes on Saul and Adelin as she talked. He clearly didn’t trust them. Soosquana sensed that the man not knowing where he was made his situation even more fearsome.

  Finally, Soosquana convinced him to relax again. He still eyed the strange whites. She took a dipper of water and placed it to his lips. He took a tentative sip, choked, coughed it up, then tried another sip. The second one went down. His throat thus cleared, he felt his thirst and attempted to gulp from the dipper. Soosquana prevented it.

  “Not so fast; take it easy,” Saul and Adelin knew she said in Muskogean. She withdrew the gourd dipper and turned to them and said in English, “Let’s try some of the tea next.”

  Five minutes later, after a few difficult sips of warm herb tea, Soosquana decreed that her patient might be ready for soup. After three spoonfuls, he fell sound asleep while attempting the fourth.

  “That helped,” Soosquana sighed. “A lot. He’ll sleep for a while now, and will be stronger when he awakes.” She glanced at the cradle where Anna lay peacefully asleep herself. Apparently the excitement had cured her restlessness.

  “What did he say?” asked Saul. “Where did he get those wounds?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask him. It was all I could do to calm him down and get him to eat something.”

  “Did he tell you his name?”

  “No. I did not ask him that, either. We will learn more when he wakes up. Maybe he’ll trust us better then.”

  “You girls stay with him. I’ll go out and see what Cal has found.”

  “Did he wake up?” Cal asked as Saul approached him at the edge of the bluff.

  “Yeah. He even looks like he might survive. Don’t know how, though, with all that.”

  “Who is he?” Cal asked his first of the same questions Saul had asked of Soosquana. Saul relayed the same answers.

  “He surely has been in some kind of big fight,” Saul spoke the obvious. “I hope it was with other Creeks and not with soldiers.”

  “I’m afraid it might have been soldiers.” Cal stated what Saul didn’t want to say. “All his big wounds were from musket shot; none from arrows. Also the possible bayonet wounds.”

  “Yeah, I know. Have you seen anything?” The men turned their attention back to the river.

  “No, nothing. Look.” Cal pointed at the overturned canoe. “He had to have floated on that thing down the river and then ridden it over the fall. If he wasn’t already unconscious, he was too weak to control it and knocked himself out on the rocks.”

 
“I expect he was at least half out already.” Saul digressed. “How do you control those clumsy boats, anyway?”

  “How do they even stay afloat? They weigh about a half ton.”

  “Maybe we ought to get rid of the thing in case someone might be hunting this fellow. We don’t want them stopping here.”

  Saul and Cal again scurried down the path and made their way to the log canoe. They freed it and ushered it to deep water below the shoals. They filled it with head-size boulders until it sank, then quickly reclimbed the bluff.

  “He just woke up,” Adelin whispered as the men came through the door. Soosquana was feeding the warrior more soup. He pushed aside her spoon and raised his head in full alert. He stared at Saul and Cal. “Soos explained who we are but I don’t think he trusts us yet. I don’t think he trusts her, but she’s working on him.”

  Soosquana succeeded in directing the man’s attention back to the soup. He finished the bowl and Soosquana offered him water. He drank it down and asked for more. She then began to question him again, patiently and slowly.

  “He was in a big battle with the white soldiers,” Soosquana relayed to the others. “Thousands of soldiers.”

  “Good god!” exclaimed Saul.

  The man kept talking, but in a slow murmur. Soosquana gasped. “At Cholocco Litabixi. Killed hundreds of Muskogis. Three days ago, he thinks,” she continued in a choking voice, “but he isn’t sure. He found the canoe and floated on the river after he got away, but he thinks he was unconscious much of the time. He didn’t know how bad he was hurt or how many times he had been shot until I told him.”

  Soosquana desperately wished to ask the man if he knew anything of her brothers or of Pokkataw, but she resisted. She knew not to frighten him or surprise him further, and she personally feared his answer.

  “Ask him his name,” suggested Cal.

  Soosquana and the patient had a short discussion. “He won’t say,” she said.

  “Ask him about Pokkataw and Tolokika and Ettepti-loka,” suggested Adelin. “He might know something of them, and even if he doesn’t, asking about them might cause him to trust us more.”