Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

“He’s tough as a cob, ain’t he?”

  “Indeed.”

  November 2, 1813

  Coosa River, Alabama Territory

  Jackson’s army was making camp when Yank rode in with Crockett.

  “Did you find the rascals?” Jackson asked, as Yank dismounted.

  “They’re at Tallasehatche.” Yank pointed. “About thirteen miles that way.”

  “What’s the ground like?”

  “Open and flat surrounded by woodland.”

  “General Coffee?” Jackson called.

  “Sir.” Coffee came toward him.

  “We have a task for your cavalry,” he said brusquely. “Colonel Van Buskirk will give you the details. Please launch your attack as soon as practical and take Captain Brown’s Creeks with you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Coffee saluted, looked toward Yank and walked away from Jackson.

  Yank followed Coffee until the big man stopped. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “Ah, he’s sore at me for tellin’ Doctor McKinney that his arm was all swelled-up.”

  Yank smiled.

  “Where am I goin’ to?”

  “Tallasehatche. I’ll show you the way as soon as I can get a remount.”

  “Okay.” He looked across the clearing. “Colonel Allcorn?”

  “Sir?” Allcorn hurried toward him.

  “Boots and saddles. Oh, and send somebody over to Captain Richard Brown to tell him that his company’s been invited.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  November 4, 1813

  Tallasehatche, Alabama Territory

  Coffee halted about a half mile above the town and silently assembled his officers. “I want to sneak down there and surround ‘em then hit ‘em at sunup,” he began. “Colonel Cannon’s mounted riflemen go left and Colonel Alcorn with the dragoons go right until y’all bump into each other on the backside.” He waited until the two officers nodded their understanding before continuing. “Captain Hammond and Lieutenant Patterson are gonna be our bait. Colonel Van Buskirk?”

  “General?”

  “Would you stay back here with Captain Brown’s Creek detachment and kinda shepherd them in where they’re needed once the battle’s well joined?”

  “Yes, sir.” Yank could see that Brown wasn’t happy at the prospect of being held back.

  “Then let’s mount up and move out quietly,” Coffee said in dismissal.

  Yank walked over to Captain Brown. “I think General Coffee is holding you back because he’s worried about friendly fire accidents.”

  Brown shrugged. “My men are all wearing white feathers and a deer tail in their hair.”

  “It may be that he hadn’t noticed.”

  “Maybe.”

  Yank walked back to where Crockett was sitting with his back against a tree and sat down beside him.

  “How we gonna keep them savages from butcherin’ the women and kids, sir?” Crockett asked, nodding toward Brown.

  “I don’t understand their customs,” Yank said to avoid a direct answer. “Do you understand General Coffee’s plan?”

  “Yes, sir. Colonel Cannon and Colonel Alcorn are gonna make a circle around the town, then Captain Hammond and Lieutenant Patterson is gonna draw the Indians out.”

  “Yes. Are you nervous?”

  “Nervous, sir? Do you mean am I scared of gettin’ kilt?”

  “Yes, more or less.”

  “Reckon I’m a little worried about that, but I’m mostly worried about how I’ll do. I ain’t never stuck nobody with a bayonet before.”

  “And you probably won’t today either. General Coffee’s not likely to organize a bayonet attack. In fact he’s not likely to order fixed bayonets.”

  “But I can if I want to, right sir?”

  “Once we’re fully engaged it will be every man for himself, so you do whatever you can to survive.”

  ~

  Private Davy Crockett leaned out from his saddle and vomited.

  Yank pretended not to notice and continued counting the dead.

  “We ain’t supposed to kill women and children, sir,” Crockett said.

  “It happens when they get mixed in among the fighting. Sometimes it’s accidental, sometimes it’s wickedness and sometimes it’s self-defense because the woman or child has taken up a weapon.”

  “But there must be near twenty, sir. That’s a passel.”

  “I’ve counted a hundred-eighty-six dead warriors and sixteen that could presumably be called non-combatants. I don’t think that ratio’s so bad considering how tight it was in the village.”

  “That sergeant said we had five killed and forty-one wounded.”

  Yank nodded. “Go find him and tell him the enemy body count then meet me over by those trees. I want to find a high position to watch the roads after the town’s been fired and General Coffee begins to retire.”

  “Colonel Cannon said I was on burial detail.”

  “Well then that’s what you must do. But give the sergeant his body count first.”

  “Yes, sir.” Crockett saluted and rode away.

  Yank guided his horse through the carnage and up the hill toward the trees but he was caught by a weary looking dispatch rider before he reached the top.

  “General Claiborne’s compliments, sir.” He saluted then gave Yank the pouch.

  Yank read the message. “Do you know why he needs me so urgently?”

  “No, sir. He just told me to find you quick as I could and bring you straight back.”

  “You look done in, Sergeant.”

  “It’s been a long, hard ride, sir, and I had a couple of scrapes with the Creeks along the way.” He showed Yank the stub of an arrow shaft in his thigh. “I just need somebody to take this out. Then if I can get me some grub and a fresh mount we can be on our way.”

  “You need the surgeon.” Yank pointed. “You’ll find him there in that tent.”

  “I’m to accompany you back to General Claiborne’s headquarters, sir.”

  “I’m superseding the general’s order.”

  “You can’t make that ride alone, sir. I wouldn’t try it myself and I know where the hostiles are at.”

  “You are to stay with General Jackson until you have recovered. What you do after that, General Jackson can decide.”

  December 1, 1813

  Fort Claiborne, Alabama Territory

  Yank approached the newly constructed stockade cautiously. It was built on high ground, with three tall walls about two hundred feet long and a blockhouse flanked by four small cannons enclosing the fourth side. “Hello in the fort.”

  The gate swung open. “Come ahead, sir. The general’s been lookin’ for you.”

  Yank eased his horse forward. “What is this place?”

  “Fort Claiborne, sir. It’s to be a stronghold for supplies for the Tennesseans.” The speaker and another man closed and barred the gate. “Looks like Sergeant Cameron had some bad luck.”

  “Sergeant Cameron?” Yank dismounted.

  “Your escort, sir.”

  “Oh. He had an arrow in his leg when he arrived with the dispatch. I left him in the care of General Jackson’s surgeon.” He looked toward the blockhouse. “Is General Claiborne in there?”

  “No, sir. That’s his quarters.” The man pointed to a small log house with a smoking chimney, then took the reins from Yank. “Go right in. The scouts reported your progress since you crossed the river so he knows you’re here.”

  “Good scouts. I never saw them.”

  “Seminoles, sir.”

  As Yank walked through the door, Claiborne got up and hurried to meet Yank and shake his hand. “We’d about given you up for lost. What took you so long?”

  “I’ve been chased all over the territory.”

  “What happened to Sergeant Cameron?”

  “He got shot in the leg on the way up.” Yank walked to the fireplace to warm his hands.

  “So you had a lot of trouble getting here?”

  “I started with three
horses and got here with one that’s nearly lame, if that tells you anything. What’s so damnably urgent?”

  “The English have been landing ships in Pensacola Bay with supplies for the Indians and they’ve even been sending troops out with some of the larger bands. When General Flournoy got confirmation of that, he finally turned me loose.” He walked back to his desk. “Here, let me read you his order.”

  “No, that’s not necessary.”

  “No, I want you to hear what he said. I’ve got it here – someplace. Ah.” He picked up the dispatch. “Let’s see. The last part’s what I want you to hear.” He looked at Yank and grinned. “He says that I’m: ‘to drive the enemy from the frontiers; to follow them up to their contiguous towns, and to kill, burn, and destroy all their negroes, horses, cattle, and other property that cannot conveniently be brought to the depots.’,” Claiborne cackled. “How’s that sound?”

  “Bloody. Any word from Jackson?”

  “He had a big fight at Talladega a couple of days after you left.”

  “A fight with whom?”

  “William Weatherford or whatever the hell he calls himself. Hopping-something.”

  “His war name is Hopnicafutsahia which means Truth Teller in English.”

  “That’s a new one, isn’t it? Our allied Creeks call him Red Eagle.”

  “Lamochattee,” Yank replied. “What was the outcome?”

  “Of what?”

  “The big fight between Jackson and Weatherford.”

  “Oh. Jackson killed three hundred, lost fifteen dead and eighty-five wounded.”

  “Did Weatherford get away?”

  “He must have or Jackson would have mentioned it.”

  “Where is he now? Jackson, I mean,”

  “Fort Strother. He’s down to less than five hundred men.”

  Yank turned away from the fire. “You did say fifteen dead, not fifteen-hundred, didn’t you?”

  “The sixty-day enlistments ran out and he’s out of supplies so he’s had a lot of desertions. We’re sending him everything we can spare but I’m afraid that’s not much.”

  “God damn all politicians,” Yank said vehemently.

  Claiborne nodded agreement. “Have you heard about the Hartford Convention?”

  “It doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “The Federalist Party’s holding a convention in Harford to decide if New England will secede from the United States.”

  “Who cares,” Yank grumbled.

  Claiborne looked surprised. “You must be worn out. That was a long hard ride down here.”

  “I am worn out, but not from the ride down here.” He pointed north. “Those men with Jackson are living on acorns and risking their lives to protect fat bastards like those Federalists and their southern counterparts. I’m considering joining with the Indians to kill every one of ‘em and then going west to start over.”

  “Why don’t you use my bunk?” Claiborne pointed to a closed door. “After you’ve rested and had a meal we’ll talk.”

  December 23, 1813

  Eccanacnaca, Alabama Territory

  Claiborne’s army was arrayed on the banks of the Alabama River, a short distance from a fortified Creek village on the bluffs. A steady drizzle of freezing rain was making fire building impossible. General Claiborne and Yank were sheltering under a piece of tent material that was stretched between two pine trees. Claiborne was marking the location of the town on his map with a pencil and Yank was staring out into the rain.

  “Have you seen these?” Claiborne asked, holding up the pencil for Yank to see.

  “That must be a trick question,” Yank replied.

  “This is no ordinary pencil.”

  Yank grunted.

  “If you wet the tip, it writes like a pen. They call it indelible pencil. You can use them instead of pen and ink to make notes or mark up maps.”

  “They also turn your tongue black.”

  “No.” Claiborne stuck out his black tongue.

  “Yes.” Yank chuckled.

  “Truly?” Claiborne took off his glove and licked the back of his hand, then looked at Yank. “Not really.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh damn.” He swept off his hat, stuck out his tongue and stepped out into the rain.

  “Your map’s getting wet.”

  “Damn.” Claiborne came back in and tried to wipe the raindrops off the map but succeeded only in smearing the ink.

  “You also looked like a lunatic standing in the rain with your ugly black tongue hanging out.” Yank chuckled. “That’s a hell of a thing for a great leader of men to do. Especially on the eve of what might be his greatest battle.”

  Claiborne gave him an unfriendly look and closely examined his new notations on the map. “What’s it mean, anyway?”

  “Lunatic? I think it means touched by the moon, as in crazy.”

  “I know what lunatic means,” Claiborne grumbled. “I was talking about the name of that settlement up there on the bluff. I can’t even say it.”

  “Eccanacnaca,” Yank pronounced slowly. “It means Holy Ground. The Alabama holy men have cast a spell on it so that any white man that steps on it will be killed by the great spirits.”

  “Guess we better shoot ‘em from a distance then.”

  “The cannons won’t elevate that high.”

  “It was a joke.”

  “I know. But I thought I better mention it in case you were planning a bombardment.”

  “How many houses up there?”

  “Two hundred. Maybe a few more.”

  “You say that there are two more towns just like this?” Claiborne asked.

  “No,” Yank replied. “I said that each of the three bands of the upper Creeks built their own fortified settlements last summer. This is the one that the Alabamas built.” He pointed into the rain. “The Tallapoosa settlement is near Autossee and the Abeika’s is at the Horseshoe Bend of the Tallapoosa River. All three are different. They’re not at all alike.”

  “Well after we burn this one we’ll burn the other two and that will be the end of that.”

  “Burning a town is a difficult task in the rain.”

  “It can’t rain forever.”

  “It doesn’t have to rain forever, just for a month when Carson’s Mississippi volunteer’s and your militia’s enlistments expire. As near as I can tell we’ll have about fifty men left after that.”

  “You’re a cheery sort.”

  “Look up there.” Yank pointed at the town. “Weatherford’s moving out his women and children.”

  “I guess he doesn’t believe the witch doctor’s magic is going to work.”

  “No. But many will believe it. Especially the runaway slaves from Fort Mims.”

  “Why do we care?”

  “Because they’ll lose their courage when they see we’re not struck down by magic.” Yank stepped out from under the shelter, then back under it. “The clouds are beginning to thin. If the rain stops, let’s do this.”

  Claiborne stepped out to check for himself.

  “Your map, General.” Yank pointed.

  “Damn.” Claiborne came back in and wiped the map, smearing more ink.

  “You didn’t answer me, General.”

  “If the rain stops soon, we’ll attack.”

  “Do you have a battle plan?”

  “Not exactly. But I was thinking that we would attack en masse from the other side. The grade won’t be so steep that we’ll be impeded by mud. When we get within musket range, a third will go left and a third will go right to surround them on there sides.”

  “What about the bluff side?”

  “That bluff must be fifteen or twenty feet high. Too high to climb, anyway.”

  “Yes, maybe it is too high to climb up, but it’s certainly not too high to climb down. We’ll need to position at least two battalions along the bottom or half of the Indians will get away. I was in the opposite situation in Canada. When we were pressed we went down that cliff like it wa
s nothing.”

  “Our men are tired, wet, cold and hungry. The only advantage we have is superior numbers. I’ll not commit two battalions to prevent Indians from jumping off a cliff and give away our numerical advantage.”

  ~

  The battle had been underway for nearly an hour when the sound of firing dropped off quite suddenly.

  “They must be surrendering.” Claiborne was trying to see through his telescope but the rain had started again, rendering it nearly useless.

  “They’re not surrendering, they’re retreating,” Yank said. “They’re sliding down the bluff and running toward the river.”

  Claiborne lowered his telescope and looked. “If you say ‘I told you so’, I’ll shoot you.”

  “Let’s go look at the town before the Choctaws pillage and burn it.” Yank mounted his horse and waited for Claiborne. “At least our casualties are light.” He pointed to a white tent down the hill. “It looks like there’s only one fatality and a handful of seriously wounded.”

  Colonel Gilbert Russell, who commanded the Third Infantry, rode out of the village to meet them and saluted. “Weatherford got away. He rode his horse right down that bluff. Damndest thing I ever saw.”

  “How many casualties?” Claiborne asked.

  “We had four men wounded bad enough to send them back. I think Major Carson had a few more and one killed. His side of the hill is rocky. He came up too fast and made contact before we could get up through the mud to help him.”

  Claiborne was watching his army. “What about enemy casualties?”

  “I don’t have a count yet,” Carson replied. “Twenty to thirty dead I’m guessing.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It’s just a guess, sir.”

  “What are the Choctaws so upset about?”

  “They found scalps from the Fort Mims massacre that they think are Choctaw. I don’t have any idea how they’d know that.”

  “How about food and provisions?” Yank asked.

  “From what I saw there’s enough here to last us until our term is up next month.”

  Claiborne glanced at Yank then kicked his horse. “Let’s see.”