“General Jackson’s decided
to establish a depository for supplies here and he’s building this
to defend them. He’s decided to call it Fort Deposit.”
Coffee resisted the impulse
to laugh.
“Did you find Black
Warrior?” Yank asked.
“Yes I did,” Coffee replied.
“‘Had to chase the bugger clear to his home town.”
“And?”
“Kilt him and about half his
warriors, burnt down his town and another one nearby, then
collected up about three hundred bushels o’ corn.”
“That’s a long march all the
way to Black Warrior River and back.”
Coffee nodded. “I figure we
covered about two hundred miles in the last twelve days. What’s
been happenin’ here? I come near losing’ y’all in them
mountains.”
“We’re headed for the fort
at Ten Islands of the Coosa River. A brave that Private Crockett
and I were chatting with told us that the Red Sticks were amassing
near there.”
“You’ve been movin’ at a
right brisk pace.”
Yank nodded. “Jackson
marched twenty-two miles in one day then held up here hoping the
supply boats would show up before we had to leave the
River.”
“How much longer is he gonna
wait?”
“As soon as Fort Deposit’s
finished, we’ll move out. My guess would be tomorrow.”
“How bad is it? The food, I
mean.”
“We have about two days
worth of bread and maybe six days of meat with fifty more miles to
Ten Islands. I’d suggest you avoid the subject when you talk to the
General, if possible. He’s written to everyone he knows and he gets
bitterer every day that no supplies turn up.”
“How’s his arm?”
“Bad but he hides it
well.”
“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.”