Born in Connecticut during the stormy days of the Revolution, Dow became a Christian in his youth, and for some time was perplexed about what church relationship he should form. He finally joined the Methodists, as the zeal of that people was an attraction to his heated temperament. His errant and arbitrary course soon made him an undesirable acquisition to the Methodists, and while not severing his relations with the church, he was disposed to yield to a disposition to become a general evangelist or missionary of the independent type. His health was broken, and he conceived the idea of going as far westward as the advanced line of Caucasian occupation had gone, taking with him on his perilous journey his young wife.

At this time Mr. Dow was about twenty-seven years old. By means of the tedious and uncomfortable methods of travel at that early time, he found his way from New England to the thin line of settlements along the Tombigbee. Here, in company with his wife, Peggy, he preached as a son of thunder, but as though the dangers encountered did not gratify his love of the perilous, he sought his way through the dangerous wilds to the region of Natchez, Mississippi, long before made an important French settlement.

To Dow peril was a fascination, and like the Vikings of Saga story, he sought danger in order to gratify a desire to fight. Not that he was a man of physical violence, but his love of contention and of opposition was without bound. He loved combat for its own sake, and was never so much at peace as when engaged in wordy war. He was of that mold of humanity that immensely preferred disagreement with one than tranquil acquiescence. He rusted when not in use. His blade glimmered only by constant wielding.

From the region of Natchez, he returned at last to the Tombigbee and Tensas settlements, virile, strenuous, impetuous, and fiery. His journal, which seems to have been sacredly kept, discloses many romantic adventures among the wild tribes, many of the leading spirits among whom regarded him with a terror that was awfully sacred, because of his utter lack of fear, his consuming zeal, and his stormy preaching. In advance of the choice of St. Stephens as the territorial capital, he visited the location while only one family was residing there. Impressed by the location which overlooks the river from an elevation, and the country beyond, Dow predicted that it would become a point of great importance. Both in his diary and in the "Vicissitudes" of Peggy Dow, we learn much of the adventures of this anomalous brace of souls. He would sleep in the open air in the resinous regions of South Alabama, where the abounding pine straw could be raked together in a heap for a mattress, and where he could be lulled to slumber by the soothing monotone of the tall pine trees.

There is little doubt that the frail system of this wonderful man was prolonged, by being nurtured in the open air, freighted with turpentine, and strengthened by activity.

Mrs. Peggy, on the other hand, judging from the tone of her journal, did not find so much gratification in this rough and tumble method of life, as did her incorrigible liege lord. There is an undisguised reluctance in her words of compliance with conditions from which there was no appeal.

One of the most singular chapters in the life of Lorenzo Dow preceded his invasion of the far Southwest. When seized by a peculiar fancy that he was called to preach to the Roman Catholics of the world, and having learned that Ireland was one of their strongholds, he hied himself thither. To the quaint Irish, he was a wonder. His vociferous preaching and pungent zeal drew large crowds, but at times his path was not strewn with primroses, and the rougher element of the Irish throngs offered battle at times to his vaunting banters, but nothing was more to the liking of the indomitable Lorenzo. He stood ready to meet any rising emergency even when it was as grave as the attacks of the scraggy sons of the Emerald Isle.

From Ireland he crossed over into Britain, and introduced the camp meeting method of worship, which meetings became popular in England, and later, in the United States. So far as is known Lorenzo Dow was the founder of the camp meeting with its flexibility and abandon of worship. His way in England was clearer than it had been in Ireland. To the staid Briton, he was an object of wonder, and his natural eloquence and eccentricities of speech and of dress, won for him boundless popularity, and the pressing throng heard him with avidity. He found peculiar delight in his a.s.saults on the Jesuits, whom he denounced as conspirators against civil and religious freedom.

Weird, stormy, and extensive as the career of Lorenzo Dow was, he was not an old man when he died, being only fifty-seven. He fought off const.i.tutional weakness and heroically braced himself against the inroad of disease, with the same force with which he did all things else. For years he held the dark monster, death, at bay, and grimly declined to die that he might live and fight, to do which none was fonder than the redoubtable Dow.

As may be easily inferred, Dow was a man of scant learning, so far as pertains to books, but he was a close and apt student of men and of affairs, and from his acquired fund, he preached with great effectiveness, unrestrained by conventionality, and unhindered by prim propriety. He told the truth as he saw it, not in tones of choice diction, but with a quaintness and pluck, and with such projectile force as to stir conviction and arouse action. He chose to be called a Methodist, yet he chafed under the imposed limitations of his church, and defiantly trampled down all restrictions, while he followed the bent of his own sweet will, controlled by none, not even his bosom companion, Peggy, if the indirect suggestions of her journal are to be relied on. He did not seek to found churches, but only desired to preach in his own wild manner. Sometimes he would make appointments a year in advance, at remote points, but would meet them promptly at the hour named.

In point of whimsicalness, Lorenzo Dow has had few peers, for he would veer from the ordinary, for which he had a singular pa.s.sion, but no one was ever found who could p.r.o.nounce Lorenzo Dow a fool. He was not without extravagance of speech and of manner, but when challenged, he was gladly able to evince strength equal to the occasion.

His son, Neal Dow, was a brigadier in the Union army, and the author of the "Maine law," which procured a prohibitory statute for his state.

WEATHERFORD, THE "RED EAGLE"

The most picturesque figure among the Indian leaders of the Alabama tribes, was William Weatherford, called by the Creeks, of whom he was the splendid commander, Lamochattee, or Red Eagle. He was a nephew of Gen.

Alexander McGillivray, and had an equal admixture of blood in his veins.

Weatherford was reared near Montgomery, at the village of Coosada, just below the junction of the Coosa and the Tallapoosa Rivers, where his father owned a plantation, a large store, and a popular race track.

Charles Weatherford, the father, was a white man who had married a half-breed, and became very popular and influential among the Indians, as an agent in important functions, in negotiating with the Spanish and the Americans.

The son, even from boyhood, was a pet among the Indians, by whom he was greatly pampered and flattered, and into the wild pursuits of whom the lad entered with a gusto. With them he hunted and swam, practiced athletics, on foot and on horse, danced with them at their rude frolics, vied with the best in the use of the bow and arrow, the rifle and pistol, in all of which he became an expert, much to the delight of the warriors. He was especially skilled in horsemanship, his taste for which was gratified to the amplest by the fine animals in his father's stables, which animals were kept for racing purposes.

The p.r.o.nounced force of Weatherford's leadership was early shown, when he would join in the perilous expeditions of his tribe against others in the frequent wars along the c.u.mberland and the Chattahoochee, and in other regions, as well. Not only for these qualities was the handsome and chivalrous young man idolized, but also for his gifted oratory. He had a voluble tongue, possessed a wonderful power of persuasion, and his knowledge of Indian character enabled him to inflame and sway their volatile pa.s.sions at will.

At an early age, Weatherford became a dominant figure among the tribes, and soon came to be proclaimed a great leader. He understood perfectly the Indian character, and his power of discernment taught him when to speak, and when to keep silent. Genius, judgment, oratory, and courage were the ranking qualities of Weatherford's character, which, when taken in connection with his natural gracefulness and agility, made him an object little short of adoration to the untutored tribes. Nor was this yet all, for to these meritorious qualities were added others which while forbidding to sense of refinement, greatly enhanced Weatherford in the estimation of the Indian. He was avaricious, treacherous, blood-thirsty, and a glutton and debauchee of a low cast.

Early in life, he came into possession of a fine plantation, which he every way beautified, while his home was made the abode of the worst vices to which the Indian was addicted, all of which served to elevate him in Indian esteem. His physique afforded him another advantage, for he was tall, symmetrically built, and bore himself with the erectness of a flagstaff, while his large black eyes were flashing, his nose of the Grecian mold, with other features in harmonious blend. Such was the Red Eagle of the Creeks, who was to become their great leader and champion, in the stormy years that were to be. Like Hannibal of old concerning the Romans, Weatherford had early instilled into him a profound antipathy for the whites. His uncle, General McGillivray, to whom the young man was greatly attached, and to whom, too, he was an ideal, had early injected into the heart of the nephew hatred for the white man, and hostility toward him. Weatherford when young would accompany his favorite uncle to Pensacola, and while a.s.sociating with the Spanish, he would imbibe additional rancor for the Anglo-Saxon. To him, the encroachment of the white population on Alabama soil, meant robbery and ruin to the Indian, and the worst blood of his nature was fired with growing intensity throughout the period during which he was ripening into manhood.

Weatherford was scarcely thirty years old when Tec.u.mseh, the celebrated chief, visited the Muscogees, in 1812. The popularity and bearing of the young favorite of the Creeks caught the eye of the astute old chief, who took the young man at once into his confidence, opened his plans for the extinction of the white race in Alabama, and flattered him not a little, when he named Weatherford the intrepid leader of the tribes of the south.

Tec.u.mseh wished him to plunge into the war of extermination at once, but Weatherford asked for time to consider the a.s.sumption of a charge so grave, and promised to give his final answer on the return of Tec.u.mseh in the near future.

The truth is, that Weatherford had serious misgivings about his relation to the pending troubles, and with all his dash and venom, he was not without judgment and discrimination. While he hated the white man, he knew his courage and force, and besides, he had many relatives and friends who would resist any demonstration of hostility on the part of the Indians.

Yet Tec.u.mseh, by fervor of appeal, had fired the Indian heart, and the tribes were seething for the onset. Under these conditions, Weatherford found himself in a dilemma.

Quietly stealing away from his plantation in the neighborhood of Wetumpka, he went down the Alabama River to the region of Little River, in the lower part of Monroe, to confer with his brother, Jack Weatherford, and his half-brother, David Tait. The difficulty of the situation was increased when both advised the younger brother to have nothing to do with the impending troubles, and urged him to return to his home, and with his family, slaves, and stock, to flee to the region in which they resided.

These older brothers predicted not only defeat, but disaster to Weatherford, if he should yield to the solicitations of the tribes to become their leader. The brothers pointed out that while much injury might be inflicted on the whites, they would, in the end, crush the Indians; that he would do well not to be drawn into the hostile campaign. The advice was accepted, and William Weatherford retraced his steps to the upper counties, with the intention of adopting the course suggested, but it was too late.

ENFORCED ACQUIESCENCE

The tumult of pa.s.sion raised by Tec.u.mseh, and the full knowledge of the proposal which he had made to Weatherford, as well as the well-known fact of his kinship with certain influential families in lower Monroe, of their att.i.tude to the Indians, and last of all, the hesitation of Weatherford to a.s.sume command, and his strange visit to his brothers--all of these things awoke suspicion and placed the Indians on their guard. Here was a reversal of human sentiment as sudden and as powerful as possible. Weatherford had been idolized till suspicion was aroused, when his presumed treachery was watched with much eagerness. On his return from the visit to his brothers, Weatherford was chagrined, and doubly disappointed, to find that his premises had been invaded, his family, slaves, and stock seized by the Indians, and held under close guard against his return. Not only so, but they laid hold on him also, and notified him that they would kill him and his if he did not join them, and lead them against the whites. It was now death, or submission to their demand, the latter of which was, after all, not difficult for Weatherford, for the denunciation heard by him on every hand, revived the old fire in his heart, and complete as the change was, as a result of his visit to his brothers, he now cordially acquiesced in their demands, and announced himself ready to lead them to the field.

Under these compulsory conditions, Weatherford fed afresh his hatred for the white race, recalling that which his uncle had instilled, and with all his being, he threw himself into the cause of the Indians, and became the most brilliant and the bitterest of Indian leaders. Since there was nothing left but acquiescence with the demands of the Indians, Weatherford gored himself to unquenchable hatred, and boldly took the field at the head of the hilarious and tawny braves. Summoning to his support all the resources for a fierce war, and calling to his aid every available warrior of the tribe, a thousand in number, he was ready for the march to the counties of the south. Already hostilities had broken out in the southern quarter of the state, and the initial victory of the Indians at the battle of Burnt Corn, gave vigor to his spirits, and led him utterly to repudiate the sentiments which he cherished when he left the homes of his brothers, only a few weeks before.

At the head of as ferocious an army as ever trod the soil of any region, Weatherford repaired southward on a mission of utter extermination. Every day of the march sharpened his zest for the fray, as well as that of his fierce followers on the war path. He slid into the south as stealthily as possible, and on reaching the scene of impending hostility, found that the whites had betaken themselves into a strong stockade, which had been built about the residence of one of the settlers named Mims, which name was given to the fort. Together with his picked warriors, he stealthily inspected the fort un.o.bserved, studied its weakness and its strength, and repaired to the deep forest to await the time to attack.

He saw that to undertake to storm the strong barricade meant disaster to his army, and with genuine genius of generalship, he decided to await the favorable moment to strike the fatal blow. He hid his warriors in the deep woods, at a point sufficiently remote from the fort not to be detected, allowed no camp fires to blaze during the night, and no demonstration that would occasion alarm at the fort, while he would daily reconnoitre the situation, and watch how life went inside the stockade.

Within Fort Mims, day after day pa.s.sed in silence, silence into inactivity, then into indifference, and this in turn, into negligence. The growth of this spirit within the fort was a matter of encouragement to Weatherford on the outside, several miles away, and this, he was persuaded, would continue to grow. When it should have become a spirit of la.s.situde, toward which it was tending, then would Weatherford strike.

Lounging within the walls of the stockade induced exceeding restlessness, and by degrees, the inmates of the fort would sally forth in quest of flowers and wild fruits, while within the enclosure, diversions and games were introduced and gained in favor. In addition still, the great gateway, which at first had been kept closed, was now suffered to remain open, not only during the day, but at night. Heavy rains had washed the sand against the gate, so that if it were desired to close it, it would be with great difficulty. The inmates had grown indifferent to the situation, and really had ceased to believe there was any occasion for apprehension.

Of all this Weatherford, lurking in the neighboring forest, was apprised, and while his warriors chafed yet the more because of the delay, the inmates of the fort grew increasingly indifferent, both which facts were conducive to the purpose of the wily Weatherford. It was not easy for the wary chief to hold in check his warriors, but he would daily persuade them that the pear was not yet ripe, and that when the set time should come, the victory would be the easier. Weatherford fully understood that when the dogs of war were turned loose, he would have to rely entirely on the force of their frenzy and excitement for success, while he quite understood the collectable qualities of the whites, who, even when surprised, would rally and rerally with a growing coolness in the struggle.

Thus the days became monotonous alike to the inmates of the fort, and the warriors hid away in the woods, but the effect on each was diametrically different. This was just as Weatherford wished it, and while he found it not easy to hold in check his warriors thirsting for blood, he was enabled to do so till the fatal day arrived.

FORT MIMS Ma.s.sACRE

The fatal morning of August 30 dawned on Fort Mims. The weather was hot, and slowly from sleep the inmates of the fort awoke. Breakfast over, the day began the usual routine of indifference to conditions, the little children beginning their play about the block houses, men gathering in small groups about the enclosure, chatting, smoking, laughing or playing cards, while later a fiddle was brought into requisition for an old time reel by a body of youngsters, while the elderly women sat in quiet groups sewing, talking, and knitting. The matter of attack, so much feared at first, was now a subject of jocular comment, men joking as to what they would do, should the Indians appear.

Amidst the scene of merriment, a negro appears fresh from the woods, and in excitement, tells of having seen a body of Indians rapidly approaching the fort. Major Beasley, the commander, who is engaged in a game of cards with other officers, orders the black to be strung up and whipped for giving a false alarm. The gate still stands wide open with its obstruction of sand banked against it, and the serenity within the fort remains the same.

Suddenly, the calmness is broken by the firing of muskets without, attended by the hideous yells of savages. They are near the entrance, and sure of making good their way into the fort, they make a demonstration of joy. Consternation seizes the inmates. The rushing tramp of the approaching a.s.sailants is now heard, and as a squad rushes to take its place in the gateway, the Indians are in full view, only a few yards away.

Before Beasley could rally his men, a few Indians have rushed through the gate. The advance of the Indians is shot down, and the voice of Beasley is heard calling to his men to rally at the gate. They seek to close it, but the Indians are now coming rapidly on, and every one is needed to keep them back. If the narrow pa.s.sage of the gate limits the entrance of the savages, it also hampers the defense of the garrison. A solid ma.s.s of savages, half naked and with the glitter of fury in the eyes of each, jam in closeness to force the pa.s.sage. The defenders in desperation shoot them down, or stab them, one by one with their bayonets. There is no time for order, and confusion is complete. At the gate, it is a hand to hand fight, as officers give orders, and the Indians yell like demons, and press with might to force the entrance. Within the fort, women are shrieking, and children crying in wild confusion. Only the advance of the Indians has as yet appeared, the others approaching in order on the run, under the leadership of Weatherford. Piles of dead bodies, Indians and white, already fill the gateway.

Major Beasley stands at the head of his men, faces the savages, and fights like a demon. He cheers his men, while he bravely leads. He is courage to the core, and every man is doing his utmost. Inspired by the pluck of the men, the women rush to the rescue. Beasley falls, shot through his body.

Lying prostrate in the pa.s.sage, his life ebbing rapidly away, as he sinks in death, he appeals to his men. A brave lieutenant takes his place, is soon covered with blood from his own wounds, but fights on, and from sheer loss of strength, reels and falls. Two brave women rush up, drag his body from the pile of dead, bear it back, give him water, and suddenly he rises, staggers to the gate, and renews the fight. After a half hour's fighting, the gate is closed just as Weatherford appears with eight hundred fresh warriors. Excluded from the gate, the Indians under Weatherford, begin to cut down the pickets about the fort, and as holes are made through the pickets, the firing is continued. The advantage is now on the side of the savages. Blow on blow finally brings down a portion of the walls, and like an overflowing flood the yelling demons rush within. Outside, the dry walls and pickets are set on fire by the savages, the roofs are soon aflame, while the work of destruction goes speedily on.

On their knees, women plead for life, while they clasp their children close to them, but they are slain and scalped on the spot. Neither age nor s.e.x is spared. Of the five hundred and fifty within the fort, only a few negroes and half breeds are permitted to live.

In a corner of the fort is seen an Indian holding at bay his companions who are seeking to reach a group of half breeds huddled together, a mother and her children. The Indian defender strikes down any who attempt to reach them. The explanation of this strange scene will appear in the next article. Besides these thus rescued, only nine out of the entire number within the fort are spared. Of the thousand savages who a.s.saulted the fort three hundred and fifty were killed.

It has been said that Weatherford sought to restrain his warriors from the wanton bloodshed, but on the contrary, he was in the thick of the fray, dealing the deadliest blows, and by his example, inspiring his men to the utmost destruction. Than Weatherford, the whites never had a more relentless and bloodthirsty foe. His purpose was the extinction of the whites, and in this, his first battle, he would teach them a lesson of savage warfare that would remind them of that against which they had to contend. He was as merciless a demon as was to be found among the men of the forest. In after years, when Weatherford saw that his cause was lost, and when he surrendered to General Jackson, and went to the lower part of Monroe to live, there was an effort made to create the impression of his proposed gentleness at Fort Mims, but it is utterly without foundation.

The horror of the dreadful scene was added to by the devouring flames. The roofs and the walls falling in on the dead, they were scorched or burned in one common heap, and Weatherford, though he afterward became a good citizen in the same region, gloated over the murderous desolation thus wrought. His delight was fiendish, his glut of revenge was ominous. This was Weatherford on August 12, 1812.

The news of the horrible ma.s.sacre spread dismay everywhere. It sounded the note of extinction of one or the other of the Indian or white races.

Dismay gave place to revenge, and everywhere men flew to arms. From that time forth the battle cry of the whites was, "Remember Fort Mims." From the north marched Jackson from Tennessee, and from the west came Claiborne with his Mississippi militia. Weatherford had raised a storm which he would never be able to quell.