INDIAN GRAt.i.tUDE

From the general estimate of Indian character, one would be slow to believe the savage capable of grat.i.tude, but even with the Indian, instances of this virtue are not altogether wanting, one among which was displayed at the horrible ma.s.sacre of Fort Mims. Of the seventeen who escaped death from that tragedy of blood and fire, was a mother and her eight children.

That they should have been found together by a certain Indian warrior, who was enabled to give full expression to his grat.i.tude, was providential.

The story is well worthy a place in our annals. Years before this terrible holocaust at Fort Mims, an Indian boy, an outcast and an orphan, in his friendless wandering, found his way to the home of a Scotchman in the wilds of South Alabama, whose name was McGirth, who had married a half-breed. Touched by the condition of the off-cast Indian waif, the good Mrs. McGirth not only fed and clad him, but took him into the home, cared for him, and reared him as her own son. The Indian boy, Sonata, grew to manhood beneath the McGirth roof, and shared in common with the children of the family, the moderate comforts of the frontier home.

After Sonata became a man, he took leave of the home, and joined himself to the Creek tribe of which he was a member. The McGirths lost sight of Sonata, Sonata of his benefactors. Years with their changes came and went, and Sonata was in the upper counties with his people.

When the war began, he was one of the braves who enlisted under Weatherford in the campaign of extermination which led to the slaughter at Fort Mims. He was among the foremost to enter the ill-fated fort, and do deadly execution. In his death-dealing blows, Sonata came suddenly on a woman, somewhat advanced in life, behind whom crouched a number of children. With upraised hands, she pleaded, as did all others, that she and hers might be spared. In the wild tide of death, while the slaughter was at its height, the uplifted hand of Sonata was suddenly stayed. There was something in the voice of the pleading woman that was familiar to the ear of the savage, and his tomahawk was arrested in mid-air. He looked into her face, and while the woman did not recognize him, he did her, and in the excitement of the carnage that was rampant, he dropped his tomahawk and led the woman and her children to a corner of the fort, and took a position of defense in their behalf. Again and again, efforts were made to reach them, but he stood sentinel over the group, and suffered not a hair of their heads to be touched, claiming that they were his slaves, and must not be disturbed. It was his foster mother, Mrs. McGirth.

It so happened that when the alarm was first given to the settlements to repair to the fort, Mr. McGirth was away from home, in another part of the country on business, for he was a trader, and did not return till after the slaughter at the fort. When the horrors of the ma.s.sacre were over, Sonata mounted his prisoners on horseback and sped them away to his home far up on the Coosa. He feared that should they remain in the neighborhood of the fort, even in the camp of the Indians, he would be unable to restrain the ferocity of the savages, hence their flight to the upper country. Nor did the grateful protege leave his former foster mother and her group, till he saw them comfortable in his own wigwam beside the Coosa. This done, and he hurried back to rejoin his command. When hostilities in the South partly subsided, Sonata sought again his home to see that Mrs. McGirth was cared for.

The seat of war was transferred from the south to the upper counties, and Weatherford was preparing to encounter General Jackson, who was descending from Tennessee to destroy Weatherford and his command. Sonata had been at home for some time, and when he felt that it was his duty to re-enlist against Jackson, he arranged for the flight of Mrs. McGirth and her children, should he fall in battle.

In the b.l.o.o.d.y conflict of Cholocco Litabixee, where a thousand painted warriors met Jackson in battle, only two hundred survived. Among the slain was the grateful Sonata, the news of whose death reaching Mrs. McGirth, she hastened with her family to the south. All who had previously known her, thought of her only as dead, among whom was her broken-hearted husband, who had long ago given up his family as among those who had perished at Fort Mims. He had settled at Mobile a sad and broken-hearted man, and sought diversion of his sorrow in business. One day, while he was laboring on the wharf at Mobile, there was suddenly ushered into his presence his entire group, still unbroken. He stared at them as though they had strayed from the land of the dead. He stood fixed like a statue, with his face as expressionless as the surface of a lake. He was dumb.

This was followed by a nervousness that made him shake as with an ague. He stared till he realized the truth of their deliverance, when he burst into uncontrollable weeping, and wept till he no more had power to weep.

The story following his return to Mobile after the ma.s.sacre was a sad one.

He had gone immediately to the scene of the slaughter, hoping to recognize his loved ones and give them decent burial, but flames had disfigured the faces of all, now lying charred and blackened in death, and the utmost he could do, was to aid in the burial of all, presuming that among them somewhere, were his own loved ones.

To the rescued Mrs. McGirth is history largely indebted for a detailed description of the scenes enacted at Fort Mims. Though an uneducated woman, she was endowed with a remarkable fund of common sense, and without extravagance, gave the fullest account of the dreadful slaughter. Her kindness to the poor Indian boy saved her in the direst extremity of her life. "Cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days."

THE CANOE FIGHT

The Indian was as thoroughly skilled in the use of the oar on the larger streams and inland bays, as he was with the tomahawk, the scalping knife, and the bow. It is believed that the name of one of the Alabama tribes was derived from their adroit use of the oar. In his Creek Migration Legend, Gatschat suggested that Mobilian means "paddling." Certain it is that the early settlers found the Indian an adept in the use of the skiff or canoe.

The faculty with which the Indian could direct his canoe, and the dexterity with which he could divert it suddenly from a given course, was wonderful. He had studied with the utmost accuracy the force or swiftness of the current of a given stream, and could calculate at a glance any point at which he would arrive on the opposite side, when starting from the side of departure. On the land, the whites were generally at an advantage in a contention with the Indians, but on the water the Indians generally excelled.

The b.l.o.o.d.y ma.s.sacre at Fort Mims had created a spirit of recklessness on the part of the whites. The warfare was turned into a species of hunting expeditions, and the regions were scoured as though in search of wild beasts. The ma.s.sacre had put fire into the bones of the whites, and a prolonged revenge was the result. Thereafter they never waited for an Indian to advance, they simply wished to know where the savages could be found. The Indians made no use of the fertile soils save for hunting, and when the whites sought to till them and turn them to practical use, seeking meanwhile to preserve peaceful relations with the red men, the Indians sought their destruction. The morality of the question of depriving the Indian of his possessions turned on this point, and not on that of deliberate robbery, as is so often contended. The white settlers sought to buy the lands for agricultural purposes, but the Indian wanted the virgin forests to remain untouched that he might hunt. Since the red men had raised the cry of extermination, with Weatherford in the lead, and since they had shown at Fort Mims that nothing short of utter extinction was sought, the whites accepted the issue, and under conditions like these the conflict raged. This condition converted every white man into a soldier, a patriot, an exterminator.

Among the most daring and intrepid of Indian fighters, in those early days, was Gen. Sam Dale. A giant in size and in strength, as fearless as a lion, and familiar with the stratagem of the Indian, no one did more valiant service in those early days of Indian warfare than he. More than any other white man, the Indians dreaded Dale, whom they called "Big Sam."

His known presence on any occasion would produce among the Indians consternation.

While on a scouting expedition along the banks of the Alabama, Dale discovered a canoe descending the stream with eleven stalwart warriors.

Seeing that they were making for a dense canebrake, Dale ordered his men to follow him quickly, and seven reached the canebrake just as the savages were about to land. Dale and his men opened fire on them, but overshot them, when two of the Indians sprang into the water. As they rose, Dale killed one, and Smith the other. The remaining nine began to back the boat so as to reach the current, and escape, three using the oars, while the others lay flat on the bottom of the boat. It seems that Weatherford was within hailing distance, for one of the warriors shouted to him to come to their aid. In order to facilitate the movement of the boat, one of the warriors had jumped overboard, and was directing it toward the current, and as he stood breast deep in the water, he shouted to Dale in derision to shoot, meanwhile baring his bosom. Dale fired and crushed his skull.

Soon the boat was well in the current, and was moving down stream.

Being on the side of the river opposite that on which his boats were, Dale called across the river to his men to bring the boats. Six sprang into a boat and started toward Dale, but when they got near enough to see that the canoe was filled with savages lying flat, they sped back. Just below was a free negro named Caesar, with a boat and gun, and Dale shouted to him to bring his boat, and when the negro declined, Dale yelled to him that unless he should come at once, he would cross the river and kill him, when Caesar crossed a hundred yards below the canoe of the Indians. Dale and two of his men sprang into it, and Caesar was ordered to head off the boat of the Indians.

So soon as the boats touched, Dale sprang up and placing one of his feet in each boat, the nearest warrior leveled his gun at him, but it flashed.

Quickly clubbing it, he dealt a blow at Dale's head, he dodged, and shivered the head of the Indian with his gun. Austill sprang up, but was knocked down by an Indian, who in a moment more would have killed him, but Dale broke his gun across the warrior's head. Austill grasped the barrel, and renewed the onset. Dale being without a gun, Caesar handed to him his gun with a bayonet attached. The boats drifting apart, Dale leaped into the Indian boat alone, while the other bore away. Smith fired and wounded the Indian nearest Dale, who was now standing like a monument in the boat of the Indians, two of whom lay dead at his feet. At his back the wounded savage snapped his gun at Dale several times, while four powerful warriors were in front. Too close to shoot, the foremost one dealt a blow with his gun at Dale, who parried it with his gun, and then drove the bayonet through him. The next made an onset, but was killed by Austill. The third came, but was thrust through with the bayonet. The last was a giant wrestler, well known to Dale, and as he strided over the prostrate bodies of his companions, he yelled: "Big Sam, I am a man--I am coming--come on!"

With this, the big athlete sprang forward, clubbing Dale with his heavy musket. He struck Dale's shoulder with such violence as to dislocate it, when Dale buried the bayonet into his body. It glanced around the ribs and stuck fast into his backbone. Dale held him down while he was struggling to recover, and when Dale jerked it out, he leaped to his feet and with a wild yell sprang furiously at the big white man, but Dale was ready with the bayonet which he drove through his heart. Within ten minutes eleven Indians had been killed, six of whom died by the hands of Dale.

A LEAP FOR LIFE

There is no more ambitious purpose in this series of unpretentious sketches than to present the striking events, or those of more than ordinary humdrum, that dot the rich history of our state. The sketches are mere s.n.a.t.c.hes, severed here and there, from historical connection only in so far as that connection serves to give a proper setting. Though several articles are devoted to the eventful career of Red Eagle, there is no attempt made here or elsewhere in the series to follow his dashing life, as the idol of his dusky hosts, throughout, but as they are presented, proper regard is had for the chronology of events.

The advent of General Jackson on the scene in Alabama, took Weatherford back to the central region of the state to dispute his advancement.

Untrained as Weatherford was in the science of war, he knew it instinctively, as does any other natural military man. He had all the elements of a great soldier, else he could not have withstood so long the forces of his formidable adversaries. His territory was exposed from every quarter, and in order to meet the odds coming against him from Mississippi and Tennessee, he had to concentrate his forces, not only, but had to acc.u.mulate supplies with which to support his army on the field.

Weatherford was not slow to realize that to fight organized forces under competent and skilled commanders, demanded more than a desultory warfare on his part, hence he set to work for a long and arduous campaign. The success at Fort Mims, where with unusual skill Weatherford directed the campaign, and outgeneraled all the white commanders, made him the one great chief of the Indians. Under similar conditions, this would have been true of any people and of any man. He was still the Red Eagle, but to that was added by his adoring followers the designation of Tustenuggee, or mighty chief. While the vain warrior was inflated by the adulation of his followers, he knew the feebleness of his numbers and the scantiness of his resources. Because of these conditions, and because he was hailed chief, he appreciated what it meant in its application to him in his difficult condition. For the first time, he was to lead his untrained warriors against drilled troops. It was native valor against courage and skill, native strategy against scientific tactics, the war of the savage against that of the civilized white man.

Within a month, four battles were fought--Tallahatchee, Talladega, Hillabee and Autossee--all fought in November, 1813, one hundred years ago. At Echanachaca, or Holy Ground, were concentrated Weatherford's supplies, and the women and children of his tribe. This point was located on the south bank of the Alabama, between Pintlalla and Big Swamp Creek, in the present region of Lowndes County. To the Indian, the Holy Ground was that which Jerusalem was to the ancient tribes of Israel. In this sylvan retreat, dwelt their chief prophets who had drawn a circle about it, and the deluded savage was persuaded to believe that for a white man to plant his foot on this consecrated ground, would mean instant death.

The Holy Ground was surrounded by a region of loveliness. For seven months in the year the virgin soil of the prairie was carpeted with luxuriant gra.s.ses, dashed here and there with patches of pink and crimson bloom, while the wild red strawberry, in occasional beds of native loveliness, lent additional charm. Enclosed by high pickets rudely riven by savage hands, and girdled by the magic circle of the prophets, the Holy Ground was thought to be impregnable. Here Weatherford was attacked by General Claiborne at the head of the Mississippi militia, on December 23, 1813, the day before Christmas eve. To Claiborne's command was attached a body of friendly Choctaw Indians under Pushmataha.

General Claiborne began the attack with a storm. Weatherford led his troops with consummate skill and unquestioned courage, but to little effect. The fact that he, the notorious leader at Fort Mims, was in command, whetted the desire of the Mississippians not alone to defeat him, but to capture him. In spite of the false security promised the Indian by their prophets, and in spite of the valor of their idol chief, they melted rapidly before the deadly aim of the Mississippi backwoodsmen. Seeing that the battle would be against him, Weatherford with skill worthy any great commander, slipped the women and children across the Alabama, while he still fought with ability, and while his men were piled around him in heaps, he fought to the bitter end, and was the last to quit the field.

When all hope was gone, he mounted his n.o.ble charger and sped away like an arrow towards the Alabama River.

He was hotly pursued by a detachment of dragoons, who almost surrounded the chieftain before he fled the field. Down the wide path leading toward the river, the hoofs of the horses of the pursued and the pursuers thundered. There was no hope of escape for Weatherford, but to reach the river in advance, and swim across. Hemmed in on every side, he was forced to a summit overlooking the stream at the height of almost one hundred feet of perpendicular bluff. On the precipice the bold leader halted for a moment, like a monument against the distant sky. Splendidly he sat his horse, as his pursuers thundered toward him, and with taunting shouts called to him that he was caught at last. He coolly raised his rifle to his eye, and brought down the foremost horseman, then slowly turning down a deep defile which no one would dare to tread, he slid his horse down the stony surface which broke abruptly off about fifty feet above the river.

Putting spurs to the sides of the beautiful animal, it leaped with its brave rider on its back into the seething current below. Just before the water was reached, Weatherford leaped from the horse's back. The horse went down to rise no more, while Weatherford, still holding his rifle aloft, with one hand, swam to the opposite side and thus escaped with deeper vengeance against the white man than ever before. He was yet to lead his troops in other battles, and to fight while there was hope of success.

The world instinctively honors a brave man. This valorous chief had withstood overpowering numbers during the day, had saved his women and children, and now as a December night came down on that sad day of defeat, he stood on the north bank of the Alabama drenched and cold, but nerved by a spirit as heroic as ever had place in the bosom of man. Though an Indian, Weatherford was an ideal hero. Fear he knew not, and while the most daring of fighters, he was never reckless. His power of collection was simply marvelous.

WEATHERFORD'S OVERTHROW

Weatherford met his downfall at the battle of Tohopeka. This was the last battle ever fought by the Indians in Alabama. In a long succession of engagements, Weatherford, though fighting bravely, had incurred defeat.

His warriors slain almost to the last man, he would rally another force, inspire his wild troops with fresh hope and new courage; and again offer battle to General Jackson. The limit of his resources was now in the force which he had summoned on the Tallapoosa, where with unusual desperation the Indians had resolved to make the last stand.

Weatherford had selected his own ground for the final contest, and it was well chosen. In a long loop of the river near the further end of the entrance to which was an Indian village called Tohopeka. Across the entrance, or neck, there was erected a bulwark of heavy, seasoned logs, which fortification extended from bank to bank of the stream the distance of about three hundred yards. This defense was about ten feet high, with a double row of portholes from which the Indians could fire simultaneously, as a part would stand upright, and the other would shoot on their knees.

Protected by the river on the flanks and in the rear, they were able to concentrate their fire solely to the front. With a deadly aim, and shielded by their breastworks of logs, they felt that they could pick off the a.s.saulting party, one by one, and thus utterly destroy the army of Jackson.

Behind this formidable bulwark were gathered one thousand two hundred Indian warriors from the towns of Oakfuskee, Hillabee, New Yauka and Eufaula. These were desperate men, well armed, and each confident of dealing a final blow to Jackson's army. Weatherford had summoned to the occasion the princ.i.p.al prophets of the nation, who inspired the dusky defenders with the belief that it was impossible for them to fall, because in this present emergency the Great Spirit would give them the victory.

The more to inspire the troops, the prophets themselves proposed to share in the battle, and arrayed in their blankets of red, with their heads bearing coronets of varied feathers, while about their shoulders were capes of brilliant plumage of red, black, blue, green and yellow, they joined the Indian ranks. About their ankles were tiny bells of different tones, the jingle of which they kept up during the battle, while occasionally they would leap, dance, and howl in inspiration of the warriors. Weatherford was too sensible a man to attach any importance to the sacredness of their claims, but he was solicitous to elicit to the utmost the fighting mettle of his men. To the rude and ridiculous incantations of the prophets he would add his matchless eloquence, in bringing his troops to the highest pitch of desperation.

The women and children had been removed from the village of huts and tents, to the rear of the garrison, while back of the village still were tied the canoes of the Indians on the river bank, to be used in the emergency of defeat. But while Jackson appeared at the front, General Coffee with a strong force appeared in the rear of Weatherford, with the river between him and the village of Tohopeka. One of the first cares of Coffee was to send a force to fetch the boats, by means of which he could cross the river and a.s.sail the Indians in the rear.

Jackson received a signal from Coffee that the latter was ready for the attack to be made at the front, when about ten o'clock on the morning of March 27, 1814, two field pieces opened on the breastwork of logs. No effect whatever was had on the logworks by the artillery, and Jackson resolved on storming the fortifications. Under a raking fire the troops marched at a double quick, and began pouring over the breastwork, many falling in the a.s.sault of approach, and many more on the walls, and within the fort. It became a hand to hand fight for the mastery, and the Indians were beaten back from their works, fighting meanwhile with desperate courage.

During the a.s.sault at the front, Coffee crossed his force over in the boats, and added discomfiture to the Indians by firing the village in their rear. Between a cross fire, the Indians fought with more desperation than ever. In the roar of battle could be heard the animating voice of the heroic Weatherford urging his troops to desperation, while in the ranks he fought like a common warrior. When Jackson saw that all hope for the Indians was gone, he sent a messenger with proposals of surrender. This was treated with disdain, and the response was that no quarter was asked, and none would be given. It was then that the American troops began with renewed desperation, and entered on a work of extermination. From behind brush, stumps, or other obstructions the Indians fought till the approach of night. Many of the warriors sought to escape by jumping into the river, but they were picked off by the riflemen, and the waters of the Tallapoosa were reddened with their blood. A few escaped, but on the field were counted the bodies of five hundred and fifty warriors. It was estimated that not more than twenty-five of the army of Weatherford survived.

Among the striking incidents of the battle was that of a warrior who was shot down in a wounded condition, in the midst of others who were killed, and who saved his life by drawing the bodies of two others across his own, and appeared as though dead, and was counted among the dead when the field was reviewed at the close of the day. When darkness came on, he dragged his bleeding body to the river, and with difficulty swam across. Another, named Manowa, was seriously wounded, but managed to reach the river, in which he sank his body in water four feet deep, and holding it down by means of gripping a root of a tree, he maintained life by poking the joint of a cane above the surface, through which he breathed. Availing himself later of the darkness, he finally escaped. In later years he showed that he was shot almost to pieces, yet with stoical endurance he underwent the tortures of hours under the water, escaped, and survived.

But where was Weatherford? This was the question on every lip. They could not find him among the slain, and it was thought that he was perhaps among those who perished on the river in seeking to escape. But, as usual, he fought to the last, was among the latest to quit the field, when he escaped to the river on his fine charger, concealed himself till darkness came, when he floated on his horse down the river, around the bend past the American camp, and made his way into the hills to the south of the Tallapoosa River. Here he remained for some time, during which General Jackson offered a reward for him, taken dead or alive. The condition of his romantic reappearance will be told in the next article.