The Battle at Horseshoe Bend

by Michael Aye

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  Jonah, Moses, and a large group of Hammond’s rangers had attacked the rear of the village. At first, there were just a few answering shots from Red Stick braves, who had spied them. The fighting then picked up but had not reached its height.

  “We need more men,” Colonel Morgan swore and sent a runner with the request to Colonel Coffee. The runner chose to take a canoe rather than swim the river.

  Most of the Cherokees were now there, and the fight increased but with only pockets of resistance. So far, it had not gotten hand-to-hand. Muskets banged and arrows flew. At some point, one of the lodges caught on fire, and then more and more lodges started to burn. Most of the smoke drifted toward the barricade. With the increase in burning lodges and smoke, more braves raced to the rear and the fighting increased. At one point, a group of squaws and children ran from a lodge toward the river. Several Cherokees turned to fire at them. Moses shoved one of the Cherokee braves down, shouting, “No!” They got the message right away. This big black warrior would not tolerate harm being done to women and children. The only reaction from the Cherokees was to turn their attention back to the Red Stick braves. After an hour, the fighting had become constant. At times, it was hand-to-hand as the muskets and long rifles became too hot to fire.

  “How long do you reckon this will go on?” Henry wheezed. The smoke from burnt gunpowder and that from the burning lodges made one’s eyes burn and water; stopped up a man’s nose and made it hard to breathe.

  Jonah splashed water from a canteen on his face and wiped it dry with a dirty sleeve. He rinsed out his mouth with a swallow, spit and then took a drink. He was behind a deadfall with ten or twelve other men including Colonel Morgan.

  “Where are the damn reinforcements?” Colonel Morgan snorted.

  “If they don’t get here soon, we don’t have much of a choice,” Henry coughed. Seeing Jonah’s questioning look, he added, “Go for a swim or get scalped. More braves are coming over the ridge.”

  “Get ready men,” Morgan ordered.

  Jonah was not sure Jackson would send more to the rear. A high-pitched, hotly contested battle was going on at the front of the wall. God help those men. God help Sam Houston. There was no backup in the man; he was a fighter to be sure. He wouldn’t stop until he was severely wounded or dead. A shot was fired, kicking up bark and stinging Jonah’s face. Keep your mind on the business at hand, he thought to himself.

  “Here we go again,” Moses cried.

  Round after round was fired until the Red Sticks were too close to reload, then it was hand-to-hand. Moses swung his rifle like a club, splitting a brave’s scalp and downing him as the warrior flung a war ax, just missing Henry. The old scout yelped but wasn’t injured. Jonah was tied up with another brave, who had him by the hair with one hand and a tomahawk in the other. The Indian was naked, painted red and slick. Jonah could feel himself losing his grip on the wrist that held the Indian’s tomahawk. He fell backwards to the ground and kicked upward, causing the warrior to fly up and over Jonah. Jonah quickly grabbed his knife from his belt sheath and gave it a throw. The blade penetrated the Indian’s eye, causing him to scream and run. He tripped over a limb, fell face first and didn’t move again. Jonah picked up his long rifle to reload. The fight was temporarily over.

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  A cheer went up. Turning toward the noise, Jonah’s group could see the reinforcements had arrived. Seeing the new men, the Red Sticks gathered and almost in military fashion fired two quick volleys followed by flying arrows. Hearing an ‘oomph’, Jonah turned and saw Colonel Morgan fall. Quickly, he ordered the men to drag the colonel behind a tree. Blood poured from Morgan’s scalp and Jonah thought him dead until the colonel moaned, turned his head and tried to sit up. Henry poured water over the wound and somebody offered a rag that was not too dirty. Within no time, he got to his feet, dizzy at first and then he seemed fit.

  “Let’s move out,” Morgan said. “It’s time to take to those blame red devils.”

  With that, the Cherokees were turned loose and the Red Sticks now had to defend themselves from two fronts. Determined, the men reloaded and moved out. The fight was straight ahead.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Wounded twice, Sam Houston was carried from the field of battle, protesting all the way, shouting, “I can still fight.” His protest did little good. Weatherford watched Houston being carried away. He liked the man the Cherokees called Colonneh, or Raven. Too bad they had not joined with the Red Sticks. With Colonneh and his Cherokee friends, they could have carried the day. They could have defeated old mad Jackson and ended the white man’s greed and stealing of the Creek’s lands. Their lands would be next, Weatherford was sure. Jackson would not be satisfied until all the Indian land belonged to the white man. More firing and the cries of battle were coming from the river. He had seen Jonah and the black warrior. He’d also seen the black warrior stop the Cherokees from making war on Red Stick women and children. It was a good thing, because he had drawn a bead on the black warrior. Seeing his actions, Weatherford picked another target.

  Other squaws had not been so lucky, having been killed, some even raped before being killed. What would Jackson think of that, his men molesting Indian women? He’d seen Jackson riding about on his horse. Many had shot at the man but his spirit had protected him, as not one shot had found its mark. Weatherford had two-dozen braves with him. They had hacked loopholes in this lodge that they were holed up in, pouring forth a path of death and destruction to any of the enemy who drew near.

  “Lumhe-Chati,” a brave called to his leader. “We are out of powder and ball. All we have left are empty muskets, tomahawks, our knives and a war ax. Do we rush the white men and fight to the death?”

  “No,” Weatherford replied. He was tired…wounded and tired. He’d fought all day. “It’s getting toward dusk,” he said to his followers. “All brave warriors. We will leave this place. Bring what you can. We have done all we can do. If we like, we can fight another day.”

  “The prophet said we would be protected here. The white man’s bullets would not harm us. Is it wise to leave, Lumhe-Chati?” the brave asked.

  “Where is the prophet now?” Weatherford asked.

  “He is dead.”

  Weatherford nodded. “He was wrong about this place. Now he’s dead wrong. We will not throw away our lives because of a dead prophet.”

  The sun was going down quickly. Weatherford instructed his men to pick up any powder, shot or food they passed but to not waste time in doing so. Easing out of the lodge, the Red Sticks stuck close to the ground with an occasional brave dipping down and picking up something that would be useful.

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  Moses was tired. He’d just escaped being brained by a young brave throwing a rock at him. Not wanting to kill the youth, he reversed his long rifle and jabbed the brave in the chest with the butt plate. The boy fell down gasping, the wind knocked out of him. Jonah was swinging his rifle as a club. His target was a brave who had Henry pinned down and was sitting on the old scout, trying to free his knife hand. The barrel hit the brave at the base of the skull, breaking his neck instantly. Henry scrambled to his feet.

  “I’m out of powder,” he swore.

  “I’m low as well,” Moses said.

  Jonah walked over to where a dead Indian lay and took his powder horn and tossed it to Henry. “Not much,” he said as he made the toss.

  “It’s getting too dark to see much,” Henry swore.

  Jonah nodded and then hissed, “Down, there’s a swarm of Red Sticks.”

  Ducking low, the three loaded as quickly as they could. It was easy to see they were outnumbered three to one.

  “Where are our men?” Henry cussed.

  “Hush,” Jonah snapped.

  A brave who was in the lead stopped as his followers kept going. He peered toward Jonah and his friends for a moment and then rose up. It was Weatherford. His braves had all continued on. Seeing this, Jonah stood. Both men stared at each other. Wea
therford raised his hand ever so slightly and Jonah returned the gesture. Hearing noise, Jonah looked over his shoulder. Soldiers were coming up the rise. He turned back and Weatherford still stood there. Jonah motioned for him to go and pointed over his shoulder at the reinforcements coming. Weatherford nodded, waved again and was gone.

  “Who was that?” one of Morgan’s officers asked as he approached the three men.

  “Not sure,” Jonah replied. “I was trying to clear the smoke so I could see.”

  “What smoke?” the young lieutenant asked.

  “What smoke?” Henry repeated. “Where you been, boy? It’s been such a haze we could barely see.”

  “It’s cleared now,” the lieutenant replied.

  “Wind carried it away,” Moses said. “A minute ago you couldn’t see the hand before your face. Look a yonder, Lieutenant; it’s like a fog drifting toward the river.”

  “I see it now,” the lieutenant admitted. “I’m to tell you to hold your fire. General Jackson is sending up a white flag to see if the Red Sticks will surrender.”

  “They ain’t let up yet,” Henry volunteered.

  “Well, you just hold your fire for now,” the lieutenant said, acting important.

  “Got to,” Jonah said. “Unlike some, we have been fighting all day. Our powder horns are dry and we’re nigh out of shot.” This brought a chuckle from the men escorting the young lieutenant.

  “Yo’ paw know where you’re at?” Henry asked. The escort soldiers lost it, busting out with laughter at the old scout’s comments.

  “I’ll have you whipped,” the boy said to Henry.

  Taking a step forward Jonah said, “You better watch your lip, sonny. That ole he coon has been fighting all day. I imagine he’s tuckered out so he won’t take much sass. Were I you, I’d go on about your rat killing while there’s enough of you for your daddy to recognize.”

  “I ain’t afraid of some old no account…” the boy never finished his sentence.

  WHAP!!! Jonah had slapped the young lieutenant before he knew what he’d done. Collecting his temper, Jonah hissed, “My name is Jonah Lee, should you feel the need for satisfaction.”

  “No, sir,” the young lieutenant said. He’d been assigned to the general’s staff and had heard Captain Lieupo speak of Jonah Lee, the president’s man. “Let’s move out, men,” he managed and then quickly went to do as ordered.

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  It was nearly pitch dark when Colonel Morgan’s men made it to the camp. Men were still walking about the Horseshoe with torches. Jackson had ordered that an exact count of the Red Sticks’ dead be made. To keep an accurate count, the tips of the dead braves’ noses were cut off as they were counted. Two hundred women and children had been taken prisoner. When the counting was done, five hundred and fifty warriors had been killed within the barricade with three hundred or more killed down by the river. Some had died trying to escape down the Tallapoosa. Neither Menawa’s nor Weatherford’s body could be found among the dead or the prisoners. Of Jackson’s army, forty-seven men were killed, and one hundred-fifty nine were wounded. Some, like Sam Houston, had been wounded more than once. Among the Indian allies, twenty-three were killed and forty-seven were wounded.

  Later that evening, the mouthy young lieutenant showed up where Jonah, Moses, and Henry had set up camp. Seeing the young lieutenant first, Moses nudged Jonah and whispered, “Trouble.”

  Henry was lying in his bedroll and with a groan sat up. The lieutenant walked up and paused for a moment and then in half a whisper managed, “I apologize for this afternoon, sir. I was out of line.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Henry answered before Jonah could speak. “Sit down,” Henry invited.

  Sitting down, the now smiling lieutenant asked, “Ya’ll are friends with Captain Lieupo, ain’t you?” When they all admitted they were, the lieutenant said, “He’s a hero now.”

  “Do tell,” Jonah said.

  “Yes, sir. He saved the general’s life.”

  This sounded good so Jonah asked, “How so?”

  “During the fighting, every now and then someone would bring in a prisoner to be questioned. Not much good it did since we already knew as much as the prisoners did. Still anyway, they kept bringing the red devils in for questioning. Finally, they brought in this Creek brave who recognized the general. Before anyone knew what was happening, he grabbed a knife he had hidden and lunged for General Jackson. Seeing this from the corner of his eye, Captain Lieupo kicked a table over in front of the Creek brave tripping him. Then Chief Junaluska got hold of the fool. The general would have been a goner for sure had not Captain Lieupo tripped up the rascal.”

  “Well, good for Lieupo, I guess he’s strutting.”

  “No, sir, he fell and busted his arse when he kicked the table over. He’s up and about, but he ain’t strutting. He’s sore as hell if you ask me.” Now it was Jonah, Moses, and Henry who busted out laughing.

  “I’d give you a snort if I had one,” Henry finally managed. He had laughed until he cried. “Trouble is, we are dry. Not a snort to be had.”

  “That’s alright,” the lieutenant said. “I got a bottle.” This set the laughter off again.

  Boy’s got promise, Jonah decided, as he took a swig of the offered bottle.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Hearing their friend Sam Houston had been wounded not once, but twice, Jonah, Moses, Henry, and a limping Stephen Lieupo made their way to the hospital tent to see their friend. Jonah had a slash on his upper arm that continued to ooze in spite of a makeshift bandage. Jonah had attended an officer’s call an hour earlier; Jackson was elated, a victory…a resounding victory. His only remorse, other than the loss of life of the men in his army, was that neither Menawa nor Weatherford had been killed or captured.

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  I have had conflicting reports,” Jackson had said at the officer’s call, slamming a stack of papers down on his makeshift desk. “Some say Weatherford was not even at Horseshoe Bend. Others say he was and that he’d been wounded more than once.” After pausing and taking a drink of water, Jackson spoke again, “I tend to think he was not present.” Jackson’s words were the ones that would be considered gospel.

  Jonah knew better, but for some reason held his silence. Across the table, Jonah saw Colonel Morgan. The man made an almost imperceptible nod. He, too, knew the truth but kept silent.

  “What we do know is that Menawa was there and several witnesses say he was wounded multiple times. In spite of this, we have no body.” Jackson’s voice was raised and his irritation at not having either Menawa’s or Weatherford’s person or body was evident.

  “You know how these Indians are, Andy. They likely drug his body off somewhere or even throwed it in the river,” John Coffee said.

  “Well, it would have been a damn sight better if we’d had the devils,” Jackson said.

  “Regardless, it was a solid victory,” Coffee said. “The Red Sticks are broken.”

  This seemed to cheer up Jackson. Looking up, he saw Jonah. “Colonel Morgan tells me it was you who spotted the canoes and recommended the attack from the rear, Mr. Lee.”

  “I may have been the one who spoke to the colonel, sir, but others had come upon the same idea.”

  “Ever so modest, Mr. Lee. It’s no small wonder the president keeps you. You are content to do your duty and let others bask in the light.” The general paused while he took another sip of water. Setting the glass down, he said, “I hear it was much the same at the battle of the Thames where another took credit for killing Tecumseh.”

  “I don’t recall anyone actually taking the credit, sir.”

  “And I don’t recall them actually denying it either,” Jackson responded.

  I wonder where he got his information, Jonah thought. Had Captain Hampton told Captain Lieupo? Jonah didn’t think so. It came to him then: Captain Clark. More than likely, it came from him. He had mentioned his relationship with Hampton.

  “Colonel Morgan nevertheless gives you the
credit for the idea,” Jackson was saying. “He also said you and Moses likely saved his life when he was wounded.” The colonel still wore a bandage on his head, albeit a clean one now.

  “The colonel was only dazed, sir, he was able to fight on.”

  “Thanks to you, Moses, and Henry,” Morgan said.

  “Yes, well as I understand it,” Jackson said, “I’m convinced your efforts played no small part in our victory. I have already said as much in messages to Governor Blount, John Armstrong, and our esteemed President.” Apparently noticing Jonah’s wound for the first time, Jackson said, “Make sure you visit the surgeon, Mr. Lee. It appears your wound needs tending. Besides, Houston is over there making a fuss to be set free. Maybe your presence will calm him down a tad.”

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  Entering the hospital tent, the group could see Houston propped up on his cot. He was speaking to several of the hospital staff. Houston had paused in his narration and seemed to shudder. “Senseless, so many killed, absolutely senseless.”

  The surgeon handed Houston a glass filled with an amber liquid. “Take a swallow of this, Sam.” Houston took a sip, paused and then downed the liquid. Setting the glass down, he looked at the surgeon, who said, “Medicinal…purely medicinal.”

  One of the surgeon’s attendants said, “Go on, Lieutenant Houston, and finish your story.”

  Lieutenant…did he say Lieutenant? Sam must have gotten promoted, Jonah thought. He had been an ensign.

  Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “The sun was going down and it set on the ruin of the Creek nation. Where, but a few hours before, a thousand brave warriors had scowled on death and their assailants, there was nothing to be seen but volumes of dense smoke rising heavily over the corpses of painted warriors and the burning ruins of their fortifications.” Houston had leaned forward as he spoke. Now he laid back, his thoughts heavy on his mind and on his heart.

  Sensing the need to break the mood, Jonah swallowed and called loudly, “Houston! Sam Houston, I know you’re lazing about in here somewhere.” Over here came the reply. “I might have known if a man needed care he’d have to pry the surgeon away from you. Tell me, sir, is Lieutenant Houston grievously wounded or is he shirking?”