by Michael Aye
Alarmed at first and then realizing the men were friends, the surgeon responded, “Wounded? Yes, but not so bad that he will miss his duty for more than a week.”
“Less,” Sam interjected.
Seeing Jonah’s wound, the surgeon said, “Oh my, you are in need of attention.” Splitting Jonah’s shirt sleeve, he cleaned the wound while the friends talked. “This is more than a superficial wound,” the surgeon advised. “It will need ligatures to close it. Bring a lantern over more closely,” he said as he dabbed at the blood and proceeded to sew up Jonah’s wound.
Grimacing as the needle punctured the skin, Jonah cursed, “Damn, is that the only needle you got? It feels as big as a goose quill, and dull to boot.”
“Now, Mr. Lee, surely after what you’ve been through today, this is minor.”
“Humph,” Jonah snorted. “That was done in battle. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to feel it. But you, sir, appear to take delight in torturing a wounded soul.”
Tying a suture, the surgeon spoke to his attendant, “Lewis, see if there is any of the brandy left, and if so, pour our wounded warrior a snifter. Maybe that will restore some of his fortitude.” The last was said as the surgeon punctured the skin again, placing another stitch in the cut.
Seeing the glass of brandy, Henry reached out and took it. He quickly downed the fiery liquid and handed the empty glass back.
Jonah glared at the scout, “Damn you, you worthless sod.”
“I…I have been wounded too,” Henry declared. “It’s me innards.”
In spite of himself, Jonah smiled. Then, as the rest of the group burst out in laughter, the surgeon took the opportunity to puncture the skin, placing another stitch in the wound.
“Damn you all,” Jonah growled.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The next two weeks were filled with preparation to return to Fort Strother. The return trip was slow and arduous. The rough road caused wagons loaded with wounded men to lurch and bounce about. The cries of pain filled the air at such times. More than one wound busted open, causing the surgeon to rush about trying to take care of the wounded men.
“General Jackson,” one of the surgeons begged. “Can’t you just let us lay over for a few days? Even one day would be a help.”
“The Coosa River is not far. We will camp there, even though it’s early in the day,” Jackson relented.
Jonah thought to himself, the man does have a heart. For some reason, Jonah was suddenly glad that he had taken part in something that would go down in history. Would his name be mentioned? Probably not, but it was enough to know that he was there; that he had been given the honor of serving with a great general…no, a great man. Sitting there astride his horse, Jonah thought of Jackson’s accomplishment.
Before this campaign, he’d never before commanded an army. Never had a militia officer, general or otherwise, commanded a regular army regiment. Being a military historian of sorts, Jonah could not recall where a militia general had directed an assault upon a fortified enemy stronghold. Jackson was a natural leader; a man of cunning, an aggressive man with the will to achieve against all odds. A man who would not put himself or his welfare above that of his men. He was a leader who faced hardships head on with his men, yet a man who could be callous and ruthless when the need arose. Andy Jackson, mad old Jackson, the Indians called him. And now some were calling him old Hickory.
The president had asked Jonah to be a calming force in regards to Jackson. How do you calm a tornado? Jonah thought. You don’t, you get the hell out of the way and wait until it blows itself out. I have failed at this assignment, Jonah thought. Then he recalled interceding when Jackson had considered having the captured Red Stick warriors executed.
-
Sir,” he had protested. “I beg you to reconsider. Not only is it inhumane, but it would be sending the wrong message. Word would surely get back to Menawa and Weatherford. If they should have any white captives, you can bet they’ll die a horrible death.” Jonah could see his words were not having the effect he wanted. So in desperation, he said, “Right now, sir, you have won a tremendous victory. Wouldn’t you want to go down in history as Jackson the victor rather than Jackson the butcher?”
Rage flew over Jackson’s face as he stood to his feet, knocking his chair backwards and over. Jackson’s aide, Captain Reid, and General Coffee were present. Their faces were white, aghast that anyone would speak to Jackson in such a manner. Not that they didn’t agree with Jonah.
Jackson glared at the man who dared to speak to him so. Jonah stood his ground. After an awkward moment, Jackson’s red face began to turn back to normal. “You are a man of conviction,” Jackson said. “You’re not afraid to stand up for what you feel is right. Once again, I see why Madison has such a trust in you. You are a determined man, much as I am. I respect your fortitude, Mr. Lee. I can see where you are right and I thank you for being so honest and forthright. I am proud to have you as a part of my command.” He then turned his attention to other matters, thereby dismissing Jonah.
“That took guts,” Captain Reid said. He had followed Jonah outside the command tent. “You have done what others have failed to do, and that’s change the general’s mind about something. You are now ahead of the game, but I caution you not to push it. President’s man or not, Jackson will tolerate only so much.”
Not yet sure why he said what he did, Jonah stopped suddenly and faced Reid. “Nor will I, Captain, nor will I.”
In the end, Jackson ordered the captives be taken under guard to Huntsville. Jackson was emphatic in his orders that the Indians be treated humanely or the guards would answer to him personally. Jonah had tried to hide his smile, knowing that the last had been for him.
-
They made camp by the Coosa River, and immediately the wounded were taken from the confines of the wagons and laid out in the sun. There were still a few hours of daylight left. Moses rode up to where Jonah was sitting. Some of the wounded had died during the march and more were likely to follow.
“War is never pleasant,” Moses said speaking softly. How many times had he and Jonah been involved in battle and so far had never been seriously wounded? Yet there were men like Lieutenant Moulton and Major Montgomery of the thirty-ninth who fell in their very first engagement. You never knew when it was your turn. Did you go home and sit in a rocker on the porch and be content to say, “I did my part.” I think not, Moses decided. That day might come, but not while his country needed all her men to fight for her freedom. Freedom, how powerful a word, Moses thought, how powerful the meaning…freedom. He lived a life of contentment and freedom. Fate had played him an ace card…the Lees. But what about so many of his kind, the Negro and the red man? Neither part of his ancestry was free.
The Creeks had slaves, captured and bought, as did many other tribes. Men, women, and children held in bondage. Was that not what the biblical Moses was supposed to have done, lead his people out of bondage? Here it was over eighteen hundred years later and people were still slaves. Would it change? Colonel Lee and Mama Lee said it would. It would have to. It’s not a perfect world, Mama Lee had said more than once. Life is not always fair. Was it fair to push the red man from his lands? Both he and Jonah had decided it was not. But it was a part of life, a fact. The Red Sticks would now push west or south into Florida. Hopefully, they would go away far enough they would find peace, at least for a while.
The talk now was of pushing south toward New Orleans, to fight the British. At least, that was against an enemy trying to take their country, their homes. Not some red man who was just trying to protect what had been his for a thousand years. Damn the British, the French, and even to a degree, the Spaniards. All of whom at some time or another had instigated the Indian to do their dirty work. Each time it was the red man who died and who suffered. Was it like the Israelites in the Bible? They were meant to suffer for all of time. Moses wasn’t sure. Some things were beyond him, but he was glad he’d not have to shed any more Indian b
lood, God’s will.
Chapter Forty
Sam Houston was not a patient man. He had tried to follow the doctor’s orders. Indeed, he had as much as he could without going absolutely crazy. But he’d had enough, enough of lying on the cot, enough of lying in a bumpy wagon. Enough of eating watered down soups and of being constantly scolded by the surgeon or one of his attendants every time he turned around. Dammit, he was not made to lie about. He needed fresh air, needed to be around other men, and he needed a horse to get as far away from these nagging medical people as he could. Limping from his tent, he found a saddled horse tied to a rope where the mules had been hitched at the noon halt. Throwing his walking stick down, he pulled himself into the saddle. Riding away, he could hear shouts from the surgeon ordering him back. Ignoring the surgeon, he rode on up the line.
Spying familiar faces, he rode up to them. Houston still had a dressing over his shoulder where he’d been shot twice, and one over his thigh where he’d been struck by an arrow. There was a paleness to his face, and he looked gaunt but he felt much better now than in recent weeks. Captain Stephen Lieupo saw his friend riding toward them and spoke to Jonah and Moses, alerting them of Sam’s approach.
Pulling his horse up, Houston said, “Place was getting to me. Smelt like death and decay. I had to get shut of it.”
Of the three, Captain Lieupo understood best where Sam was coming from. He’d been there. An aura of death seemed to hang over the hospital tents and then the wagons like a cloud, a black cloud. He couldn’t get away fast enough, either.
“Whose horse did you steal?” Jonah asked.
“I don’t know. Hopefully, I can find mine and send this one back before they hang me.” This got a chuckle from the group, none of whom missed the ‘send the horse back’ and not ‘take the horse back’.
“We got word by some of Russell’s scouts that the Red Sticks are gathering for another fight,” Jonah told Houston. “The general says if they are foolish enough to wait till we get there we’ll give them the fight. Henry didn’t think it was likely they’d hang around, however.”
Jackson had taken a longer but much easier route for the return trip. When they reached the fork where the Coosa and Tallapoosa Rivers came together, he ordered a halt. With the scouts reporting that the Red Sticks were again gathering, Jackson made camp and ordered a new fort be built on the site where Fort Toulouse had been built. The French had built the fort in 1717. The stockade was turned into a trading post serving the Creeks until 1763, which was when the French and Indian War was decided in favor of the colonials and the British. The fort was left to ruin after the cannons were spiked.
Within no time at all, the sound of axes rang out, along with the sound of trace chains and the braying of mules as logs were snaked to where the fort was being constructed. Word came in that the number of Red Sticks being seen was diminishing. Finally, Henry rode in and said the Red Sticks had taken flight, as the area around the Holy Ground was deserted.
It was here, during the final stages of construction of the new fort, that a solitary figure rode through the gate. It was just at dusk. Dismounting, the Indian handed the reins of his horse to an Indian known as Big Warrior. “Ah, Bill Weatherford, we have got you at last.”
Jonah and Captain Lieupo had just left Jackson’s tent. Hearing Weatherford’s name, Jonah did an about face and headed in the direction of the voices, with Lieupo close behind.
“You damned traitor, if you give me any insolence, I will blow a ball through your cowardly heart,” Weatherford snarled.
Hearing the interchange, Jackson came running out of his tent. Jonah closed with Jackson, wondering how the hell the war chief of the Red Sticks could just ride in. It would have been easy for him to murder Jackson.
“How dare you, sir, ride up to my tent after having murdered the women and children at Fort Mims.”
Colonel Hawkins, who had been in Jackson’s tent, eased up beside Jonah, his hand on the handle of the pistol tucked in his sash. Jonah whispered, “Easy now, Weatherford does not appear to be up to mischief.”
Weatherford looked at Jackson and the gathering crowd. Seeing Jonah, Weatherford’s gaze paused and a slight smile of recognition came to his face. Turning his attention back to Jackson, the Red Stick warrior, known as Lumhe-Chati and Red Eagle, stood tall, showing no signs of fear as he spoke: “General Jackson, I am not afraid of you. I fear no man, for I am a Creek warrior. I have nothing to request on behalf of myself, you can kill me, if you desire. But I come to beg you to send for the women and children of the war party, who are now starving in the woods. Their fields and cribs have been destroyed by your people, who have driven them to the woods without an ear of corn. I hope that you will send out parties who will safely conduct them here, in order that they may be fed. I exerted myself in vain to prevent the massacre of women and children at Fort Mims. I am now done fighting. The Red Sticks are nearly all killed. If I could fight you any longer, I would most heartedly do so. Send for the women and children. They have never done you any harm. But kill me if the white people want it done.”
“Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” Jonah was amazed at the vehemence in the crowd. He took a step forward and turned toward the crowd. They would not kill Weatherford if he could help it. Pushing through the crowd, there came Moses, Lieupo, and much to Jonah’s surprise, Henry. They all sidled up next to Jonah. Though a weapon had not been drawn, the meaning of the four’s stance was obvious.
Jackson’s voice roared out, “Silence,” he commanded. When the crowd hushed, he spoke again, very emphatic in his words and his tone, “Any man who would kill as brave a man as this would rob the dead.”
There was much muttering and grumbling but the men turned and shuffled off. Jackson then invited Weatherford in for a glass of brandy. Seeing Weatherford gaze back toward Jonah as he made his way to the tent, Jackson called out, “Mr. Lee, would you care to join us?”
Before the night was over, the three had established a friendship that would last each man until his dying day.
Chapter Forty-One
The days and weeks after the battle at Horseshoe Bend and the surrender of Weatherford seemed to crawl by. The construction on the new fort was finally completed. Even though it was basically on the same site as Fort Toulouse, which the French had built in 1717, the men wanted to rename it. To honor their victorious general, the new fort was named Fort Jackson. Crockett returned from wherever he’d been and cussed a blue streak at having missed the battle. Some stated he’d shied away from the battle. Those that said this did not do so within Crockett’s hearing. Jonah did not believe this. Knowing the man as he did, he was sure Crockett would have been in the thick of it. Even with Crockett’s presence, the days were getting very monotonous, as life tends to get after such an event.
There had been a few skirmishes where patrols were either attacked or they encountered and attacked a band of Red Sticks. These small bands usually consisted of no more than two or three, up to a dozen or more. The attacks usually ended quickly. The patrols had suffered a few wounded but no deaths. A few Indians were taken prisoner. It was from a captive that Jackson learned how Menawa escaped.
During the dark of night, before the soldiers got to the pile of bodies under which Menawa lay, he was able to crawl out. Blood had clotted and dried so that his body was stiff. He had been shot by soldiers at least seven times and had received cuts and bruises on top of that. However, with seven musket balls still in his body, he managed to crawl and stagger his way to the river. He latched onto a floating log and drifted down the river past Jackson’s sleeping sentries. Filled with fever, his body in torment from his wounds, Menawa was pulled from the river and cared for by some friends. When he was able to travel, he made his way south to join the Seminoles in Florida.
Jackson was livid to hear the Creek emperor had escaped. The news that the Creeks were joining the Seminoles, who were attacking isolated American settlements, made Jackson more resolved in his determination to go into Fl
orida. “First things first though,” Jackson said, meaning the British. He busied himself preparing a document of capitulation for the Creeks and a treaty of peace for all the tribes.
Hearing and then reading the documents, Jonah was appalled. The words Weatherford had spoken when the cold weather had them held up at the trading post were coming true, all too true. After reading the document, Jonah was unable to hold his tongue. In front of Captain Reid, General Coffee and others, Jonah slammed the document down on the table, causing a glare from Jackson and stern looks from the others.
“General, I cannot believe what I’m reading. This is an absolute travesty. It sends the wrong message, sir. Not only to the Red Sticks, but to the Indians who were our allies. General, it’s…it’s a slap in the face. You, sir, if you proceed with this, have betrayed all of our allies. You are sending the wrong message, General, one I do not believe the president will endorse.”
Jackson’s face was red, his fist were balled up but rested on the table as he leaned forward. “I’ve heard no dissent from my other officers,” Jackson snarled.
“Your officers,” Jonah threw back. “If I was assigned under your command, I might not speak either,” he replied. “Not that I’d think any different. Besides, sir, I’m not sure you have the authority for such a treaty.”
“That’s right,” Jackson said. “You work for someone on a more lofty level. I forgot. But you must remember, Mr. Lee, I’ve been given command over the entire south by Mr. John Armstrong, our Secretary of War. He and I are usually of the same mind. With my new assignment, I believe I, until instructed otherwise, can make such a treaty. I also have the authority to deal with any treasonous acts I might encounter.”
Taking a breath, Jonah knew it would be better to hold his words but his conscience wouldn’t let him. “I understand that, General. But from where I stand these documents are exactly that, treason. I would find it hard to sleep, and worse yet, I’d find it hard to meet my maker if I didn’t speak out against what I consider a tragedy.”
