Land of the Free

by Jeffry Hepple

  “Stoddard? Is he there?”

  Madison shook his head. “No. He’s with Governor Harrison in the Indiana Territory. The fort is named Stoddard but I cannot say for whom it was so named. Is General F. L. Claiborne related to Governor W. C. C. Claiborne?”

  “They’re brothers, sir.”

  “The family seems to prefer initials to names.”

  “The general is Ferdinand Leigh Claiborne and the governor is William Charles Cole Claiborne, Mr. President.”

  “How do you keep track of all these people?”

  “I don’t know, sir. It must be hereditary. My grandmother seems to know everyone in the entire country, if not the whole world.”

  Madison smiled. “Your grandmother is a formidable woman. Had she been born male she would have undoubtedly ruled the whole world.”

  Yank chuckled. “If you’ll forgive me, sir, it would not be a world in which I would choose to live.”

  July 30, 1813

  Mt. Vernon, Alabama Territory

  Yank was sitting on his horse in the midst of running people.

  General F. L. Claiborne, halted his column then trotted his horse forward and reached across his saddle to shake hands. “What’s going on here, Yank?”

  “Panic, General. It seems that a Colonel named James Caller led a fairly substantial force of regulars and militia to interdict a trade between a band of Red Sticks led by Peter McQueen at a place called Burnt Corn Creek. The results were apparently disastrous. The Red Sticks are now saying that Caller’s attack constituted a declaration of war and that they intend to kill every white man, woman and child that remains on traditional Creek lands.”

  “Who is Peter McQueen?”

  “He’s a half Creek, half Scotsman who calls himself a trader. Most recently he’s been trading his loyalty to the British for weapons and powder.”

  “I don’t understand what brought all this on.”

  “Brought what on?”

  “Caller’s attack. What was McQueen doing to warrant it?”

  “Well, it appears that Colonel Caller’s commanding officer received information stating that McQueen and a small party of Red Sticks had ridden to Pensacola with a letter from a British officer at Fort Malden and four hundred dollars to buy muskets and other munitions. Caller was ordered by his commanding officer to intercept them on the way back before the merchandise could be distributed.”

  “Who is Caller’s commanding officer and what does he command?”

  “I don’t know his name, sir, but he commands a fort called Mims.”

  “Where is Fort Mims?”

  “I don’t know where that is either.”

  “Where is Colonel Caller?”

  “Missing. The stragglers from his command that I’ve spoken to don’t know if he’s dead or alive. Apparently most of them joined Caller on the march to battle and none are from Fort Mims.”

  “Do you know where Fort Stoddard is?”

  “Yes. That I do know.” Yank pointed to a stockade. “That’s it.”

  “Not much of a fort.”

  “There’s a whole chain of poorly built defensive stockades that’re called forts spread out between the Tombigbee and Alabama Rivers. Most have no military presence. Not even a squad of militia. Just settlers with pitchforks, blunderbusses and a few squirrel guns.”

  “I asked General Flournoy to let me march right into the heart of the Creek nation but he says it’s a matter for Governor Holmes and his territorial militia.”

  “Have you spoken to Governor Holmes about it?”

  “I can’t. I’ve been expressly forbidden from becoming involved in what General Flournoy is calling the Creek Civil War.”

  “Maybe I can talk to Holmes.”

  “You’ll be putting your neck in a noose.”

  “Possibly.” Yank was looking at Claiborne’s brigade. “Would it be a violation of your orders to distribute some of your troops to man the undefended stockades?”

  Claiborne looked around at the terrified citizens. “Is the threat real?”

  “Yes. And imminent, I think.”

  “Well then,” Claiborne said wearily, “I’m going to say that it would not be a violation of my orders and hope for the best.” He turned in his saddle and signaled the bugler forward. “Officers call.” When the bugle sounded, he raised his hand and circled it above his head to indicate that he wanted his officers to assemble on him. “You’re going to have to help me place them, Yank.”

  Yank was still sizing up the force as the officers came forward. “Well, General, I just got here myself, so the first thing I’d recommend would be to send out your dragoons to nose around for more information.”

  Claiborne didn’t wait for Yank to continue. “Major Hinds?”

  “Sir.”

  “We need eyes out there.”

  “Yes, sir.” The major turned his horse and ran back along the column as other officers were still coming forward.

  “What’s the ground around here like?” Claiborne asked Yank.

  “There’s an old Spanish blockhouse at St. Stephen’s that would make a reasonably good lookout post to watch the north. The ground at the confluence of Tombigbee and Alabama would be a good place to pick a big fight.”

  “Colonel Carson?” Claiborne shouted.

  “Yes, General?”

  “Take two hundred men to the confluence of the Tombigbee and Alabama Rivers, find a good position and start building defenses.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carlson wheeled his horse and rode away.

  Claiborne looked expectantly at Yank who was still counting men.

  “If you can spare a company,” Yank said, “there’s a fort at Okeatapa on the Choctaw frontier that we should try to keep under our control.”

  “Did you hear that, Captain Dent?” Claiborne asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Carry on.” Claiborne answered the captain’s salute then turned to his remaining officers. “Colonel Dorman?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take command. That sorry stockade over there is the Fort Stoddard that we’re supposed to defend. See what can be done about improving it while I take a ride with Colonel Van Buskirk.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed,” Claiborne said.

  August 31, 1813

  Fort Stoddard, Alabama Territory

  “Yank? Are you in here?” General Claiborne held an oil lamp above his head and stumbled into the dark barn. “Yank?”

  “Here.” Yank sat up.

  “Why are you sleeping in a corn crib?”

  “I get these bad headaches since Detroit and they make me sick to my stomach. I wanted to be away from everybody. What’s wrong?”

  “Red Sticks attacked Fort Mims this morning and massacred every man, woman and child, just as they threatened. The early reports are over five hundred dead.”

  “Sweet Jesus.” Yank climbed out of the corn crib and groped in the dark for his boots. “Mims was packed with refugee families from the lower towns.”

  Claiborne nodded. “A lot of them were mixed blood, Creek families. But the report says that everyone was slaughtered, white, Indian and mixed blood.”

  “Do you want me to go wake Governor Holmes and put a pistol to his head?”

  “Yes. Then I want you to go ask Governor Blount of Tennessee to send us Andy Jackson and the Tennessee militia.”

  Yank stamped his boot on. “Do you know Jackson?”

  “Yes. From when he marched his militia to New Orleans. I’ve never seen a finer leader.”

  “It’ll take me a week.”

  “Make it as fast as you can.”

  September 4, 1813

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Yank had been in the saddle almost constantly for nearly five days and had worn out more horses than he could count. He arrived in Nashville at about 8:00 AM where he was surprised to find the streets around Court House Square nearly empty and many of the businesses closed. Fearing that something terrible had ha
ppened, he proceeded to the post office, tied his horse at the rail and went inside. “Hello. Is anyone here?”

  A clerk appeared behind the counter but kept very close to the wall as he watched the street nervously. “Can I help you, Colonel?”

  “There’s nobody out there.” Yank gestured toward the street. “Has something happened?”

  “No, sir, but somethin’s about to happen. General Jackson’s fixin’ to kill Colonel Benton.”

  “Thomas Benton?” Yank asked in a tone of disbelief.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thomas Hart Benton?” Yank clarified.

  “Yes, sir. Thomas Hart Benton.”

  “That can’t be. They’re the best of friends and political allies.”

  “It’s the truth, sir. The Benton brothers is right over there at City Hotel and Jackson’s coming down from the Hermitage to kill ‘em both.”

  “Why, for the love of God? What happened?”

  “When Tom Benton was in Washington last month, his brother, Jesse, insulted Captain Carroll. I don’t know Captain Carroll’s first name, do you?”

  Yank shook his head.

  “Anyway, Carroll challenged Jesse to a duel and named General Jackson as his second. They met; Carroll got a piece of his thumb shot off and Jesse got grazed in the ass. When Tom Benton got home and found out about it, he called the general every kind of low name and swore revenge. They been insultin’ each other ever since, and it looks like today’s the showdown.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “This is the South, sir. You bein’ a northerner and all, you might not understand us down here.”

  “Perhaps not.” Yank walked out to the sidewalk, wondering what he should do.

  “Colonel Van Buskirk. Well, well, well.”

  Yank turned to see Andrew Jackson with the giant Colonel John Coffee striding across the square.

  “General.” Yank walked to meet them. “I’ve come on urgent business. Is there any way that I can dissuade you from this duel? Step in for you perhaps?”

  “There will be no duel, Colonel,” Jackson replied. “I only intend to teach the rascal a lesson.” He swatted his leg with his quirt.

  Yank didn’t look relieved by the announcement.

  “What’s the trouble, Colonel?” Coffee asked.

  “Red Sticks under the command of Peter McQueen and William Weatherford massacred hundreds of settlers, mixed-blood Creeks, and militia at Fort Mims a few days ago. General Claiborne asked me to come. I stopped first to see Governor Blount and he says that he’ll issue the needed orders.”

  Jackson looked at Coffee. “I’d rather settle with these Red Sticks in the Alabama Territory than here in Tennessee. How about you, Colonel?”

  Coffee nodded but he was looking across the square. “Right there’s the Benton brothers.” He pointed. “Right there, on the walk in front of the City Hotel, big as life. They’re both carryin’ two pistols.”

  Before Yank could try to discourage him, Jackson was off at a run with Coffee only a step behind. Unsure what he should do, Yank hesitated, then followed at a slower pace.

  As Jackson drew close, Jesse Benton stepped back into the hotel barroom and Thomas Benton moved into the hall leading to the rear porch.

  “Defend yourself you damned rascal,” Jackson roared, rushing, Benton.

  Benton reached for a pistol but Jackson caught his wrist and drew his own pistol. Benton began to back onto the porch with Jackson following when Jesse appeared behind Jackson and fired his pistol.

  Jackson fell and his pistol discharged as he was going down. The ball from Jackson’s pistol barely missed Thomas Benton who fired both his pistols at Jackson and miraculously missed hitting anyone. At the same time, Jesse Benton ran forward with his second pistol, but Yank tripped him and kicked the pistol into the corner, then ducked as Coffee blazed away at Thomas Benton with both his pistols. Thomas Benton turned to run from Coffee who was after him with the smoking pistols held like clubs, but fell down the stairs.

  As Jesse Benton scrambled across the floor after his pistol, a young officer in Jackson’s command named Stockley Hays rushed past Yank and stabbed Jesse Benton with a sword cane but the blade broke on a button. Jesse, who had one loaded pistol, took aim at Hays but when the hammer fell, the weapon misfired.

  Yank had had enough. He drew his pistol with one hand and his sword with the other. “I will kill the next man that makes an aggressive move,” he said in a voice so chilling that all the movement stopped. “Colonel, Coffee, get some men to take General Jackson to his hotel. The rest of you clear out or die.” He waited until the hallway emptied, then put away his weapons and went to livery his horse and to find a bed for himself.

  ~

  It was dark when Yank awoke. He walked to the window and looked out. Across the square, in front of the Nashville Inn, the Benton brothers and their supporters were shouting insults.

  Yank washed in the basin, shaved and put on his spare uniform, then went downstairs to eat. An hour later, he crossed the square to the Nashville Inn. As he approached, the Benton crowd fell silent.

  Coffee, who looked awful, met him in the lobby. “General Jackson’s asking for you.”

  “How bad is it?” Yank asked.

  Coffee shook his head. “His left shoulder’s plumb shattered and the slugs embedded in the bone. Every doctor in Nashville’s tried to stop the bleeding but it’s no good. They say that unless they amputate he’ll die but he won’t let ‘em. Maybe you can talk sense into him.”

  Without further comment, Yank climbed the stairs, announced himself to the sergeant major in the hall outside Jackson’s door and was admitted to the room through a cordon of soldiers.

  Jackson, surrounded by doctors, was lying on a bloodstained mattress. Two other completely blood-soaked mattresses had been discarded and were stacked against the wall beyond the bed. Jackson beckoned to Yank with his good arm.

  Yank had to shoulder two doctors aside to get close.

  “I need a favor, Colonel,” Jackson said.

  “What can I do for you, General?”

  “I keep telling these sawbones that I’ll keep my arm but they’re hoverin’ over me like vultures just waitin’ for me to pass out.”

  “You’ll keep your arm, General, or they’ll be burying me beside you.” Yank turned away from Jackson and drew his sword. “Is there any one of you that thinks he can save General Jackson without amputating?”

  “I’ve said all along that there’s hope,” one man said. “But we have to stop the bleeding.”

  “The rest of you get out,” Yank said. He brandished his sword to hurry them along. “Sergeant Major,” he bellowed.

  “Sir.” The man pushed through the grumbling doctors who were exiting the room.

  “One man is to remain as guard and everyone else is to scour this hotel for cobwebs.”

  “Cobwebs, sir?”

  “Spider webs.”

  “Spider webs, sir?”

  “Damn it man, stop repeating what I say. The Shawnee use spider webs to stop bleeding by wadding them into the wound. I’ve seen them stop worse wounds than this.”

  “Yes, sir.” The sergeant major headed toward the door.

  Yank waited until the door closed then walked to Jackson. “Would you like me to do anything about Benton and his people outside?”

  “No. That isn’t your fight.”

  Yank sheathed his sword and turned to the doctor. “I hope you’re not going to give me a big argument about cobwebs.”

  The man shook his head. “I never heard of it before, but it makes sense. The ball is going to have to stay where it is. There’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “Just do your best and leave the General with his arm dead or alive.”

  “I understand.”

  September 7, 1813

  The Hermitage, Tennessee

  Yank checked the saddle cinch and raised his knee against the horse’s belly.

  Rachel Jackson hurried into
the stable and stopped abruptly. “Must you go, Colonel?”

  “Is he worse?”

  “No. But I know he’s going to miss you horribly.”

  “I’ll be back,” Yank said. “But my place right now is in the Alabama Territory.”

  “He has told me what you did. I’ve not had the opportunity to thank you.”

  Yank looked surprised. “Most people who care for General Jackson were furious with me for risking his life and preventing the doctors from amputating.”

  “If Andy had lost his arm it would have killed his pride. Andy Jackson would not exist without his pride. Thank you for understanding that, Colonel.”

  Yank nodded. “Well I had better kick for Alabama, Ma’am.” He touched his hat brim and swung onto the saddle.

  “You be sure to come back this way,” Rachel said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Yank waved to her and rode out.

  September 10, 1813

  Fort Madison, Alabama Territory

  Yank rode in through the gates and picked his way through crowds of men, women and children to the command house where he dismounted and gave the reins to a groom.

  Brigadier General Ferdinand Claiborne hurried toward him. “What news, Yank?”

  Yank saluted and dropped the salute before Claiborne returned it. “Governor Holmes was noncommittal. Governor Blount almost guaranteed that he could convince the legislature to allow him to raise five thousand men. That would be twenty-five hundred from West Tennessee under General Jackson and twenty-five hundred from East Tennessee under Major General William Cocke.”

  “How soon can they get here?”

  “Cocke says that if gets Blount’s approval soon enough he can be on the move by early next month.”

  “And Jackson?”

  “Well, the truth is that we may get Jackson’s army without Jackson. Maybe Coffee would be Blount’s choice. I’m not sure.”

  “Why not Jackson?”

  “He got into an altercation with Thomas Benton and Benton’s brother Jesse. Jesse put a slug in Jackson that damn near killed him.”

  “Shit.” Claiborne kicked the dirt.