CHAPTER 4
There were some Creek warriors not far from the riverbank, as it turned out. Even if they hadn’t been posted as guards, they were too alert not to notice when The Whale and his two companions started sliding canoes into the river. With a great shout, several of them rushed down, waving the crimson-painted war clubs which had given the Red Sticks their name. Most of the clubs were the type known as atassa, which were very similar in shape and design to a sword, concentrating the force of the blow on a narrow wooden edge. Many, however, were either ball-headed clubs or tomahawks with flint or iron blades.
The Whale’s two companions got their canoes into the river and started paddling them across. But The Whale himself had some trouble untying the tether on his chosen canoe. By the time he got the canoe freed, it was too late. The Red Sticks were right on him.
The Whale hadn’t encumbered himself with weapons when he swam the river, so all he was armed with was the canoe’s paddle. The Ridge saw him rise up and smash the first Red Stick in the ribs with the edge of it. The Creek warrior went down instantly. The Ridge was sure his rib cage was shattered, and he might even be dead. The Whale was very strong.
But there were four more Red Sticks surrounding The Whale. He was only able to block one club-strike and break another warrior’s arm before he was struck down himself, his head bleeding profusely. Half-dazed, The Whale dropped his paddle and scrambled into some brush by the river bank.
The Creeks would undoubtedly have followed and finished him off, but by then they’d caught sight of the hundreds of Cherokees massed in the woods on the other side of the river. The expression on their faces almost caused The Ridge to laugh. The two canoes were already more than half the distance across, and it was obvious that the Creeks would soon be facing an invasion of their fortress on its unprotected river side.
So, they left The Whale unmolested and began running back to alert the rest of the Red Sticks. By the time they were all out of sight, the captured canoes had reached the southern bank. The Ridge was the first to pile into one of them. The Whale and his companions had taken care, right off, to seize the paddles for all the canoes and store them in the ones they’d seized. So all the Cherokees crammed into the canoes could help drive them back across the river. As experienced as they were with such things, it took less than a minute before they were starting to clamber onto the opposite bank.
The Ridge didn’t bother giving any orders. Cherokees might not have the mindless discipline of white soldiers, but they didn’t need to be told the obvious. Several Cherokee warriors, each holding a paddle, were already untying the rest of the canoes. They’d paddle them back across to load up more warriors. Within a few minutes, the vanguard which had crossed in two canoes would be reinforced by hundreds more.
“Can The Ridge handle it alone?” General Coffee asked, leaning forward in the saddle.
John Ross nodded firmly. “Yes, sir. And, ah . . .”
Coffee frowned. “Yes, I understand. He’s more worried about being shot by my soldiers than he is about the Creeks. Can’t say I blame him.”
Coffee pursed his lips, examining what he could see of the river. “All right, then. I’ll keep my cavalry on this side of the river for an hour. But I’ll have them spread out all the way around the horseshoe, with orders to shoot any Indian who tries to swim across. The one thing General Jackson is determined about is that we’re going to crush the Red Sticks here and now. They’ll either surrender or die. None of them are going to escape.”
He looked down at Ross, his expression bleak. “You understand? Make sure you tell The Ridge to keep his Cherokees on the other side once they’ve crossed, no matter how desperate it gets. Those fancy two feathers and a deer’s tail won’t look like anything once they’re soaking wet and dragging behind heads swimming across the river. They’ll just get shot. In the heat of battle . . .”
He didn’t finish the sentence, because he didn’t need to. Ross understood the harsh realities as well as anyone. To most white men, one Indian scalp looked just like another. There were some who could tell the difference between the hair styles of the different Indian tribes, but not many. All the more so because of the habit of men in the southern tribes of wearing turbans, as often as not.
John suppressed a sigh. This was no time for ruminations on the unfairness of life. There was still a battle to be fought and won, this day. “I’ll tell him, sir,” he stated, and raced off.
A horseman came charging up the field toward Montgomery and Houston, where they were standing in front of the 39th. Even at a distance, Sam was pretty sure it was the same militia officer he’d seen harangued by Jackson the day he arrived in Fort Strother. Houston had good eyesight.
Montgomery had been on the verge of ordering the attack. But, seeing the oncoming officer, he delayed. “Better see what he has to say. Jackson must have sent him.” The major snorted. “The blasted fool. On a field like this, he’ll break that horse’s leg if he isn’t lucky.”
Even on an uphill slope, at the pace he was driving his mount, the militia officer would arrive within seconds. Sam was already certain he knew the message he was bringing. The officer had plucked off his hat and was waving it frantically toward the Creek fieldworks, using only one hand to guide the horse.
“Blasted fool,” Montgomery repeated.
“Sir, I think General Coffee—or the Cherokees, more likely—just launched an attack on the enemy from across the river.”
Montgomery squinted at the log barricade. The open field which led to that barricade sloped from a rise to the north of the peninsula. The 39th was arrayed on that rise, ready to start its charge. Most of the charge would be on level ground, since the rise ended less than half the distance to the fortifications. But their current position did give them, at the moment, a view over the top of the enemy fieldworks.
“I think you’re right. I can see Red Sticks—quite a few of them—scrambling away from the barricade.”
Sam’s eyes were better than the major’s, and he’d already seen the same thing.
But there was no need to guess. The militia officer was finally within shouting range.
“The general says to attack at once! Coffee has made a diversion in the enemy’s rear!”
“That’s it, then,” said Montgomery. He drew his sword, which, like Sam’s, was scabbarded on a two-inch waistbelt. Thereafter, the swords parted company. Officers were expected to purchase their own weapons, and Montgomery was a prosperous man. His weapon was a clipped-point saber designed by the famous Nathan Starr, silver-mounted with eagle pommel and an ivory grip. Sam’s was a straight sword he’d purchased from a down-at-heels artillery officer who’d resigned from the service. The sword could best be described as utilitarian.
On the positive side, Sam had also bargained well enough to get the man’s pistol in the deal. He didn’t think much of the sword, but the sidearm was a dandy Model 1805 Harpers Ferry cavalryman’s pistol. It was against regulations, true, but he’d stuffed it into his waistband that morning and Montgomery hadn’t done more than look at it cross-eyed for a few seconds. Jackson hadn’t looked at it at all.
Montgomery hawked up some phlegm and spit on the ground. Then, loudly: “Ensign, give the signal!”
Trying not to smile—it was going to be a puny sort of signal—Sam waved his hand and the drum began pounding the signal to advance.
The one and only drum. When Jackson’s army marched out of Fort Strother on March 13 to begin what everyone hoped would be the final campaign against the Red Sticks, it had been discovered that there was only one drummer boy left in the little army. All the others, it seemed, had reached the end of their enlistment and gone home.
Another commander might have been nonplussed by the fact. But Old Hickory, after five minutes worth of yelling about worthless thirteen-year-old lawyers, had simply snarled that men could march to a single drum as easily as they could to a thousand. They just had to use their ears a little harder.
They had several hundred yards to cover, so Montgomery paced the charge accordingly. At the beginning, it was more in the way of a fast march than a “charge,” properly speaking. Sam was eager to close with the enemy—just to get rid of his nervousness, really, not because he felt any bloodlust. Still, he appreciated the major’s foresight.
Maybe Homer’s ancient Achaean heroes could run hundred of yards and fight a battle at the end—Sam had his doubts—but their feebler modern descendants would be winded if they tried to do the same. The pace Major Montgomery was maintaining wouldn’t tire out soldiers who were accustomed to marching in frontier wilderness terrain. Sam guessed that the major would only order a real charge once they were within fifty yards or so of the breastworks.
True enough, that meant they’d be exposed to enemy fire that much longer in the open. Still, better that than to try to scale those fieldworks exhausted and out of breath.
It was hard, though, at least for Sam, to maintain that steady and stoic pace. Already, the Creeks were starting to fire arrows at the oncoming 39th. They’d save their powder and bullets until the infantry regulars were within a hundred yards.
Sam’s mother routinely accused him of being “high-strung.” True, his mother was a harsh woman given to exaggeration when she criticized someone—which she did frequently, especially her children. Still, he knew there was at least some truth to it. Taking his cue from the well-known example of George Washington, Sam was given to self-inspection and an attempt at self-discipline. In his field kit left behind at the rear, he had copies of the same sort of self-improvement guides that Washington had studied as a young man. They were nestled in with Sam’s treasured Homer.
So, he did his best to dampen the instincts which were shrieking to send him racing toward the enemy. He still didn’t feel anything resembling the wrath of Achilles—which, in and of itself, suited him just fine. Sam had never much liked Achilles. He’d always found the Trojan Hector a far more appealing character.
No, it wasn’t bloodlust or fury, he finally decided. It wasn’t even any particular desire to pitch headlong into a battle beyond the natural ambition of a young man to make a name for himself. It was simply nervous energy, like that of a race horse, now that the contest was underway.
That conclusion helped him to focus. Sam Houston had determined that he would pass through his life like a fine thoroughbred, not a plow horse. In that, if nothing else, he shared the sentiments of Achilles. Better a short and glorious life than a long and dull one.
“Better yet,” he murmured, “a long and glorious life.”
“I’m sorry, ensign, I didn’t catch that,” said Major Montgomery, marching along next to him.
Embarrassed, Sam cleared his throat and tightened his grip on the sword. “Ah, nothing, sir. Just talking to myself.”
Sam eyed an arrow speeding in his direction. He didn’t break stride, but he did edge slightly to his right, almost crowding Montgomery. The arrow passed safely three feet to his left.
“Don’t,” said the major. The word was spoken firmly, even sternly, but the tone was not accusatory. “In a fight, you can’t see every danger. Just ignore it all, young man. That’ll help steady the men—and it’s in God’s hand now anyway.”
“Yes, sir.”
And that, too, young Sam Houston filed away for later study. He suspected the major was right—but he still thought it was a foolish way to fight a battle. Of course, that might just be his Cherokee upbringing at work. Cherokees, like all Indians Sam knew of, generally thought that the headlong white man’s way of fighting was just plain stupid.
Indeed, so it may have been. But it was also a fact that white men eventually won their wars with Indians, if not always all the battles. Maybe this was part of it.
He chewed on that thought too, for a time. Indeed, he became so engrossed in the matter that Montgomery’s bellow caught him by surprise.
“Charge!”
The major led the way, waving his saber. The fieldworks weren’t more than fifty yards distant now.
By the time John Ross got back to the river and crossed on the first available canoe, the battle on the other side between The Ridge’s Cherokees and the Red Sticks was well underway.
It was a swirling, chaotic confused melee; hundreds of Indian warriors fighting singly or in small clusters, clubbing and stabbing each other among twice that many tall trees. John heard some shots ring out, as well. The Cherokees had been provided with guns by Jackson. Not enough to arm every warrior, to be sure; but the Cherokees had gotten far more guns from the Americans than the Red Sticks had been able to obtain from the British and Spanish enclaves down on the coast.
But there weren’t that many shots, for this size of a battle. Even someone as inexperienced in fighting as John Ross could tell that much. He wasn’t surprised, though, now that he saw the terrain. The fight between Cherokees and Creeks on the southern end of the peninsula was simply too close up, too entangled in forest and brush. By the time a man could see his opponent, his gun usually wouldn’t be any more use than a large and clumsy club. That being so, why not use a real war club from the outset?
John was quite sure that was how The Ridge had reasoned. He himself, on the other hand, was no more proficient with traditional Cherokee weapons than he was with the Cherokee language. His loyalties to his nation were unquestioned, by him as much as any member of it. But the truth was that he was far more comfortable with the white man’s ways of doing most things.
So, like any young white man would have done in his first battle, Lt. John Ross drew his pistol and charged forward. He would have preferred a rifle, but proper officers didn’t carry such.
Less than fifteen seconds later, John was glad he’d only been armed with a pistol. A Red Stick came around a tree, screaming a war cry, and tried to brain him with his war club. John barely had time to throw up his arm and block the blow. Fortunately, his forearm intercepted the club well down the shaft, or he would have had a broken arm instead of just a badly bruised one.
The Red Stick drew the club back for another blow. He was a terrifying sight, in that moment. His mouth was open in a rictus of fury and his painted face made him look like a demon.
John never knew, then or later, whether he pulled the trigger of his pistol out of fear or rage or just pure reflex. Probably all at the same time, he would conclude.
He wasn’t even aware that the gun had gone off—the sound of it was overwhelmed by the war cries all about and the confusion of the moment—until he saw the Red Stick’s left leg flung aside and a spray of blood erupt from his thigh. The Creek warrior’s club strike missed him by a good foot and the warrior himself staggered for two paces before collapsing.
But he rose again, almost instantly, screaming another war cry. The .62 caliber bullet would have shattered the bone, had it struck the leg squarely. But it had only inflicted a flesh wound. A bad one, to be sure—the man would eventually bleed to death if he didn’t tie up his leg—but not bad enough to stop him.
John stepped back, wondering what to do. Even against a half-crippled opponent, a pistol with a twelve-inch barrel was a poor match against a real war club, especially when the club was being wielded by a religious fanatic. He certainly didn’t have time to reload.
The Red Stick hobbled toward him, still screaming. The smartest thing for John to do was simply to run away, of course. Fanatic or not, the Creek would have no chance of catching him, with that bad a leg wound. Or by the time he did, at any rate, John would have been able to reload.
But John couldn’t stomach the thought of being seen as a coward. So, he braced himself, took a firm grip on the pistol butt, and decided he’d try to deflect the coming blow and then—
Another Cherokee came around the same tree, as silent as a ghost, and shattered the Red Stick’s skull. From the amount of blood and hair and gore covering his ball-headed war club, that wasn’t the first brain he’d spilled that day.
“Stupid,” the other Cherokee growled in English. “Why didn’t you just run away?”
The Cherokee was no older than John himself. His savior glanced around quickly to make sure there were no other enemies in the immediate vicinity, and then grinned at him. “Idiot,” he repeated, but he said it quite cheerfully. “I’m James Rogers. You?”
“John Ross.”
He’d never met Rogers, but he’d heard of him. He was one of the sons of Captain John Rogers, the Scot sometime-adventurer and sometime-adviser for John Jolly’s chiefdom. The sons were said to be close friends, in fact, of the American ensign Houston who had been adopted by Oolooteka.
Rogers’ grin widened still further. “John Ross?” He switched to Cherokee, in which he proved to be quite a bit more fluent than John himself. “From the way you look and the uniform you’re wearing, I thought you were an American. John Ross from Ross Landing? The same one who made a fortune swapping stuff with the Americans down on the river by Chatanuga?”
In keeping with the language, Rogers used the Cherokee name for Lookout Mountain. John nodded.
“In that case,” Rogers jibed, switching back to English, “you’ve got no excuse. I’m only half Scot. You’re supposed to be smarter than me.”
Ross grinned back. “That’s only if you believe what the Scots say.”
Rogers pointed at John’s pistol with his gruesome club. “Better reload that now. This fight is a mess.”
Trying to keep his hands from shaking, John started reloading the pistol. “I’m looking for The Ridge. I’ve got to warn him that Coffee has all his men lined up on the river, ready to shoot anyone who tries to cross. That means Creeks, not us, of course, but . . .”
Rogers barked a laugh. John grimaced.
“Yes. Exactly. So I need to find—”
“It doesn’t matter. The Ridge has no intention of retreating, believe me. We’ll stay here until it’s done.” Rogers waved his club in a little half circle. “As for where he is, who knows? Best advice I can give you is just to follow the screaming. Wherever it’s loudest, you’ll probably find The Ridge. He does love that sword the Americans gave him.”
Rogers eyed the pistol. “You reload pretty well, I’ll give you that. So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll stay with you. I’ll handle any Red Sticks who make it past your deadly gunfire.”
“That probably means most of them,” John admitted.
“Probably,” Rogers agreed amiably. “But ‘most’ is still better than ‘all.’”
They encountered two more Red Sticks before they finally found The Ridge. Ross fired twice, missing both times. Rogers did all the killing, although Ross had one of the men grappled by the legs before James brained him.
“You’ll make a good diplomat, people say,” Rogers commented idly, as they moved through the trees.
John hoped he was right. He’d certainly never be famous as a warrior.