CHAPTER 7
The Red Stick village had been all but completely destroyed. As he searched for Colonel Williams among the soldiers milling about, John Ross and James Rogers following close behind, Houston came upon a militiaman standing over an old Creek. The Creek must have been addled as well as elderly, because—right in the middle of a battle!—he was squatting on the ground, pounding corn with a mortar.
The militiamen raised his musket and shot the old man in the head. The bullet passed right through the skull, blowing blood and brains and pieces of bone all over the ground. Then, kneeling next to the corpse, the militiaman pulled out his knife and cut away the old man’s breech clout. Following that, he started to make an incision in the corpse’s leg, beginning just above the heel.
Houston was frozen, in the horror of the moment. His companions also stopped, and stood silently.
The killing had been bad enough, since the old idiot was obviously no danger to anyone. Now—Sam had heard tales, but never really believed them—the militiaman was going to skin a long strap from the body and use it for a set of reins. Boasting rights, among his buddies when he got home.
The paralysis broke before the militiaman’s cut got past the buttock. Houston limped over, feeling light-headed. Horror was replaced by fury.
“What in the blazes are you doing?”
The militiaman was so engrossed in his work that he apparently missed the meaning of Houston’s tone.
“Finally killed me an injun,” he said gleefully, not even looking up. “First chance I got today. Them cussed regulars—”
The rest was lost in a squawk of surprise when Houston grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and, in a single one-armed heave, hauled him to his feet. The militiaman gaped up at him.
Sam batted the knife out of the man’s hand. Then, backhanded him hard enough to split his lip.
The militiaman shook his head, half-dazed. That had been a powerful blow, even though it hadn’t been delivered by a closed fist.
“Hey!” he squawked. His hand flew up to his bleeding mouth.
“Tell you what,” Sam said thinly. “I just realized that while I’ve killed me some injuns today, I ain’t killed me a single stinking militiaman.”
He drew his pistol. The militiaman stared at it, his face suddenly pale.
“Hey!” he protested again, the word garbled by the hand still covering his mouth.
For a moment, Houston glared down at man. He was sorely tempted to drive the butt of the pistol right into the man’s face. As strong as he was, and as angry as he was, he’d smash the man’s hand as well as his mouth. Probably break his jaw in the bargain, even with the hand absorbing the impact.
But . . .
He reined in his temper. Enough was enough. The old Creek was dead anyway, and he couldn’t let the situation spin out of control.
He looked around. Three other militiamen stood nearby, staring at him. Two of them had brought their rifles halfway up.
He grinned humorlessly and cocked the pistol, though he didn’t—quite—point it at them. “Go ahead,” he said. “This worthless bastard’s too mangy-looking to make me a good set of reins. But any one of you will do. Any one at all.”
The militiamen swallowed. Their eyes flitted back and forth between Houston and his two Cherokee companions.
John Ross didn’t really know what to do. He looked to James to get some guidance, but realized immediately that would be no help. Like Houston, James was now grinning too. He’d sidled over a few paces, obviously ready to hurl himself at the militiamen once Houston fired the pistol. They were close enough that he could probably get in among them with his war club before they could shoot him.
There’d be one less by then, anyway. John had no doubt at all that Houston was prepared to fire—and not much doubt that, at this range, he’d hit his target squarely. There was something almost frighteningly competent about the big young American.
Ross knew as well that, for James, the only issue involved here was what amounted to an incipient clan feud—and The Raven, white man or not, was part of his own clan. That made it all very simple for him.
The murdered old man had been nothing to Rogers. Just an enemy—and killing non-combatants was as common among Indians in such wars as it was among whites. So was mutilating their corpses. In one of the atrocities committed by the followers of Tecumseh last year which had triggered off the current war, they’d not only murdered seven white settlers on the Ohio but had disemboweled a pregnant woman and impaled her unborn baby on a stake.
Here and now, if Houston hadn’t intervened, Rogers would have passed by without comment. He might have given the matter a second glance. Then, again, he might not have.
But Houston had intervened, and that made it a clan matter. So, James was ready to kill as soon as the fight erupted.
For a moment, John wished that his own thoughts and sentiments were as clear and straight-forward. But only for a moment. James Rogers’ traditional way of thinking would lead the Cherokee to disaster, just as surely as Tecumseh’s new way of thinking had led his followers to it. John could see that disaster coming, the way a man can see a thunderstorm developing in the distance. He was pretty sure The Ridge could see it coming also.
He had no idea what to do about it, yet, if there was anything that could be done at all. What he did know was that if there was any solution, it would come from people who could think a little crookedly. People like himself, who’d always felt somewhat twisted in the world.
And, maybe, people like this peculiar young American ensign, who was prepared to start killing men of his own race over what amounted to a moral abstraction.
John decided that was good enough, for the moment. Who was to say how new clans emerged? It was all lost somewhere back in time, in a thousand different stories and legends. Maybe a new one was being born here. Or something similar enough.
He drew his own pistol and cocked it. Quite proud, for an instant, that his hands weren’t shaking at all. Granted, he’d probably miss his target. He’d missed just about everything else he’d tried to shoot that day. But he’d give it his level best, for sure.
Hearing the sound of Ross’ pistol being cocked also, the militiamen suddenly broke. Houston could tell—knew it for a certainty—even though there was no visible sign beyond the fact that one of them stepped a half pace back. It was just, somehow, obvious.
Good enough. The general wouldn’t thank him any if Houston started a side war between the Cherokees and regulars against the Tennessee militia, who constituted not only the majority of Jackson’s army but, push come to shove, his political constituency as well. Certainly not over an issue like a murdered old Creek.
He uncocked his pistol and shoved it back in his waistband. “The general gave clear and direct orders,” he announced loudly. “And you heard them. No killing of non-combatants.”
He cleared his throat. “It’s my responsibility to enforce discipline. Which, ah—”
He glanced down at the militiaman he’d cuffed. Blood from the split lip was seeping through his fingers. It was a cheery sight.
“I did,” he concluded. He waved his hand in a peremptory gesture. “So go about your business, men. That’s an order. I’m on an errand for the general.”
With that, he turned away and began limping in the direction he thought—for no good reason, really—he was most likely to find Colonel Williams.
Ross hurried to follow. When James Rogers caught up to them, he was still grinning.
“Too bad,” he said. “It would have been a good fight. We’d have won, too.”
An hour later, Jackson was ready to start the final drive. By then, hundreds of Red Sticks had already been slaughtered in the fighting. As poorly equipped as they were with firearms, they hadn’t been able to fight very effectively once the Cherokees erupted into their rear and the 39th breached the barricade.
Jackson had given orders before the battle started that the Creek non-combatants were to be spared. There weren’t many, on the peninsula, not more than a few hundred, since the Red Sticks had sent away most of their women and children and old folks before Jackson’s army arrived. But any Red Stick warrior who didn’t surrender was to be killed, and he knew perfectly well that his soldiers—especially the militiamen—hadn’t bothered to ask if anyone wanted to.
Jackson didn’t blame them. In this sort of chaotic brawl in a forest, not even regulars would follow the established laws of war very often, and the general wasn’t about to ask any questions as to how this or that Red Stick warrior came to be killed.
He would try to find out who was responsible for the killing of non-combatants he’d heard about. There’d been several of those reported to him. In most instances, Jackson was inclined to accept the explanation that the killings had been accidental. They probably were, in truth, at least half the time. A woman running through the woods was just a blur of movement to a soldier whose nerves were at a fever pitch due to fear and battle-fury. He’d shoot first and think later. So would Jackson himself, being honest.
But there’d been one case involving a small boy which had angered Jackson as much as it had the officer who’d reported to him. Confused and frightened, the boy—he hadn’t been more than five or six years old—had stumbled into a group of American soldiers. One of them had bashed his brains out with the butt of his musket.
Even then, for Jackson, the issue wasn’t the killing as such. The officer reported that the culprit had justified his deed on the grounds that if the boy had lived he’d have grown into a warrior—so why not kill him now when it was easy? It was a sentiment that Jackson didn’t share—not quite—but he had no trouble at all understanding it.
But that was beside the point. The general had given his orders, and a soldier—a regular, too, to make it worse—had taken it upon himself to disobey them. If he could find out who the man was, he’d have him punished.
That wasn’t likely, though. The officer who’d reported the outrage had been from a different unit, and didn’t know the man’s name. The odds that the culprit’s own superior officer would identify him was slim—and the odds that his fellow soldiers would do so was exactly zero.
The general smiled thinly. Quite unlike—ha!—the instant readiness of a militia officer to report to him half an hour before, hotly and angrily, that Ensign Houston had brutalized an honest citizen of Tennessee and threatened several others just because . . .
Well, you know how it is, General, the boys like to have trophies . . .
Jackson had given him short shrift. But the incident was enough to crystallize his feeling that this battle had gotten a little out of control. He didn’t object to killing Indians, not in the least. In fact, he’d planned the entire campaign in such a way as to trap the Red Sticks on this horseshoe bend of the Tallapoosa so he could kill as many of them as possible. Still, a civilized nation did have established rules of war, or they were no better than savages themselves.
“We’ll give them a last chance to surrender,” he announced.
The officers gathered around him exchanged looks. Finally, Major Reid was bold enough to speak.
“Uh, who, general? What I mean is, who’s supposed to take them the offer?” Reid looked down at the ravine where most of the surviving Red Sticks were now forted up.
“Forted up” was the word, too. The Red Sticks hadn’t had the time to build anything as solid and well-designed as the barricade which they’d placed across the neck of the peninsula. But the southern tribes were all woodsmen, and in the few hours they’d had the Red Sticks had been able to erect a rather substantial breastwork down there. Storming it would be a dangerous business.
So, given the desperation and fanaticism of the Red Sticks, would be taking them an offer to surrender.
Jackson’s eyes moved past the little cluster of aides gathered immediately around him. He was looking for a different officer, among the several hundred soldiers in the immediate vicinity. He’d be there, he was sure.
He found the young man quickly, even in that crowd. Partly because of his height, but partly because of the two Indians standing next to him. The three of them seemed to have become well-nigh inseparable in the course of the battle.
Houston was perhaps thirty yards away, but his eyes met the general’s immediately. Jackson suspected he’d been anticipating the summons. Indeed, the young ensign began walking toward him immediately, not waiting for a command.
Limping toward him, rather—and the limp seemed to have gotten worse. Jackson wasn’t surprised. A “mere” flesh wound is still a real wound, and even a man as big as Houston would be feeling the effects of it this many hours later.
Still and all, it was a very firm sort of limp. Whatever pain and weariness the ensign might be feeling, it was clear enough his determination hadn’t flagged any.
When Houston drew near, he spoke without being asked to do so.
“I’ll take them the offer, sir. But I can tell you right now it’s a waste of time.”
Houston jerked his head, indicating the ravine behind him. “Me and James and John snuck down there a little while back. I know the lingo well enough—James knows it even better—that we got the gist of it. They’ve got some shamans down there with them, and they’re been busy firing them up for a last stand.”
Jackson snorted. “Are they still claiming their magic will turn our bullets into water?”
“Yes, sir. I will say they aren’t calling out for all the cats to be killed. Of course, I doubt me there’s a cat in the world dumb enough to be within ten miles of any Red Sticks.”
Jackson chuckled harshly. One of the Cherokee prophets following Tecumseh had been a half-blood by the name of Charley. His white ancestry notwithstanding, Charley had become famous for demanding the Cherokees abandon all the cursed ways of the white man. All of them, not just the books and mills and orchards and clothes and feather beds and tables. He’d been especially incensed by the new habit of keeping domestic cats. All cats were to be killed!
He might have even swayed the Cherokee, for he was eloquent enough, whatever you thought of his notions. But The Ridge had put a stop to it. He’d risen at the council meeting after Charley had predicted the immediate demise of anyone who opposed him, and challenged him to make good his claim. A small mob of Charley’s followers had then attacked The Ridge, but he’d battled them off long enough for his friend Jesse Vann and other Cherokees to rally to his aid. The brawl that followed had been inconclusive, since one of the old influential chiefs had managed to stop the fray. But the mere fact that The Ridge had defied a prophet of Tecumseh’s and lived had been enough to produce a rapid decline in the prestige of Tecumseh’s adherents among the Cherokee.
“But whether or not they’ve decided to spare the cats, sir, I can tell you that they aren’t relenting about anything else.” The ensign shrugged. “I’ll take them the surrender offer, if you want, sir. But I’d just as soon lead a charge on them right now and be done with it. I’d a lot rather get shot carrying a sword than a white flag. Stupid, that.”
Then, more quietly: “They aren’t going to surrender, General. There’s not a chance in Creation.”
Jackson rubbed his jaw, pondering the matter. “You say you’ll volunteer to lead the charge?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Houston, calmly and firmly. “I will.”
Jackson thought about it some more. His decision teetered on a sharp edge, but . . .
In the end, it was the ensign himself who decided the matter for him. The ensign . . . and his two Cherokee companions.
To blazes with the Red Sticks. Jackson didn’t want to risk losing such a promising young man, certainly not in something as quixotic as a parlay attempt. All the more so because this war with the Creeks was just the opening skirmish in the coming battle with the British. He wanted Houston around for that.
As for the charge . . .
Jackson’s eyes moved to the two Cherokees who accompanied Houston but had stayed back when he came up to speak to the general.
“Never mind. As you say, a surrender offer’s probably pointless. And now that I think about it, a straight-up charge is probably just as pointless. Can you find The Ridge?”
“Yes, sir.” Houston jerked his head again. “He and his people are staying down by the river, to help General Coffee kill any Red Sticks trying to cross.”
There was a slight twist in the set of the ensign’s lips. A trace of bitter irony, Jackson thought. The general was quite sure that the main reason The Ridge had taken his Cherokees away from the high ground was to avoid any possible—likely, rather—clash with the Tennessee militiamen.
Jackson came to his decision. “Go find him, if you would. Then—ah, provide an escort for him and however many of his men he chooses. Use your own platoon. Bring them up here. They’ve got bows, yes?”
Houston nodded. “Quite a few, although most of them are armed with guns.”
“Quite a few will be enough.” Jackson pointed toward the ravine. “From every description I’ve gotten, those breastworks can be set aflame. Let’s see if Cherokee fire arrows will do the trick.”
They did. By nightfall, the ravine was a blazing inferno. Every Red Stick who tried to escape was shot down.
The next morning, the killing continued, here and there, as occasional bands of Red Sticks were uncovered elsewhere in the peninsula. No quarter was offered; no quarter was asked for; no quarter was given.
Halfway through the morning, Jackson ordered a body count. To make sure that no dead hostile was counted twice, he ordered their noses cut off once the count was made. Scalping was pointless, since most of the dead Red Sticks had already been scalped the day before. Sometimes by white soldiers, sometimes by Cherokees—often enough, by other Creeks. The Red Sticks had waged a savage civil war against any Creeks who opposed them, and now the favor was being returned by their tribesmen.
The nose count came to some five hundred and fifty. When Coffee crossed the river and reported, he told the general that he estimated that he and his men had left another three hundred and fifty or so dead in the water. He didn’t think more than a hundred, at most, had managed to escape.
Jackson thought that estimate was too optimistic. Creeks, like all the southern tribes, were as adept in the water as they were in the woods. He was pretty sure the number who had escaped across the river was closer to two hundred.
Nonetheless, out of approximately one thousand Red Sticks who had forted up on the horseshoe bend of the Tallapoosa, at least eight hundred were dead. It was as complete and as bloody a victory as he could have hoped for.
There were only two dark spots on the victory for Andrew Jackson. The first was the death of his friend Lemuel Montgomery, heroically leading the charge on the barricade. The second was that both Chief Menawa and—even worse—William Weatherford had been among those Red Sticks who had escaped the trap.
Weatherford, as it turned out, had never been caught in the trap in the first place. Jackson discovered from interrogations of the surviving Creeks that Weatherford had left the horseshoe bend several days before the battle started, in an attempt to recruit more followers for his cause.
Weatherford had led the massacre at Fort Mims which had triggered off the Creek War. Jackson wanted him badly. But he’d catch him, sooner or later.
And then he’d hang him.