Tallapoosa Read online

  The Red Sticks on the Tallapoosa, already upset and near civil war over white settlers, would certainly become less tolerant of the likes of the Murphs on their lands. It was too dangerous for himself, Saul, and even Soosquana, and Cal refused to put Adelin in such peril. He was sure Mr. and Mrs. Holman would agree with him.

  The Holman farm appeared through a slit in the forest. The opening became a clearing, then a wide meadow with plots of withered cornstalks and dying bean plants, stripped clean by the recent harvest. The cart’s wheel had endured.

  “Looka there,” said Cal happily. “We made it, boys!”

  Tom and George stepped with new energy when they saw the buildings. They already tasted oats. Cal smiled at Tom’s soft whinny, but then his eagerness turned to dread. He had to explain the change of plans.

  After supper would be ample time for bad news and serious discussion. The Holman siblings fed, swabbed, and curried George and Tom while Daniel Holman and Cal assessed the cranky wheel. The group finished unloading the cart just as Mrs. Holman sounded supper.

  Cal gorged on roast pork, newly dug boiled potatoes, and cornbread. He would have asked for heaping seconds of everything even if he wasn’t trying to delay his report to the Holmans. Several times he noticed both Adelin and Bess Marie studying him a little too closely, gauging his eating habits, he supposed.

  Later, with everyone seated in the parlor, the family listened in horror to Cal’s stories from Turkeytown. They had never heard of Burnt Corn Creek or Fort Mims, but knew there were settlers in the south of the Territory. That hostilities had accelerated shocked and concerned them. Tales of minor skirmishes were part of life on any frontier, and they were used to that. But to have major conflict possibly come their way was distressing.

  No question that Adelin should not go with Cal.

  “Shouldn’t you and Saul leave?” asked Holman. “At least for a while?”

  “I guess that would be wise. But no, we can’t. We won’t,” Cal corrected. “We’ve made many friends among the Creeks and we like our little place. Soosquana comes from one of the main warrior villages down near the Creeks’ tribal capital. Even most of the hotheads up the river know better than to harm her.” Cal paused and searched each concerned face. “No, we won’t run. I know Saul feels the same. We’ll stay alert and keep our noses out of trouble.”

  “Well,” sighed Daniel Holman, “I’m sure things will be calmed down when you come back through next year.” He looked at his eldest daughter. “Adelin will still be here.”

  Adelin sat motionless for long seconds, then got up and walked from the room. Cal and Mr. Holman continued to talk of the situation, speculating on its seriousness, whether a military column might indeed march from up north, and if the Holman farm could be in danger. Rumors that the Creek Nation had allied with the British in the current conflict with the United States added to the peril. An encouraging point was that the major troubles so far had happened in the south of Alabama country, far removed from the east of the Territory. But growing anger on the upper Tallapoosa could not be ignored.

  Adelin reappeared in the doorway. She looked from one person to another, fixing each with a brief stare. She stood tall, feet set wide, arms folded.

  “Father. Mr. Murph,” she announced in a strong, even voice. “I’m going.”

  3

  The Executive Mansion, Washington, D.C., early October, 1813

  “Ah, Mr. Armstrong. Come in. Sit down, please.”

  “Thank you, sir. You wished to see me, Mr. President?” John Armstrong, President James Madison’s Secretary of War, strolled to the center of the Blue Room, the oval-shaped office of the President. After shaking hands with Mr. Madison, he flipped the tail of his dress coat up behind him and sat in the large, upholstered chair before Madison’s desk. He cradled his felt flattop hat in his lap.

  “To be sure, Mr. Armstrong—” President Madison sat down and leaned forward in his massive stuffed chair. The chair made the diminutive man look even smaller. “—We continue to receive dispatches from Nashville regarding the Creek Indian situation in Alabama country.”

  “I know, sir. I received still another from General Jackson yesterday pleading for invasion troops, and for authorization to invade.”

  “And I one from Governor Blount just this morning. He begs for the same things Jackson does. Been doing it for weeks. Now he informs me that the Tennessee legislature has authorized him to raise a militia of three thousand five hundred men and has budgeted three hundred thousand dollars to finance a campaign into Creek lands.”

  “Sir? They have no right outside their state borders.”

  “I know. I want to get your and Monroe’s opinions on this. He should be here shortly. Tell me, John, what do you think of General Jackson?”

  Armstrong had been a military man himself, as well as a United States senator and a diplomatic minister to France. Princeton educated, born in Pennsylvania, transplanted to New York, he was regarded as a bright man, a doer, but not very well liked, not even by Madison. But he was a competent Secretary of War.

  “I’ve never met the man, sir,” he began after a lengthy, thoughtful hesitation, “but I understand he’s somewhat of a rogue. A most able military leader, but doesn’t like to take orders.”

  “Yes, I know. His Natchez debacle pretty much defined the man. His defiance and his leadership.” Madison chuckled at a personal remembrance. “He sure was a rebel during his short time in Congress. A real pain in the butt. He didn’t like the city of Washington, that’s certain, or many of its people or its ways.”

  A knock at the door interrupted. In walked James Monroe, President Madison’s Secretary of State, a fellow Virginian, and his most trusted official confidant.

  “Mr. President?”

  “James. Come in. I need to consult with you and Mr. Armstrong about the Indian problem down south. You are aware, I trust, of recent developments?”

  “Yes, sir. Unless you have something fresh.”

  “We do.” Madison shared the latest dispatches with him.

  “This could be dangerous,” Monroe judged.

  “I agree. I understand there have been a couple of isolated incidents, but nothing that would justify an invasion of the Territory.”

  “Until now,” Armstrong jumped in, “most hostilities seem to have been confined to the Creeks fighting among themselves; Red Sticks against those Indians that are more friendly to Americans.”

  “Red Sticks?” puzzled Madison.

  “Those are the militants, the ones that hate us and have vowed to banish us from their regions. Fortunately for us, all Creeks don’t sympathize with them, especially the Lower tribes along the Chattahoochee.”

  Monroe stroked his chin and wrinkled his forehead. “I don’t know the strength or the disposition of the Creeks, but if Jackson gets them stirred up to the point that they actively throw in with the British, we could be in big trouble down there. We don’t need Redcoats coming at us up through the State of Georgia or gaining free run of the Mississippi.”

  “Think it could come to that?” asked Madison.

  “Could. Right now the British and Spanish have a presence around Pensacola, but don’t seem to be that much of a threat.”

  Armstrong pitched in again. “The Creek Nation has the Tennessee and Ohio Valleys sealed off from the Gulf of Mexico. If that barrier is breached by the Creeks offering the British clear passage up the Alabama and Chattahoochee river systems, well, that would open a whole new front for us. We can’t cover our ass everywhere as it is.”

  “Hmmm. Surely Blount and Jackson know that,” Madison said. “What do you think they are up to?”

  “Simple, sir,” offered Monroe. “Not to disparage their motives, but a few things are pretty well known.” He looked at the President as if seeking permission to disparage.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, sir
, a lot of settlers are flooding west and south. They have to have some place to go. Creek lands have been called by some the richest land on the continent not yet settled. You can imagine the speculation if our treaties with the Creeks are circumvented. Too, Blount’s big planters in Tennessee want access to the Gulf so they can ship their goods out of Mobile. As we are shielded from the British by the Creeks, so are Blount’s producers blocked from Mobile.”

  “Also,” added Armstrong, “Jackson, as you know, has been lobbying for a regular army commission and for command of the forces that are eventually going to have to defend New Orleans. I believe he thinks a glorious campaign against a pagan, pro-British Indian force will achieve his goals.”

  “What about the Georgia and Mississippi Territory militias?”

  “Well, sir, General John Floyd commands the Georgia militia. He cooperates closely with the Indian agent down there that has been educating the Creeks—with a certain degree of success with many of them, I must say. General Ferdinand Claiborne, as you know, sir, is monitoring the south of the Mississippi Territory with his Mississippi militia and some regulars. He’s providing protection where he can for settlers in the region where the recent troubles occurred. I’m certain that he intends to go no farther north than he has to. Both Floyd and Claiborne seem to be holding true so far, staying well within their boundaries. Governor Blount and General Jackson will exhibit grave disregard if they invade from Tennessee without orders.”

  “Sir,” interrupted Monroe, “if I may say so, it looks like a pure land grab to me. We have treaties with the Creeks. We have no call to go in there, nor does the Tennessee militia. And the settlers that are there are obligated to behave themselves.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Madison, “I agree with most of your assessments. And I certainly appreciate your insights. You both are very wise.” He paused. “Now, the big question. What can we do about it? What should be our course of action?”

  4

  The Murph settlement, early October, 1813

  “Safe?” asked the Red Stick.

  “Oh, thank God, it’s you,” sighed Saul. He relaxed. “You scared me for a moment.”

  “Safe?” repeated Pokkataw in English. While he knew more English than his friends Saul and Cal Murph knew Muskogean, he tended to speak in one- and two-word sentences. Somehow, with gestures, he always made literal sense.

  “Yes, thank you. Guess those boys were just out for an early morning romp. Playing games with each other.”

  “No games. Danger. Angry. Careful.”

  “Yeah. I know. We are watching ourselves. And thanks for checking on us.”

  “Soosquana?” He always used her full name.

  “Soos is fine. A little queasy at times, but that’s normal. Six months along now. She’s tough, though. You know that.”

  The two walked to the porch. Soosquana stood in the doorway, still holding the musket. She greeted Pokkataw in Muskogean. He smiled broadly as they spilled into an animated conversation. He rambled freely and happily; no clipped sentences in his native language. Saul picked up little of the exchange, but knew they talked about the baby when Soosquana rubbed her belly and gingerly placed Pokkataw’s palm against it.

  Pokkataw turned his attention back to Saul, and his language back to semi-English. “Cal?”

  “Cal left for Turkeytown eight days ago to replenish our stores. We have most of the crops in except some potatoes and squash and a few other things. I can handle that, so this is a good time of year for him to go.”

  “Cabin?” Pokkataw pointed south across the yard to a grove of pine saplings surrounding a new split-log cabin.

  “About to move in. Soos really likes it. More room, an extra window, better heat. That’s really good for when the baby gets here. Cal will take this place for himself.”

  “Him wife? Indian? Like Soosquana?”

  “I don’t think so. Not for a while anyway. I think he’s kinda sweet on the daughter of a farmer we know back along the track to Turkeytown. A nice family from back in the west of Virginia near where we come from. We didn’t know them, though, till we came down here from Big Spring and found their place along the trail. They had already been there about five years.”

  “Farmer sell?”

  “Sell? Sell what?”

  “Wife. Cal.”

  “Oh no. No, the farmer doesn’t have to sell his daughter to Cal. All Cal has to do is ask the girl.”

  Pokkataw’s face wrinkled in puzzlement. “Ask girl? Not father?”

  “Well, him, too. At least sometimes. But the one that has to be convinced is the girl.” Saul laughed at Pokkataw’s frown. “What strange ways we Americans have, hey?”

  “Girl come?”

  “No. Certainly not. No girl like that would ever come this far into the woods.”

  The men had walked slowly north along the bluff to the edge of the forest where began the path down to the river. It dropped steeply and was pocked with stones, from fist size to small boulders. Safe enough for humans stepping lightly, but perilous for horses. A ford a quarter-mile south could be reached from the bluff by a horseman needing to cross the river.

  At the bottom of the path lay a canoe, out of the water and tied to the base of a pine tree.

  Pokkataw pointed. “Canoe.”

  “Eh?”

  “Not safe. Steal.”

  They descended the trail to the river. Another canoe lay forty yards downriver, also on the bank and in plain view. The river shoals spanned the distance. One canoe was usually used above the shoals, the other below. Exposed as they were, the band of hotheads could have stolen or damaged them earlier if they were of a mind.

  “Hide,” suggested Pokkataw. “From warriors.”

  The men moved the boats farther from the water’s edge into the brush. They assured themselves they could not be seen from the river, certainly not from the opposite bank by travelers on foot.

  Pokkataw bade Saul goodbye with a renewed pledge of peace. He set off upriver toward his small warrior village near the mouth of Hillabi Creek. The several Indian towns along that stream still resisted the call to violence of their brothers elsewhere on the Tallapoosa. Fortunately for the Murphs, so did most nearby villages and half of those to the immediate south, on past the great falls and the council capital of Tukabatchi, where the river bends to the west. Past there, Saul knew nothing of the mood of the Creeks that inhabited the land south and west.

  Saul returned to the cabin. Soosquana swept imaginary trash from the doorway with a brush broom. Saul could tell she was a little shaken, though she tried hard to hide it.

  “Will Muskogis fight each other?” she asked. Her concern was clearly for her family and friends in Talisi town, across the river from Tukabatchi below the great falls. “I not want them to fight.”

  “I don’t either, Soos,” said Saul as he returned both muskets and his pouch to their corner. He checked again the readiness of each weapon before he stacked them in their niche. They had to be instantly usable for any emergency. His fears increased daily that such might be inevitable. “There have already been some small troubles. At least both sides have left us alone so far, but some of Pokkataw’s Red Stick friends certainly don’t like us.”

  Saul began his morning chores, but the crisis among the Upper Creeks nagged at him. He thought of Talisi and Tukabatchi. They lay on the flat shores of the Tallapoosa just below the great falls, which represents the fall line between the Appalachian foothills and the coastal plain. The chiefs of the Muskogi Nation gathered regularly for talks beneath the Great Council Oak on the sacred grounds of Tukabatchi. Talisi, the most important of several warrior towns in the vicinity, sat directly opposite Tukabatchi on the eastern bank, at the mouth of Yufabi Creek.

  Saul and Cal had visited the two Creek towns twice, the first time in the autumn of 1810, a few months after settling at their compound. Pokkataw
had already befriended them and he escorted them south and sponsored their visit. The Murphs found the Muskogis gracious and generous.

  At Talisi, the party met a warrior leader named Naupti, the half brother of the elderly village chief. He and his three sturdy sons greeted them warmly. One of his daughters, a beauty of about twenty, stood in the doorway of their house. Saul stared at her, then forced a smile. She smiled back.

  “Who is she?” Saul begged of Pokkataw.

  “Daughter warrior. Uncle chief.”

  “Can you find out more?”

  Saul found an excuse to come back around later in the day, hoping to see the girl again. She was there; Saul learned afterward she had watched the visitors constantly and was as fascinated as he. She understood a little English, having listened to the U.S. government Indian agents that visited regularly, but could speak none, or at least didn’t. She only smiled and nodded her head. Saul had to leave a few minutes later and the girl held out her hand. She had learned the white man’s custom of shaking hands. Saul gingerly took the hand, held it too long, didn’t want to let go.

  “Her Soosquana,” Pokkataw told him on the way home.

  The entire journey back, Saul treasured his right hand that had touched the beautiful maiden’s. He looked at it magically and massaged the consecrated fingers with the thumb. He would talk of her often in the ensuing months, especially when Pokkataw visited.

  The next year Tecumseh came to the Tallapoosa. The Shawnee chief from the Great Lakes envisioned a Confederacy of Indian Nations and traveled through Choctaw and Upper Creek lands recruiting allies. He hoped to unite the Muskogi villages at a Great Council at Tukabatchi and at a gathering of warriors at Talisi. He made many converts, especially among younger, impatient warriors opposing the Civilization Program of Agent Benjamin Hawkins. However, the wise chiefs of most of the lower Tallapoosa towns rejected Tecumseh’s militarism, as did all the leaders of the Lower Muskogis along the Chattahoochee River.